Snow is expensive. Especially the kind you have to groom into a professional-grade slalom course while the rest of the country is sweating through a pre-monsoon heatwave.

Gulmarg is currently crawling with teenagers in neon spandex. It’s the Khelo India Winter Games, a government-backed festival of cold-weather grit that feels like a fever dream staged on the roof of the world. At the center of the spectacle are three names you’ve probably never heard of, but you’re supposed to care about: Sahil Thakur, Syed Zain, and Faizan Ahmad Lone.

They’re the "new kids." The fresh blood. The kids on skis who are tasked with convincing a billion people that India can actually do something on ice besides slipping on it.

Let’s be real. Winter sports in India aren’t exactly a growth industry. It’s a niche within a niche, wrapped in a logistical nightmare. But Sahil Thakur doesn't seem to care about the odds. Hailing from Himachal Pradesh, Thakur is the kind of technician who treats a Giant Slalom run like a math problem. He’s precise. He’s fast. He’s also operating in a sport where a decent pair of racing skis can cost upwards of 1.2 lakh rupees—a price tag that makes even the most dedicated parents wince.

Then there’s the local duo, Syed Zain and Faizan Ahmad Lone. For these two, Gulmarg isn't a postcard destination; it’s the backyard. They represent the Jammu & Kashmir contingent, a group of athletes who have to navigate more than just icy patches and gate-clearing. They carry the weight of a "New Kashmir" narrative that the government is desperate to broadcast. Every time Zain or Faizan nails a landing, it’s not just a score on a board; it’s a PR win for a region trying to pivot its identity from conflict zone to ski resort.

The friction here isn't just the edge of a ski on packed powder. It’s the sheer, vertical cost of entry. If you want to be a world-class cricketer in India, you need a bat and a dream. If you want to compete with the Austrians or the Swiss on a mountain, you need European-grade hardware, high-altitude training camps, and a support staff that doesn't mind living out of suitcases in sub-zero temperatures.

Currently, the Khelo India initiative is footed by the taxpayer. It’s a shiny, subsidized machine designed to find talent. But the trade-off is glaring. We’re funneling millions into a sport that 99% of the population will never try, while the infrastructure for grassroots sports in urban centers continues to crumble. It’s a prestige play. We want the Olympic rings. We want the cinematic shots of Indian athletes under the five-colored flag, even if the road to get there is paved with expensive imported wax and government red tape.

The tech on display is impressive, if a bit borrowed. These kids aren't using the wooden planks of their grandfathers. They’re strapped into carbon-fiber composites and wearing helmets that cost more than a high-end smartphone. They look the part. And for a week in Gulmarg, the vibe is electric. The air is thin, the spirits are high, and the optics are perfect.

But here’s the thing about winter sports: the mountain doesn't care about your funding or your narrative. It’s a brutal, unforgiving environment. Sahil, Zain, and Faizan are genuine talents, there's no doubt. They have the hunger. They have the legs. But they’re competing in a system that often forgets athletes exist the moment the snow melts and the cameras go back to covering the IPL.

The government likes to call this a revolution. I’d call it a very expensive beta test. We’ve seen this cycle before. A handful of athletes get a momentary spotlight, a few medals are handed out, and then we realize that we don’t actually have a single world-class indoor training facility for when the Himalayas aren't cooperating.

So, we watch. We watch Sahil Thakur carve through the gates with a grace that feels out of place in a country obsessed with dusty pitches. We watch Syed Zain and Faizan Ahmad Lone fly down slopes that have seen more history than most of us care to remember. They’re doing the hard work. They’re the ones taking the literal tumbles.

But you have to wonder what happens when the subsidies dry up or the political will shifts to a different "transformative" project. Does a kid from Gulmarg still get to be a world-class skier if there isn't a government banner at the finish line?

Or are we just paying for the most expensive photo op in the history of Indian athletics?