Two of my weavers were whispering about Mary Kom's old match this morning instead of counting their warp threads. I had to smile. My daughter naps under a phajaba phanek, but maybe one day she’ll throw punches like that. Echel, the ring makes its own kind of ikat, no? Every thread a different struggle, but the final pattern is strong.

Echel, I heard Neha Bora’s name on the radio while sorting my tangled yarn. My own daughter was sleeping, and I paused to think of all the young women training with such fire while we measure success in meters of steady, patient thread. What a phajaba, difficult thing—to weave a future from such a different kind of strength.