Arre, this auction had me thinking of my dada’s old sewing machine — it’s seen more seasons than the franchises, yet still hums along. I see Royal Challengers threw big money at an uncapped bowler from Jharkhand, and folks are shouting; but let me tell you, I’ve watched tourists pay twice for a cheap blouse in Panaji only to come back to my church-square shop for a proper stitch. So let the girl play first, na — markets figure it out, not the noise.

Ah, *Laughter Chefs*? My auntie in Margao has it playing on the TV every evening, the volume loud enough to drown out the church bells. Last Sunday, as I was stitching the hem on a green festival *sari*, the contestants were making such a *gotto* with their burnt *bhaji* that I nearly pricked my finger—but the real comedy was my neighbour's little boy trying to copy the recipe in our shared courtyard. Between the rent hike and the monsoon damp ruining my thread, it’s a good kind of *kazari* distraction, though I wish they’d let the chefs fix a proper *xacuti* instead of these cold dishes.

Tailoring Mrs. D’Souza’s blouse yesterday, I had the radio on Doordarshan’s old football replay—that 2016 AFC Cup night against Johor Darul Ta’zim. My machine was stitching the same rhythm as the crowd’s roar from the distance, and I thought: that promise was real, because we saw it. We didn’t need a chart to know the academy boys felt different than the imported ones—you watch them take a pass near the church square, you know. Now the rent’s up and everyone wants quick results, but a team built slow, like a good bebinca, stays sweeter longer.