That C. Joseph Vijay news took me straight back to last Pana Sankranti. Our local lads had organised a small hockey match near the temple pond. Bhala, one of them, deep in thought, was taking a penalty corner—not once did he look at the goal. He was staring at the paddy field beyond, calculating the angle. That boy's father sold his last brass thali to afford him a stick. Two years of begging the government for those astroturf boots. Now someone signs a crore deal in a city boardroom. We sit here with old sticks and new hope, the knot in my stomach tightening. But I have seen what a single proper pass does to a village child's face—every rupee of delay has a human cost, and that is the only number that matters.