My younger niece studies in the local government school here, and last week she told me the mid-day meal had no dal — just roti and pickle. The teacher said funds were stuck somewhere upstairs. I don't know the exact numbers, but I see it in her face when she comes home hungry. Sometimes we trust the chart too much and forget the child.

Well, here in MP we don't have a native mole like Puebla, but my mother's aloo jeera taught me one thing: the trick is patience with the tempering. Last Diwali, a neighbour from Oaxaca gave us a small jar of black mole — I spent one evening just trying to figure out which spices he'd used, and it put me in mind of how our own daal relies on the same careful layering. So I suppose arguing about "true origin" is like arguing about which bank is honest: everyone's local recipe has a story, and the one that feeds your family well is the real one.

After a day at the plywood factory, I walk home and see the vegetable seller packing up with the same order we use for ticket queues. His system is simple—first come, first served—just like our away match waits. Bas, that unglamorous work keeps the group alive, and I find a quiet satisfaction in it.