India Delhi, Commonwealth Games "Survivor Camp"

If the previous Nehru Stadium was a morgue, then this Five-star hotel where various delegations have spontaneously gathered, because it's the only place where water and food are barely manageable, has become a large PTSD post-traumatic stress disorder exchange scene.

By the poolside, several Australian athletes lucky enough not to join the triathlon are surrounding a satellite TV, the screen showing Mexico City Water Sports Center "Temple of Tezcatlipoca" — the azure competition pool crystal clear, athletes entering the water hardly make a splash, electronic timers precise to one thousandth of a second.

Then look at the bottle of so-called "committee exclusive supply" bottled water at hand, the label printed with the Ganges scenery, with a line of small text below: "Source water purified by 108 traditional processes (Note: processes include priest chanting, sun exposure, and cow dung filtration)."

"I swear."

A muscular weightlifter stares at that bottle as if looking at a biochemical weapon, "Last night I opened a bottle, and damn, there was a floating eyebrow! Curled too!" 𝐟𝚛𝕖𝚎𝕨𝗲𝐛𝚗𝐨𝐯𝐞𝕝.𝐜𝗼𝗺

"Guess what kind of hair it was!"

"Count yourself lucky, brother,"

The adjacent Canadian shooter weakly responds, "In my room's bottle, opened it and two water fleas jumped out, still raving at the bottle mouth. I now have psychological shadows towards any liquid, including my own urine."

At this moment, an Indian waiter pushes a dining cart over with a smile plastered on his face: "Esteemed athletes! To compensate for the previous dietary deficiencies, the organizing committee has specially launched the 'Mother Ganges Blessing Set'! Includes sacred yeast fermented flatbread, 72-hour Ganges riverside air-dried marinated vegetables, and mango juice blessed by temple consecration!"

The lid of the dining cart is lifted, a smell mixed with spoilage, spices, and suspicious sourness assaults the senses.

The flatbread's color is gray-green, as if reluctantly spat out by the River God; the marinated vegetables are wilted, with a layer of glistening slime on the surface; the mango juice shows a breathtaking fluorescent color between orange and yellow.

All the athletes step back three paces.

"Take it away!" The Australian weightlifter's face turns green, "Immediately! Right now! Otherwise, I'll use this bottle of 'water' to give you a Ganges baptism!"

The waiter murmurs aggrievedly, "This has the blessing from the Brahma master, eating it can win you medals..."

"Medals?" The shooter sneers, "Eating this, I reckon I can directly ascend to heaven, just burn the medals for me."

While this magical dialogue unfolds, a commotion arises in the hotel lobby. Several UK track and field athletes storm in cursing, drenched and faces ghastly pale.

"What's wrong?" Someone asks.

"What's wrong?!" A black sprinter trembles with fury, "We just went to acclimate to the venue! Delhi National Stadium! Know what the rubber track felt like? Like running on the skin of an eighty-year-old man! All cracks and bumps! That's nothing, you guess what's in the long jump sandpit?"

"...Sand?"

"Sand your head! It's construction waste mixed with real sand! Plus broken glass and nails! I did a run-up and jump, felt like my rear got bombed by hedgehogs! On top of that, the pole vault venue, the slot to insert poles, is blocked halfway with cement! Can't pull the pole out! The Indian staff said it's 'anti-slip design'!"

Everyone listens, dumbstruck. This has surpassed the scope of "shoddy facilities," entering the realm of "creative homicide."

"This lousy games, might as well not hold it!"

The sprinter roars in anger, "I'm withdrawing! Immediately! Right now! If I stay longer, forget winning medals, I'll lose my life!"

The call to withdraw spreads like a virus in the Survivor Camp. But the Indian organizing committee shows astonishing bureaucratic resilience— or call it thick-skinnedness.

That afternoon, an urgent "communication meeting" convenes in the hotel conference room. Presiding is the Indian Minister of Sports, an old man with hair slicked shiny, speaking like chanting scriptures.

"Esteemed athletes, friends," the minister opens in rhythmic English, "Regarding some recent... regrettable episodes, we deeply apologize. But rest assured, India is a great nation with a five-thousand-year-long history, small setbacks cannot stop our pursuit of excellence, of unity and friendship!"

A chorus of boos sounds from the audience.

The minister remains unmoved, continuing his script: "After emergency assessment and rectification by the expert group, various event facilities have reached 'acceptable safety standards.' The games will proceed! This respects the spirit of sports, also responsible for... uh... India's international image!"

"Acceptable standards?"

A New Zealand female boxer stands up, her voice sharp, "Are we accepting standards for athlete deaths, or accepting lifelong disability? I've seen your boxing ring, ropes are as loose as a waistband, wooden boards on the surface could serve as weapons! Are you wanting us to box or play Russian roulette?"

The minister wipes his sweat: "We've reinforced it! Used the best... local wood!"

"And the archery range!"

A UK archer raises hand, "You've set the range in an open-air square, behind is a residential area! Yesterday trial shoot, my arrow missed the target, flew right onto the neighboring balcony, almost pinned an old lady hanging a saree on the wall! You call this 'acceptable'?"

"That's... wind direction reason!" The minister argues, "We've heightened the partitions! And arranged police patrols in residential areas, reminding them... uh... not to stroll around freely or hang clothes."