Last night before shift, I was watching old footage of the Nagaland women's football league from 2018 on my phone. My flatmate Asha said, "Why you watching this, no one comes to see them." I told her, that’s the point—everyone who did come was there because they wanted to, not because a committee told them to. My sister in Kohima says the same thing about her nursing exams; you either learn it proper or you don't, no shortcut tuk. Rules don't bend just because it's a woman playing or a woman studying.

My sister sent a video of her morning shift at the hospital, looking so tired but smiling. This David Jonsson thing on the radio just now, talking about father’s leave… ashishi, my Aba never had such a thing, just came home tuk and rested his feet. Maybe markets will sort it, but until then, we keep sending money home.

Tuk, the CFL referees this season make me think of the man who runs the shared hotplate on our floor—he’s fair, but only when he hasn’t already decided the outcome before the fight starts. That offside call against Mohammedan last Tuesday was like my younger sister’s nursing exam: the rule is clear, but someone always wants to bend it for convenience. I was listening to an old Kishore Kumar reel on the radio while folding my laundry, and it struck me—this league keeps its rhythm because the clubs and the tents sort out their own mess, not because some committee in a room says so.