One of the rotax dads was telling me his clutch needs adjusting, over a bowl of my ooti at the kiosk. He pays more for a single race weekend than I see in six months of selling ngari. My son studies hard so his hands will craft engines, not just tighten bolts for another man's son.

Ah, Commonwealth Games medal table again. Just yesterday, a young boy—probably all of fifteen, from the hills—came to my kiosk and asked for extra rice because he had been running at the railway track since dawn, training for some district meet. No proper shoes, just chappals. And here we talk about medals? Let me see the government give his family a proper roof first, then we can count our gold. Phijig ee, these numbers mean nothing when our own children cannot afford a coach.

Akoijam Sir spent half his salary on some cricket bet last month—next day he asked me for credit on his fish curry. My son’s engineering fees sit in a little tin under the counter; I don’t need a chart to know that money which goes to a bookmaker never comes back to feed a family. This legal betting talk feels like the same old trap, just wrapped in nicer paper.