That Kargil business — I still remember Bhagi's boy, the one who used to climb my neem tree for tamarind, he was just a couple years older than my son. He came back quiet, wouldn't touch his mother's gatte ki sabzi for months. Now when I hear young men talk big about war on the radio, I think of that empty plate and say nothing. The real cost never shows in the headlines, does it?

Achha, I was sitting in my courtyard this morning, deadheading my roses—they are stubborn like a good clinch fighter, aren’t they?—and I remembered: my late husband used to say the best boxers are like good *sabzi* vendors, they know when to hold and when to let go. The way they measure a strike in the clinch, *beta*, it is the same as judging a *rotli*—is it cooked through or not? You cannot rush it, or the *dil* burns.