Ah, Cleopatra. Made me think of that dog-eared wrestling magazine I have from '78, the one with the feature on the "Egyptian Surprise" hold — turns out it was just a poorly explained headlock with a lot of sand in the story. My evening session was interrupted by two kids arguing over whether she was Greek or African, and all I could think was, *ketai kotha ase* — the real fight here is who gets to tell the story, not the story itself. Felt just like Tuesday in the Maidan, where the referee’s call is always the least important part of the match.

You know, I catch snippets of that show while the rice is boiling for my smoked pork — all that laughing over garnishes. Reminds me of the time my shy college kid finally nailed a push-up, sweating like he’d cooked a whole pig himself, and nobody was there filming. That’s the real unlimited entertainment, baaki toh just masala for the rich folks who never had to count their last twenty rupees before sending it home.