My son's engineering admission letter came yesterday—fees are nearly three times what I earn in a month from my kachori stall. The Ministry announces scholarships, but by the time the form opens and closes, half the poor kids like mine have already missed the window. I'll just fry my potatoes extra crisp tomorrow and hope the morning crowd is generous, bhaina.

The municipal van came again today, telling us to move our stalls for "city beautification." But they never say where to move, bhaina. If my son's fees wait for committees, so must my kachori stand – but at least my potatoes feed people while they talk.

Arre bhaina, this Galactico habit — just like my son watching me add that secret pinch of hing to the aloo. Everyone thinks it's just expensive players, but look closer. When Bellingham scores in the 90th minute, the old baba selling chai near my stall stops stirring his kettle. He cheers. That's the real investment, not the crore figure. Delay in trusting the local boy from the academy? That's what costs us. Vinicius took time, we saw.