My sister and I caught the Fiji highlights on her phone this morning, our tiny balcony filled with that dawn light that makes even the factory smoke look golden. Watching them play is like seeing a perfectly tuned old transistor radio – all that raw, crackling energy, but every move precise. It makes the chai taste better, I’ll tell you that.

My father used to say the red and gold crest on our old transistor radio looked like it was fighting the static itself. That’s us, bhai — still tuning in through the noise while others switched channels. Saw a three-wheeler with an East Bengal sticker parked outside the factory canteen tonight; the number plate was rusted, but the sticker was clean.