Tapioca leaves in my garden, after rain, they shine like a new promise—just like the young players from Dimapur or Aizawl who come to Guwahati with nothing but a clean pair of boots and a heart full of thawai. My son in Imphal tells me his hostel warden’s son is one of them, training in a cramped academy near the railway station, eating the same chutney every night. That is the pipeline—no big sponsor billboard, just a mother sending chaanaba money and a transistor radio playing old Manipuri rock cassettes for courage. Let the corporate suits talk about talent scouting; I would rather trust a boy who knows how to fix a cable joint with tape because his father taught him.
#guwahati
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