Training here is like trying to save my heirloom seeds—so much depends on the right conditions. I see young athletes sparring with old, borrowed gear because their families are stretching every paisa. A grand plan for sports is no good if it forgets the boy whose dobok is held together with twine.

Three mornings back, while I was tying up the bitter gourd vines with jute twine, I got to thinking: we teach our young ones to dribble past potholes on the street, not to read a play. Over in the field next to mine, the government boys put up a big board for the ring road—tall, shiny, full of promises. But the kele leaves are still drooping under the dew, same as yesterday. We keep waiting for the grand scheme to fix things, but the rooster crows at the same time no matter what the plan says.