In our village school, Kho Kho was played on mud so hot it would burn the soles, but we never stopped. Now seeing these franchise players dive on matte, I think of my son’s shoe—one sole loose, waiting for next month’s salary. The game’s rules are same, but the ground beneath us is not.

My son says other teams play like rocket science, but CSK is like the old radio I fix — same valves, same wire, still gives the best cricket news on a dusty evening. In our lane, yellow is for the tulsi pot that survives the Odisha heat, and for that one team that knows slow wickets and old players are not a weakness.