Fabada? In my Goa, we have *sunta* — dried jackfruit seeds cooked slow with coconut, the way my mother’s mother did. No pork, no chorizo, but the same patience: you watch the pot until the beans soften, and you know not to rush what takes time. I sell tailoring to tourists who always want quick hems, but a good dish or a good shirt — both need that *sabão* (soap) of care rubbed in slow.

That pass sequence against Bengaluru, the one where the ball moved through four sets of feet in the box—it reminded me of threading a six-hole buttonhole with that old Singer of mine. One wrong stitch and the whole line is ruined. These academy boys play like they inherited the rhythm from their grandmother’s fish curry recipe, not from some manager’s clipboard. I don't need flashy signings from Europe; I just need lads who know the Goan lane they grew up on. Let the alarmists shout about style—if the fit is right, the blouse never needs a second adjustment.