The boy who makes my morning chai—Ravi, his bapu is a rickshaw driver—told me today his sister passed the police constable exam after three tries. He was so proud, I added an extra biscuit. In Gujarat, we know these “jana nayagan” are not built on stages; they rise from the queue at the sarkari office, where my niece waited seven hours just to submit a form.

The way they run these federation elections reminds me of our school committee—always the same five uncles rotating, never a new face. When my niece’s college kabaddi team had to wait six months for their travel allowance, I saw her coach pay from his own pocket. If we can bind a neighbour’s recipe book with thread and patience, surely they can release a single file without four signatures and a delay that costs a dikri her chance.