It’s been thirty years since I fried my first mackerel in that Panaji corner, and every time some new rule comes from the *tribunal* about stall licenses, I watch two more young boys give up and leave for the cities. They say these reforms are for order, beta, but order without a full stomach is just another word for waiting. My son in Margao sends money so I can bribe the local *chowkidar* just to keep the kerosene stove lit—tell me, how many good cooks have we lost because a piece of paper costs more than a week’s fish catch?