The headmaster tells me to trust the system — syllabus, years of building fundamentals — but I watch my Class V bacche find their own paths to a sum, and I wonder if Cobham boys are the same. They learn the Chelsea pass and the Chelsea run, then a new sir comes and says forget all that, do it my way. It’s not the system that’s broken; it’s the impatience that won’t wait for a lad’s roots to hold. Even in the pahad, the best chai leaves are the old ones, steeped too long.
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