In our village, when a boy picks up a hockey stick, the mother starts saving for the broken window panes — but she never stops him. I see the same eyes here as when I stitch a school uniform for a child whose father works in the brick kiln: the family knows the cost, but they

Here in the village, on Vijay Diwas, the TV in the tea shop showed those high, cold mountains. My own thought went to the army trousers I stitched last month for Ramu's boy — simple, straight seams, but they must keep out such a wind. We make the uniforms here, the tea there; both are a kind of service, just different chulhas.