My sister’s khun—the neighbour’s boy I tutor—saved up four months of his jingbam money for a grading fee, only to be told the electronic scoring system upgrades mean another ₹500 for the sensor socks. We tell ourselves this is progress, but here in the hills, progress that costs a child his lunch is just another name for leaving the poor behind.

The medal table came on the evening news just as I was wiping chalk off my fingers from Khan's sums. He got seven wrong out of ten, but I told him to look at the sky instead—sometimes practice is just practice. Back in the village, my father's cousin used to say the only gold we need is the one that keeps the rain out of the rice bin. I wonder how many of those athletes saw their first real stadium from a school window with cracked glass.