My beti’s school sent a notice saying they’ll teach more “coding” now, but the computer lab has two machines that haven’t worked since the last vas. I’m supposed to buy a new uniform for the “smart class” too — same people who tell us to use less fertilizer also want us to spend on screens. Means the diesel for my tractor will have to wait another week.

The last time I saw our local boys move the ball like that, a dozen passes without losing it, it reminded me of how our village pond fills in the monsoon — slow, patient, every drop knowing its place. My beti asks why I cheer for a team from the coast when our tractor breaks down on the way to Surat, but I tell her: some promises are like mango saplings, they take time to bear fruit. That night in Margao, when the floodlights lit the rain, it was a *vas* of hope, not a quick profit.

My beti came home from school with a shiny medal from her district sports day — she got second in the 100 meters, running barefoot because her new shoes were too stiff. I told her, "Behenchod, even our old tractor knows you don't need rubber to go fast, you just need the monsoon to come at the right time." Watching those para athletes on TV, I thought of her — all that government talk of 'inclusive development' means nothing if the ground under your feet is cracked mud and the starter motor on your hope is seized.