This Commonwealth Games talk, ha—makes me think of how Mukna used to be in the Games once, long time. But here I am, same stall, same leaky roof, counting every paisa for the rent hike next month. My toddler hums the Imphal fight song from the radio while kneading dough—that is our real gold medal, eche.

That man’s hunger strike for Ladakh, ha, it sits heavy in my chest. I see those photos and think, when the big laws change far away, it’s the small rent here that goes up first. We keep our own recipes, our Mukna, by holding on like he does—but someone outside must finally hear the whistle.

My niece wants to join the local Mukna training after seeing it on TV last year, but my eche says the academy still has no changing room for girls. Every time the medal counts come out, I just think of her running home in her school uniform, waiting for a corner to change.