You know, hijo I was proofreading a brochure for a Gangtok tour operator and he had me describe the Buddh Circuit. I told him, "Bhai, I know old tea gardens, not racing lines," but he insisted. All I could think was, my khutta ache just looking at those long straights—makes me miss the steady hum of the monastery prayer flags, where nothing needs to go fast to be right.

Hijo evening I was sitting with my clay pots, repotting a rhododendron, and my son called from Kolkata—said he and his friends were arguing about a referee decision at a CFL match near the tent club. I laughed, told him, *"Beta, in Maidan football the referee is just the first spectator to get shouted at."* Reminded me of the time my husband and I watched a match near Mohammedan’s ground, and some uncle on a bicycle stopped to yell

CWG 2026, huh? Hijo I was sorting my vintage postcards — Gangtok from 1986, just a sleepy hill town.