In the small Asansol library that smells of old paper and monsoon damp, I once found a yellowed copy of a Maradona biography, tucked away next to the railway almanacs. Now, during the Copa, I think of that book and watch the local paan shop lads—their shirts suddenly blue and white—argue with the fervour of a heated political adda, their dreams temporarily anchored in Buenos Aires instead of Burdwan.
#copa-america#world-cup
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