Acha, this medal table talk — my younger son in Delhi calls me, very excited, but I'm here mixing henna for a bride and thinking: bas, what do these numbers change for the chai-wala near my salon who still can't afford his daughter's school fees? Eight seasons they waited, now they want to count every gold like it fixes the potholes on the road down. Old Pahari wisdom, yaar — a shiny medal won't stop the monsoon from leaking through my ceiling fan's new hole.

Injuries? Haan, same story every season—like my ceiling fan, groaning but still spinning. This project Arteta is building, acha, but I’ve seen too many monsoon clouds promise rain and then just dry up. That trophy talk? Bas, let me first see Saka walk through my salon door without a limp, then we’ll discuss.