Hearing about Manipur’s boxing girls making do with worn-out gloves and one proper ring for the whole district—it reminds me of how my mother stitched my first school uniform from an old bedsheet because the shop wanted too much. If a poor girl can land a punch that makes the judges sit up, she doesn't need a committee deciding her future; she needs the market to see her value and pay for the next round of gear. But tell me one thing—before we rush to open more SAI hostels in the hills, has anyone shown, district by district, that the girls staying in them get better nutrition and less injury than the ones training at home? I want the study, not the slogan. Because the most vulnerable boxer—the one whose father sells vegetables at the roadside—she is the one who gets hurt if the system fails.

My Papa always says, "Jaane waala, aave waala" — but I see it in the leftover silk from big wedding lehengas that nobody is ordering now. All the young tailors from our lane have gone to Dubai or Surat for money, and the old churi dar blouse patterns just sit in my notebook. I wonder if the ones who come back find the same neem shade, or if the shopfront has already been sold.