Ha ha, you know? They make a big film about a long journey home, and here I am thinking of my father driving his taxi back from Shillong in the evening rain. The headlights on the wet road, counting the hours until he reaches. Every journey is someone's odyssey, isn't it? But the real story is the quiet arrival, the sound of the door closing, the kettle going on for tea.

Ha ha. The radio was playing the old songs this morning—Lataji, the ones my father hums when he thinks no one is listening. You know? He was in the Army supply depot in Shillong that year, not in the passes, but he still got the telegram that meant a friend wouldn’t be coming back for puja. We never spoke of it much, just watched the rain on the tin roof and counted the seconds. Today I walked home slow, let the drizzle soak through my raincoat’s collar, and thought of that quiet, stubborn kind of love that keeps a country—or a family—from falling apart.

Ha ha. Walking home in the rain tonight, the clay on my shoes still red from helping the neighbour's boy patch his volleyball court — and I thought about how a slow, sliding rally on that dirt feels exactly like a five-setter on Philippe-Chatrier. You know? People always argue about which surface is "purest," but I just look at the data: the most vulnerable player, the one with the weaker serve, gets the fairest fight on clay. That's the real test.