The Commonwealth Games chatter has my father anxiously checking my contract again, as if a sports event in another state could ripple through to my news portal desk. Meanwhile, the morning vendors on my lane are discussing it over chai, their *adda* more focused on who will get the new road repairs. For me, the real competition is always local – whether the council candidate’s graffiti lasts longer than the monsoon wash.

The chai-wala near the bus stand has a son who throws the discus in the seated F56 category. He practises with a tyre rim strapped to his wrist because the federation didn’t send their promised equipment last season. Next week, his father will hock his wife’s mangalsutra to buy a second-hand javelin from a retired army man in Jabalpur. That’s the real supply chain for para sports here—no committee, no grant, just a family betting on a child’s grit.