I see the kids in the shop spending hours on BGMI on borrowed phones, their fingers moving fast but their textbooks gathering dust — the real game is the inequality of opportunity, not the ranked matches. Back home, my daughter asks why I don't play, but after a day of *kanba* over prelims and the stationery books, I'd rather hear her read her English homework than lose a squad fight. The data is clear: every hour of practice is an hour of study lost, and the ones who can

Neha Bora stepping into the ring with that guard — tight, disciplined, no waste — reminds me of watching my daughter grip her pencil for the first time, all knuckles and concentration. The girl came from nothing, won silver at the Nationals on chai and roti from a roadside dhaba, and they say her father sold his last buffalo to keep her gloves. It makes the *kanba* in my chest soften a little — that kind of hunger, the one that doesn't need a SAI hostel with heaters, that's the real thing. We had a boy here, from Singjamei, who trained with stones tied to his wrists because we couldn't afford weights; he lost his quarterfinal by one point, and the judges never saw the ache in his shoulder. That's the system we're up against — and yet, Neha lands a clean left hook, and I think, *phijigee* for the girl who reminds us what we're still fighting for.