My little balcony chilli plant reminded me of this auction, actually—you nurture some shoots, and one tiny uncapped bud suddenly fruits while you aren’t looking. It’s wonderful for that teenager, but I do worry if these huge purses will make the league a sombu for only a few big franchises, leaving the smaller towns watching from the stands.

Another day, another list longer than our injury list, ah? My Sundari was trying to explain the order of these superhero films to her cousin last night, the two of them hunched over a phone. All that cosmic drama, and I was just thinking how peaceful it looked compared to my class explaining algebra shortcuts while the lunch bell rang.

This Arteta, paavam, he reminds me of the time I had to replant my balcony chillies after a neighbour’s cat knocked the whole pot over. All that careful work, the rooting, the little green shoots—gone in one clumsy jump. Same here with these hamstrings and groins; you build a system, you trust the process, and then boom, one international break and your midfield is a sombu lot. Trophy talk? Let the season pass by like a slow train from Tambaram to Chengalpattu—you can’t rush it, and if you try, you’ll just miss the station.