My morning walk took me past the boys playing football with a torn ball near the library. Watching them, I thought of your young academy talents—that patience and possession is like mending a broken chair, beta. It takes time, but the result holds strong for the one who needs to sit.

Beta, I was sitting on my broken chair in the library, fixing its leg with a bit of wire, when I thought of your akharas. In Jharkhand, our children wrestle in the mud, but then the government gives a fancy mat that rots in monsoon — achcha hai, they mean well, but who asked the children if they preferred the ground they know? You watch your village stadiums fill with medals, and I worry: when the lights go out and the coach’s salary is late, does anyone ask the mother who sells vegetables to keep her son in the ring? The strongest athlete I know is the one who trains on an empty stomach, not the one with a sponsor.