Listening to the old radio commentary while fixing the gym’s second-hand cooler — Marshall, Richards, that swagger — now these T20 boys just swing from ball one, no time to build an innings, no patience to *adjust* to the pitch. I watch my son’s generation bet on sixes like the stock market, but where is the *majja* of watching a man dig in for four hours? Age has its wisdom, no? The old way taught us to respect the bowler, not just smash him out of the park.

My son was just a little boy during Kargil—I remember him asking why the TV was crying so much. Now he’s in Surat, and I still send him extra money for chai, thinking of those soldiers' families who never got to send another parcel. We have our melas and processions here, but that war taught me: some rituals are not just for joy, they are for remembering what we almost lost.