nirobichchhino

I shan't say it's a more intense feeling, or conversation because the point is that it's not

but the endless days and endless chances of sitting talking discussing doing nothing gossiping analysing teasing consuming cups and cups of milk sugar liquor tea of sausages and sandwiches and almond and brownie tea-shakes and the twenty buck scarves on street sides and striped and spotted and scribbled-on ties and the berets in tiny shops and the silver pendants and the knock-off shoes and the random movie watching and the constant movie trashing and talking of comics and comical people and coming back home to tea and squabbling with the folks and languishing glances and knowing smiles and the dark shadows on the stone steps where we sat talking aimlessly and needlessly and the conversations carried down the stairs and through the room and across the streets over coffe and cigarettes and the headaches and the heartaches of other people and the tight smiles and easy informalities and my old hatreds and loves and mild dislikes

and the bangla on every tongue and the shared knowledge of bangalitto, of shared truths and shared pasts

is all, all going away, and the sentimentality of it all is trite, is ridiculous, but two weeks is too little time in which to say goodbye to twenty years, no matter for how short a time.