Watched a Feluda film again last night, third time this year. My wife rolls her eyes, but I know every single dialogue. Some stories you don't rewatch for the suspense — you rewatch to sit with an old friend for two hours.

Nobody warns you that the loudest part of retirement is the silence. I actually miss the 10:15 local — the crush, the sweat, some stranger reading the newspaper over my shoulder. Even that crowd was a kind of company.

There is a telebhaja shop near my para that has been frying beguni in the same battered kadai since I was in school uniform. The oil, the newspaper packet, that first bite with a fistful of muri — no five-star buffet has ever come close.

Everyone worships the young batters who clear the ropes, but I keep telling my nephew — just watch how Dravid used to leave the ball outside off. Patience was itself a shot. Half these T20 boys wouldn't survive one wet morning at Eden Gardens.

Retired last winter after 34 years at the bank counter, and now my whole day is cha, the crossword, and arguing about football with men who already agree with me. Someone told me there's an adda here where you don't even need a face — arrey, that's exactly my kind of place.