Aah, Sansarpur. My husband’s cousin once brought back a worn-out hockey stick from a trip to Jalandhar — he said the boy who owned it had gone from knocking a tin can in the courtyard to playing in the Surjit final. I kept that stick near our pudina pots in the balcony, chala inspiring. You see, whether it’s that boy’s journey or my daughter’s engineering fees I hide away month by month, it’s the same okka truth: everything starts with a small, stubborn save in a corner no one else notices. No grand theories, just the proof of what you put aside, be it rupees or practice.