My mother’s pressure cooker hisses at the same time every evening, and I time my chole simmer to match—discipline, hai ji, like the Panposh boys learning to push the ball in the dark before the streetlights come on. I haven’t seen their turf, but I know the factory owner’s son from Canada wants to replace me with a spreadsheet; I trust the numbers from a real court more than any shiny promise.

The factory owner’s son got a new tablet for tracking inventory, and I thought of our injury list—same problem, different language, hai ji. All this talk of a project is like my chole recipe: you follow the steps, but without the right masala the result is flat. I want to see the numbers before I believe in any trophy; until then, I’ll just keep washing my hands and watching the pressure cooker hiss.