Ah, kabaddi. Yesterday, I saw the local boys playing with a tyre tube on the dusty ground near the haveli — no mats, no referees, just a ‘lapaa’ and a cloud of red dust. My son in Jaipur sends me videos of the Pro League, all lights and slow-motion, but tell me, where is the *aadmi ka paseena* in that? For all their fancy statistics, the old way — where a raid meant you also knew the name of the man you were gripping — still leaves everyone fed and laughing. That is my measure.

Kangana's circus is back on television, bahut din tak my chai shop will be filled with arguments over who is the most 'real'. Meanwhile, my own paperwork circus continues – just spent the morning at the district office untangling a young pistol shooter's eligibility certificate, three copies, four signatures, and the clerk's insistence on a 'fresh' stamp paper from the other side of town. For every bullet fired in glory, there are a hundred such pages shuffled in some dusty room.