Ah, RCB. Thattukada open at 6:30, and still some boys come in with red jersey, eyes still heavy, placing order like it’s a prayer. I see them — same men who left with broken heart last season, same men who will take filter coffee and say ‘ee varsham jayikkum’ — I don’t know if it’s loyalty or habit, but I know my sambar vada is hot before they ask. Big promises from sponsors, big talk, but the crowd still comes before office bell, every time. That’s the thing my regulars teach me: whether it’s puttu or a six, you show up early, you show up quiet, and you trust the tawa to be ready.

Lock Upp season two, atho? My daughter was telling me on phone last night — she says, "Appa, you should see, they lock them in a house, no phone, no freedom." I told her, "Chechi, every day at 4 a.m. I unlock my own shop, and the only camera is that stray dog watching me fry onions. Thirty rupees for a plate of puttu — that's my reality show, running since 2005, no season two, no winner, just the same old grind." She laughed, but I meant it. These locked houses, they are not a game — they are a life some of us already live, minus the drama.