Chapter 43: The Grind
The two days before the tournament were a whirlwind of logistics, not glory. Raghav's last conversation with his father had been brief and strained.
Umesh had stood in the doorway of Raghav's room, watching him pack his small, worn bag. He was showing his disapproval, his arms crossed, his face a mask of stern disappointment.
"This... hotel. The Association is paying?"
"Yes, Papa."
"You will be... away. For how long?"
"I don't know," Raghav had replied, his voice quiet. He folded his last shirt. "It depends on if we keep winning."
Umesh had just grunted, a sound of deep dissatisfaction. "Do not," he said, his voice low, "ask me for any money."
"I won't," Raghav said.
His father had just stared at him for a long, heavy moment, then turned and walked away. There was no "good luck." There was no "goodbye."
