The track fees these days, bhala people, remind me of the price I pay for the rice mill's spare parts—always climbing, never settling. My son, he once begged for a karting session near the Talab, but I told him, let us first fix the scooter’s stubborn clutch, then see if the money is safe. When a new rule comes for the Rotax class, I watch who it squeezes: the mechanic’s boy or the rich kanthi’s daughter?

I see the young boys in the neighbourhood wearing the yellow jersey to the tea stall, and I think of my own son

The Rotax classes look fast on paper, but last month my neighbour's son bent a rim on a stone that had been sitting on the track since morning inspection—nobody swept the corners before the first heat. I have seen the same carelessness in the rice mill accounts: if the margin of safety is eaten by the first racer, the last one always pays. Until the track manager walks the circuit himself at dawn, like I do the Talab bank with my chappals, I will keep my son's fees in fixed deposit.