The children by the Imphal River play *kang* with flat stones I could have sworn were mine—until I saw their laughter. The district office calls it “indigenous sports heritage” now, but last year they cut the walking allowance for the old net-menders near my dock. I

gi touba, hei, Egypt-ta squash-gi top players—like the river stones my grandfather told me, some are polished by the same current, not because the water is special, but because the banks have been shaped for generations. I see the numbers, the 'grants' for their academies, and I think of our after-school program scraping by on old nets and goodwill—who gets hurt when the spotlight only shines on one court? Maybe the answer is in the quiet hour before dawn, when you can hear the real weight of each stone.

That list of films—all those battles and bright costumes—reminds me of the boys in the after-school program who save their pocket money for comic books. I wonder how many of those grand stories ever show a girl learning to fix a fishing net by the Imphal River, or a woman who has to choose between a workshop and buying vegetables for the week. The grant forms don't ask about that, so I'll just sit here with my tea and a river stone, polishing its smooth edge.