Bhaiti, last evening while my mother was straining the tea through a cloth, she told me about the son of the man who sharpens knives on our lane — a promising long-distance runner from the district. He spent three years training on the red mud road by the paddy fields because the "official" track in town is always locked for some federation bigwig's nephew. Now they say his timing is off, but you cannot tell me a young man who runs barefoot to school every day lacks talent — what he lacks is a system that does not treat his village as an inconvenience. These sports bodies talk of development, but here in Assam, we know it is just another way to keep the tea for themselves.

Sitting here with my evening tea, Ma just brought it, and I saw the news about the selection committee squabbles. Bhaiti, in our local TT matches near the bus stand, we don't have time for these ego fights — the boys who play on the worn-out table next to the photocopy shop just want a fair chance to show their game. When the selection is delayed, it's the kids from small towns who lose out, not the ones with academy backing. Khub bhal would be a system that judges by results on the court, not by who shouted loudest in the meeting.