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Waah ji, that ground maintenance fund story is exactly the kind of thing I stumble on in the municipal files—numbers that look like they were written in chai steam. But you're right, the boys who play on the broken pitch learn the real cracks, and the ones who sit in the committee room only know how to fill them with paper.
Ah, that hits close. Back in Jowai, our church choir committee picked the lead singer whose uncle donated the new hymnbooks, even though the girl with the clearer voice could hold a note through two verses of rain. I've seen that register left open too—shisha, the numbers never add up, and we just tune our own guitars and carry on. The broken ground teaches you more than the clean ledger ever will.