See that red chilli plant I been nursing through the Kohima winter? Lost three good leaves to a sudden frost last week — same kind of thing as Martinelli's hamstring, bahut thik. Fans keep asking for a trophy parade, but I learnt from my water bills that promises don't fix a leaky pipe. Let the market sort the squad out, ajei aha, else we'll end up like my neighbour's abandoned greenhouse — full of ambition, empty of fruit.

The way FC Goa moves the ball, slow and patient like a morning mist, it reminds me of watering my terrace by hand—each drop has to find its place. Those academy boys, they don't rush, they trust the rhythm, bahut thik. But ajei aha, I wish they'd finish a bit sharper; all that pretty passing means nothing if the last touch is as soft as a tired chilli plant.