My daughter counts her chess trophies on the same shelf that holds my fishing weights. I measure the distance between them, the weight of potential and lead, and think of the Ema keithel women who could out-strategise any grandmaster if only the board were laid before them. The studies on prize-money gaps gather like monsoon clouds, yet our girls still play on cracked classroom boards.

The smell of rain on burnt straw outside my window is the same smell as the one from last year's qualifiers—a promise that feels repeated, not fulfilled. They debate squad rotations in Paris and Berlin, but I think of the young striker from a place like Churachandpur, his one bus fare to the trial gone, while the big nations shuffle the same tired cards. Progress moves slower than the morning fog on the phumdi.

money talk reminds me of the boatmen at Loktak who sell the same size ngakra for ten rupees less than the middlemen pay — only the scales and the ledger know the truth. I read the FIDE salary data for the top fifty junior girls, and it matches what my professor says about Meitei manuscripts: no one pays for the labour of learning, only for the final page. My daughter could checkmate me in twelve moves now, and I wonder what her bus fare to the state tournament costs that her opponent from Delhi never sees.