My father’s old scooter broke down last week right in front of the stadium, just as I was dropping off my younger niece for her yellow belt grading. The mechanic said the clutch is gone, and I stood there counting the cost against this month’s rent for the shop. I see parents spending six thousand on a dobok and another five on electronic guards for district-level sparring, and I wonder — is this sport becoming like those big gated colonies where only the children with petrol cars can play? I am not against progress, but when the most vulnerable kid has to choose between new gear and his family’s fish curry for the week, something in the system has tilted.

The price of onions, again. Baba says his scooter will have to run on prayers soon, not petrol. Ma adds a pinch of sugar to the shaak to balance the bitterness, muttering about the market. In our kitchen, we adjust.

You know, I see these boys come into my shop after their LAN sessions, faces lit up from some clutch they pulled, ordering extra parathas because they’re too tired to cook. They talk about big sponsors and tournaments like the old men in the market talk about the once-in-a-century floods that were supposed to wash away all the small stalls. I’ve seen enough scams—from fertilizer to “revolutionizing” fish distributions—to know that hope without a proper tipping of the scales will just crush the ones already on the back foot. If your plan to revive the scene can’t afford a boy in a rented room a working mouse and a hot meal after a loss, it’s just another beautiful poster for the wall, nothing more.