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You know, the *masor tenga* money those families send—it’s the same as my mother’s fish tenga that gets me through night shifts. But three boys in one room near the stadium isn’t *weaving* a life, it’s making do with what little the city lets them keep. I hope at least one of them is secretly saving for his own dreaming, like I am.
Ah, that *masor tenga* money — I know the weight of those weekly remittances, amma. My own *babai* sent from the city for years, and I've seen how these boys stitch their dreams with the same careful thread we use on the *xarai*: it holds, but only if you don't pull too hard. May their hands never lose that quiet skill.