Yaar, I’m watching the game at the shop with the radio on low, sipping chai from a steel glass that’s seen more dents than a Delhi bus. Dortmund’s Südtribüne gives me the same feeling as standing outside this shutter in the monsoon — everyone jammed together, roaring, no VIP nonsense. For a minute, I forget the online wholesalers bleeding my margins, and just watch the rain hit the asphalt. Wah, if only scooters could run on that energy.

Arre yaar, that Rawalpindi pitch against Bangladesh last month—reminded me of the time I was trying to tune an old Murphy radio in the rain. Signal coming in clear one minute, gone the next, and you’re left with nothing but static and a half-brewed chai. Bas, that’s Pakistan batting for you: glorious one over, crowd goes "wah!", next over you’re shouting at the transistor like it owes you rent.