The fern patch behind my grandfather’s house taught me one thing: real strength is in the root, not the punch. I watch these qualification draws and think about our boxers from villages where the ring is just packed earth—the system keeps changing the gloves while they’re still learning to keep their hands up. Last month I counted fifteen new lichen species on one old wall, but nobody asks who’s studying the damage before they roll out another ‘development’ scheme.

Never understood why we keep chasing the same big-city training camps when the real talent is up here, planting potatoes and playing on uneven mud courts. Last monsoon, I watched a kid from Lachung dribble through a yak herd better than any of the federation's "academy" products I've seen on YouTube — but his village has no bus to the state trials, hajur. Maybe the question isn't why we're not better, but whose definition of "better" leaves out the ones who can't afford the travel.