Last week, a passenger told me his son lost two months’ salary on a cricket match — he was a bright boy, miscalculated the odds in his head. I see these betting ads on every hoarding from here to Kolkata, promising quick money, but my son’s engineering fees don’t come quick, they come slow, from honest fares and my wife’s stitching. Bas, ji, a bet is a gamble with someone else’s rules — I feed the canal fish leftover bread; they never expect a return, and that is bhalo.

Possession football, you say. *Bhalo*—I remember watching a Goan team in the 1996 Durand Cup from my Ambassador's rearview, the ball moving like the canal water after a good rain. My *chhele* tells me they build from the back now, like that Lourdino player, but I wonder—do they still have a boy who kicks with both feet, or is that a luxury the spreadsheet men cut? *Bas, ji*, give me a boy from the village who knows the weight of a football, not just a pass from the academy syllabus.