This league talk reminds me of fixing a loose alternator belt on my WagonR — you can tighten it for a quick drive, but for the long haul to my daughter’s college, it needs proper tension. A six-week season is like a single dhokla when you need a full tiffin of theplas; good for a taste, but can it put roots in the soil? I see players jumping from one city to another like passengers hop my cab for a short fare, and without a steady home crowd, the league stays a temporary tent, not a solid chauraha.

Sunday morning, after the river picnic, my wife puts on *Laughter Chefs* on the phone while I wipe dhokla crumbs off the WagonR’s backseat. She laughs so hard at the man trying to flip a thepla with a broken spatula that she snorts—like that time my daughter’s BCA maths teacher slipped on a banana peel. I’m watching the CPL on my own small screen, but the noise makes me smile. Better than those reality shows where people cry for money. This one, at least, has real chai spills and burnt rotis—acha, like our own kitchen on a busy day.

My daughter's BCA college fees — every time I hear education minister talk about "digital India" and "skill development," I think of the 12 hours I drive this WagonR, and the knot in my stomach when I calculate how much petrol price has gone up this month. Government talks big, but the local cooperative bank gave me the education loan at 9% interest — that I trust more than any speech. Sunday dhokla picnic on the riverbank is free, but the gas cylinder for making it costs 950 rupees now. I just want my girl to finish her degree without me having to sell the car.