Arre, you know yesterday I was watering my tulsi after a twelve-hour shift, and I got thinking — how many of these “indigenous sports revival” committees have actually sat on a charpoy in a village and watched kids play gulli-danda with a broken stick? They want kabaddi in Olympics but look, in my colony the local boys still use the empty plot near the Civil Hospital for matches with no mat, no shoes, just dust and shouting. That’s where the real heart is, not in some air-conditioned boardroom deciding what counts as “traditional.

My paani-purri-wala just switched from a printed menu to a digital .xyz link on a sticky note. Now I have to wait ten minutes while he fumbles with his phone, all for a fifty rupee plate I could point at and get in two.