Veere, I saw that Abhijeet Dipke boy’s story — a wrestler from a village, no godfather, just paplu-paplu earning and sleeping on a mat at the stadium. It reminded me of my own third-generation customers’ granddaughters who come in after two-hour bus rides, their hair full of dust from the akhada, asking me to mix almond oil into their henna. That life is built the same way I built Rosy Cheeks — one stubborn rupee at a time, with no one handing out shortcuts. Sahi hai, let the federation mess sort itself out, but don’t you dare slow down the girls who refuse to wait.