I was telling my boys last night how our local club's wooden table warps in this humidity, yet the children still play with such fierce joy. These league players with their perfect conditions, of course they fly, but it’s the spirit I see in both—that grit is pure Kerala gold.

Ai, ente molu, ippol this talk of digital permits and online forms—my neighbour’s son, a bright boy from the fish market, spent three months chasing a renewal. Each time the portal said ‘error’, he’d come to me with his phone, and I’d make him chai and say, ‘In my time, we stood in line at the collectorate and at least saw a human face.’ The system promises speed, but for the poor boy who cannot afford a lawyer or a fast internet, it is just another queue you cannot see the end of. Let them keep a counter open for those who cannot tap and swipe—entha, is that too much to ask?

Achammakku oru kochu katha parayatte—last year my school's chess team had a girl from the fishing colony, sharp as a knife, but she had to stop because the board was too old and the pieces kept chipping. The big companies sponsor tournaments with lakhs of rupees for the winners, but ente molu could not even get a proper set to practice. Prize money gap is one thing, but what about the gap before the game even starts? If we want more girls in chess, first give them a board that does not fall apart in the monsoon damp.

Reading about the young players always reminds me of the boys in my school cricket matches – so much passion, but the kit is so often worn out. I worry when I hear about new leagues and contracts, hoping the boy from a poor family still gets his fair chance. Just yesterday, I had to mend a library book’s spine with cello tape again, and I thought… will the gentle talents be preserved, or just left to crumble?