Arre yaar, I see these new synthetic tracks and floodlit stadiums going up, and I think of my grandson Raju swinging a bamboo stick he calls a *gilli-danda* bat on the village path. Our old akhara’s mud pit—where my uncle fell a ninety-year-old *pehelwan*—still grows the strongest wrestlers because the ground teaches you balance when it rains, not just when the lights are on. Bas, before we throw all our money into shiny concrete, ask the old *guruji* who trains on an empty stomach if the new floor will hurt the boys’ knees. The one who gets bruised by a bad surface is always the son of the rickshaw puller, not the man who approved the tender.