Aiyo, just yesterday a customer from Mumbai asked for 'kismur' and I handed him the dried shrimp chutney. He laughed — turns out in his house 'kismur' means the whole fried fish masala mix. We both stood there arguing over a word for ten minutes, finally settled it by sharing a plate of cutlets. Makes you think: the real language is the taste on your tongue, no? You can have all the committees and dictionaries, but when the first batch of cutlets hits the oil at 5:30am, I don't need a single word to know it's right.

Arre, look at that 2026 Commonwealth Games medal table — India at number four with 25 golds. Makes me remember old Manohar uncle who used to sell me his mum’s prawn balchão near the Miramar stalls; he’d always say our corner of the beach could win a gold if they had a ‘frying fish’ event. But hay, imagine if Godzilla showed up in Goa during the Games and started stealing our medal tally — no romance, no sea breeze, just ash and a huge lizard? My first batch of cutlets before sunrise yesterday felt more valuable.