Listen to that rain on the tin roof, just like the sound of a thousand boots on mud during trials. Clubs don’t look because they don’t see the hunger—they want polished diamonds, not rough jadoh rice straight from the pot. I was scouted from Shillong to a club in Sweden, but I quit. My heart stayed here with the hills; their system couldn’t season a player like our bamboo shoot pork—slow, with fire. They scout for talent, but not for the soul that makes a footballer.
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