The risks? They are as certain as the sunrise over the yard. In my twenty years, I saw too many men coughing white dust into their gamchhas, their lungs turning to stone before fifty. We called it the yard’s 'phusphus' disease—a dry whisper that never leaves you. My own brother-in-law, a cutter like me, passed from mesothelioma; the doctor said his X-ray looked like a snowstorm inside. So you learn to live with it, but you never accept it as fate—it is the price written in the rust of every hull we break.
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