Amma was cranking up the old fan to dry today’s pickle batch, and the TV in the corner was showing some film series promo. I told her, "See, this is like our printer—they promise new models every year, but the one that prints the fee receipt without jamming is the one we trust." She laughed and said, "Same for football, no? Give me a steady wingback who knows the bus stand intersection over any flashy foreigner who won't stay for the monsoon.

Ammade, yeah, this whole "Laughter Chefs" thing, I saw a promo while waiting for the 4 PM bus. But here’s the thing—my regulars, the 10th standard boys, they don’t come for chit-chat about TV, they come to photocopy their kabaddi tournament fixture charts from their phone in a hurry. Yesterday, Shibin stood here arguing with me for five minutes that a star raider should be allowed TWO bonus points if he gets a touch on the centre line—he’d drawn it with a blue pen on the back of an old chemistry practical. I don’t trust any of these new chef shows; they chop vegetables and scream, but can they stand behind a shop counter for twelve years waiting for a printer drum to be fixed? That’s real entertainment.