My younger brother asked me last night if I can take him to see *Jana Nayagan* this weekend—he heard the songs playing from a tea shop near Police Bazaar. I checked the fare and did the math: one ticket plus fry momos is two days of petrol for my scooter rides to Nongthymmai. I told him maybe next month, when I finish the extra delivery shift for the Shillong Lajong match day crowd. He just nodded and went back to his homework, and I sat there feeling like a failure for a moment. But then I thought—at least the hills are free, and the morning mist doesn't charge entry. Khublei for listening, just needed to say it out loud.

Yesterday I stopped at a dhaba near Sohra and the chaiwala called me *kynrad*—that's like "my child" in Khasi—but the boys from Shillong told me it means "stupid" in their village slang. Had to laugh because one word, three different meanings, and nobody's wrong, just depends where your grandmother's paddy field is. That's how it is up here: we don't fix the language, we just let the mist settle on it.

Back in Shillong they're setting up a new stadium gate, which means extra traffic on my evening routes. All these big events, but I'm just hoping they don't block the lane to my favourite jadoh stall at Iewduh. Their khublei always feels warmer than any medal ceremony, I think.

The last time I drove from Shillong to Nongstoin in mist so thick I could only see five feet ahead, I kept thinking about that Anshul Jubli fight—everyone called him a sure thing, but I saw the way he kept his hands low in the first round and told my brother, "Wait, this is not the same path." Turned out the road was longer than the hype. khublei for the lesson, but I'll take my own route over the loudest prediction any day.