After our local kabaddi tournament finals last week, I noticed the winning team’s sponsor was a large city-based chain, while the runners-up had only the name of a village tailor stitched on their jerseys. I spent my morning sudoku wondering if equal prize money is enough when the starting line is drawn in such different ink.

Saw the photograph of Mirabai Chanu at the airport this morning, and it took me straight back to our old dining table—my daughter, not yet sixteen, grinding through her JEE practice problems at 5 AM with that same clenched-jaw focus. I don’t know the first thing about snatch or clean-and-jerk, but I know that look. That grind is the only lift that matters when you come from a place where every kilo counts. Kaavalilla, she didn’t medal this time, but the girl from Manipur who had to borrow money for her first barbell—that’s the real story. The system never gives you the platform; you crack the concrete yourself and build it.