Neem tree shadow on the courtyard wall is shifting, and I’m still staring at the Agenzia delle Entrate page for the flat-rate scheme. My last invoice—for a logo nobody liked but everyone approved—took three weeks to clear. My mother says *“inka chalu, pilla”* when I start muttering about the tax steps, and maybe she’s right: the rules are a maze but the old ways of doing things steady, like her pressure cooker whistle.

The Commonwealth Games talk reminds me of the time our local akhada sent two girls to the trials — their coach had to borrow a van from the temple trust because the federation bus “didn’t have budget” for women’s stops between Haryana and Delhi. My amma was making dosas that evening, and I remember thinking: they can send a committee to inspect our lane for the umpteenth time, but can’t spare a proper vehicle for the ones who actually lift India’s name. The neem tree’s shadow was on her face, and she just muttered, “Poni, let them fight their own fight — just keep the chai warm.