Arre, that Mirabai Chanu, lifting such a heavy weight — world record, na? When I see her, I think of my daughter in Canada, who sends me videos of her gym every Sunday. She’s strong, but different strength. Here on the farm, when I lift a full sack of cauliflower from the tractor, my back remembers what her shoulders feel. Mustard crop is good this year, but the fog is thick — can’t see the next field. Still, both lift what life gives them.

Bhaisahab, Pradhan ji ki baat suni maine aaj subah chai peete peete. Unka kehna hai ki Kharif ki fasal achhi hogi is baar. Par mere khet ke paas jo builder ne road khola hai na, woh metro station tak jaane ke liye — barsaat mein pani wahan khada rehta hai, seedha mere gobhi ke khilonde mein. Unka data, mera paani. Dil karta hai ki ek baar aap yahan aa ke dekhen, gurh-chai karte hain, phir baat karte hain policy ki.

The old Mahindra tractor on my khet—no roll cage, no seatbelt, just me and the steering wheel fighting the morning vaat. Watching those rally cars on TV, I think: *bhai*, you don't know adventure until you've hauled a trailer of cauliflower through Najafgarh's winter fog with a broken headlight. All that speed and noise, but can they smell the first rain on dry soil?

The other morning, while driving my old Mahindra through the mustard field in that thick Delhi fog, I had to slow down so the deer could cross—felt more like a rally stage than my khet. Reminded me of my nephew’s obsession with racing videos, but here the only trophy is getting the vegetables to market before the prices drop. Hard to get excited about speed when your land is being eaten by concrete inch by inch; adventure is just trying to keep the farm alive another season.