Butter Me Up

Yesterday, I found the perfect solution to each and every single one of my problems. Butter. White Butter. Lots of It. Allow me to elaborate.

I took a final trip before I leave to The Factory with my father yesterday, and saw the new shed that's coming up, and should be ready and fitted by the time I'm back. There's a great sense of achievement one gets, to be associated with large heavy machinery. It's hard to explain, it's something that's so large and powerful and tangible, and to be able to say "That is Ours", is a feeling quite of it's own. The fact that you can see the product one sells coming out of a very large hydraulic press, the smell of carbon black, the even greater permeading smell of cooked rubber, the sheer enormity of the mixer...it's awe inspiring. Bhaiyya once had a fancy for owning an Earth Mover, and I can understand why. When you've grown up with big powerful machinery, a Heavy Mining Earth Mover just sounds like a great thing to own. (Unfortunately, it costs about 30 Million Dollars)

A trip to the factory is not complete without a trip for lunch to Murthal (a district in Haryana) and it's trucker's Dhaba's, which serve the finest tandoori parantha's availible till you actually hit Punjab. It had been some time since I've indulged in the same, and I was looking foward to it. Once there, I pigged out as I haven't in quite a while.

Gulshan Dhaba, as the place is called, is actually now quite a large place. It's got tables and chairs and fans, additions that have come up over the years that one has been to the place. The prices have gone up accordingly, but are still hardly "restraunt level", and I seriously doubt they come under the perview of your 12.5% VAT. My father and I seated ourselves, and the service was almost instantaneous. It is a thing of wonder that at a Dhaba you can get finer service, friendlier service and far quicker service than any quality restraunt in the city, Including Five Star. This is one of the few places you can be asked "Aur Kuch?", and not feel like you're being badgered.
My meal was substantial. Three paranthas, of Paneer, Pudina and Aalu respectively, a very large cup of Dahi, a plate of Palak Paneer, Bhindi, and a Big Steel Glass of Lassi.
The paranthas(and accompaniments) are served in five minutes flat, quicker service you will get nowhere else. They come with a gigantic Blob of White Butter sitting on top of them, which fast melts on the piping hot bread. The experience is sublime.
The Lassi is incredible, thick, salty and with a lot of ground pudina, dhania and assorted leafy things in it. All this, I may mention, at Rs 70 a head.
At the end of this cornucopia of eating delights, I was stuffed like the proverbial christmas turkey, and had no space for the thandi kheer. I felt amazing, after a very long period of time. A few hours later, I was on a serious high, which had a few interesting effects.
A) I started giggling and laughing at highly random things
B) I compulsively started abusing people, and calling them bastards
C) I had an amazing sleep, and wonderful rest.

Thus, the next time I feel down, sad or generally scared to bits about leaving, I'm going to drown my sorrows in some good ol' Makhan, and throw in a lassi for good measure. It should set me decently right, and might get some weight on my bones. Stomach problems have a habit of taking that away.

By the way, in case any of you is interested, after bloody ages I finished my Story. As Promised, everyone dies, but you'll have to read it to find out how. What you waiting for?
Hit The Link.

Tick Tock

Cliched as it might sound, "I'm Leaving On A Jet Plane". On the night of the Sixth Of August, I scoot out of here, and might dissapear for a decent amount of time. In other words, "I don't know when I'll be back again".

My final days in Delhi are being counted down, and as is usually the case in circumstances such as these, I'm wildly oscillating between being scared, excited and nostaligic. What a wonderful combination. To add to my perfect cocktail of emotions at present moment, my stomach decided to cave in on me a week back, and I'm back on my old routine of medicines and "Why Must I Eat This Horribly Boring Food" diet. As some may recall, about seven or eight months back, it had reached the stage of "More Acid Than A Hippie Convention", whereas right now it's at a more sober "More Acid Than The Chemistry Lab" state. I shall, of course, screw the entire diet plan and indulge in a plate of Gol Gappas before I leave. Can't miss out on those.
Everything I am going to miss about Delhi, strangely enough, relates to how amazingly imperfect this city is. I'm going to miss travelling on DTC buses, I'm going to miss the sweat and loud very bad music they provide. I'm going to miss yelling, outwitting and generally abusing autowallahs who try to take me for a ride(metaphorically, of course). I'm going to miss trips to my Never Took Off local market, a place that hasn't changed in 18 years. Or More.
There are of course, some wonderful things I'm getting nostalgic about too. They're mostly parks and other green surroundings. I am, however, assured that the Brits ensured that Singapore didn't get left out of a fair share of those. This pleases me. God Bless the Brits. They've ensured pockets of urban paradises pretty much everywhere they went.

Keeping all this in mind, and the fact that it's lonely here in Delhi, with everyone off in college, or busy at DU, it's remarkable that I've kept myself decently happy. However, I am thrilled that my Holiday Existence is about to come to an end; I've had about enough of this. There's no stimulation, and it's only by re-reading my Bill Bryson's that I've rekindled any kind of joy of learning I've experienced since School Ended. In other words, I've been thinking. This time, it's a good thing. There's a story that's come out of it. People are going to die in this story, so it's a "Bhavya Classic". It's almost written, so you can check the dormant but not dead Fountain Of Uncouth over the weekend when it shall be brought back to life. May I reiterate the fact that I'm back to a stage where I can appreciate the sheer malicious joy of killing off my characters. Nasty buggers. When did they ever deserve to LIVE! Muahahahahahahaha.

Ashwatthama

This is who/what I am being dumped for. The Frog That Demands Attention. Woe(sic) is me.
Yeah, you can start the sympathy comments now.

Know a Guy?

I used to be an introvert. That is, in fact, an understatement. I used to be, in the mould of my brother, a loner with a couple of friends and no more. Then, of course, four years back DPS R.K. Puram happened. But contary to simple empirical evidence, this wasn't *alone* what changed me. Especially when I see a lot of Newadmin Dipsites who have become if anything more reserved once inside The Factory. What changed me was my section.
See, I pretty much hated my section in the Ninth and Tenth. I got along with about all of five people, and didn't really have much in common with anyone. At a point I said to myself, this is bloody DPS R.K Puram, there's a helluvalotta people in this school, and I've got plenty more to meet. It's obvious I'm not going to find what I'm looking for in here. So in tenth, V 4.0 launched, and I became an out and out extrovert, seeking out new life and new civilization. I was not dissapointed, I found the most remarkable bunch of people I may ever meet in my batch, and some of them have become my greatest friends.
My father once told me the importance of networking, and I took that advice to heart. Over the last two years, I've met and befriended more people than I can mention, but you can't be friends with everyone, so I guess I've made my share of enemies as well. Lets just say that I've discovered people have very strong views when it comes to me, call it a corollary to Bhavya's Law.
Bottom line: I know a guy. Hell, I now know a lot of guys. The problem is, I don't "know a guy who knows a guy", because I'm very particular about my network. It's gotta be a first person basis type thing. No sense knowing someone through someone, till you can get to meet him/her yourself.
You know what? I'm better off for it. Simon and Garfunkel's "I am a Rock" used to be an Anthem for me, I've now realised that I may be a rock, but I'm a rock firmly entrenched in one hell of a mountain; and that's the way things should be.
PS: Kill me if I become a part of the mountain, what?

Pack

Last weekend, exactly three weeks before I leave these fine shores, or plains as the case may be(I am tempted to say "Lo! The Flat Hills of My Homeland" in the manner of one Adrian Allan Mole) I recieved diktat from Mother Dearest. She told me to get the suitcase down, the Very Big One.
Actually, she had been telling me this for close to a week, but I loudly protested, that it was ages before I was to leave and it made no sense to take down, brush up and size out the suitcase at that point. But mother's are, well, mothers and beyond a point argument is next to impossible. Hence, I brought the Very Big Suitcase down, and it was much appreciated. Members of August Clan looked upon in, said, yes it is very big but one knows not if it is Very Big Enough. Seeing as how I had just about exhausted my resistance towards motherly whims, I was now told by elderly matriarch to pack the damn thing, to see if the space was adequete.
Now, let me tell you that when I say "Very Big Suitcase", I mean it. This thing could pretty much fit me in it, with space left over for my linen. Thus I saw this as quite a ridiculous excercise. Sure enough, half an hour later, after the entire contents of my summer wardrobe, two bath towels, socks, electric pink socks, underwear and the Box Set of the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy had been packed inside, a third of the space still remained to be filled.
Wonderful, said my mother. "Everything fits just fine. Now, unpack everything and put it back."

At this point, I had had enough. I had just put together all my personal effects minus one, shoved it in a bag, very nicely folded all my clothing and generally done a good job of it. I'd be damned if I was going to put everything right back, considering I'd have to take part in this excercise in another two and a bit weeks anyhow. So I didn't.
I have, thus, been living out of my suitcase for close to a week now, and it's not that bad a thing. Everything is pretty neat and orderly, which is remarkable considering the general chaotic condition my cupboard exists in. I know exactly what clothes I have, which doesn't make much of a difference, because they're all either blue or gray anyways. The best part is, all I have left to pack is a couple of pairs of clothing and shoes, and personal effects. So I can bask in my last few days here by recieving undue attention from members of August Clan without having to worry about having anything to do.Everything, as usual, works out in the end.

Shopping At MG

Going to college is fun. Studying there isn't. Leaving your home, your heart(h),senile family and seniler friends is sad. But if you find some who are equally,if not crazy,its not so bad. I have made some who are well...unique.I got someone to go Shoppinh with me. This is an activity which even my closest gal-pal shirked off, since i was too "unshoppingy". And so, me, the Uninititated, visited the Mecca of shoppers, MG Road, yesterday.I had one of the funest times of my life. I also appaerntly through a space-time-continuum warp and turned into a 4 year old in the span of the shopping trip. I spent all of half an hour at teh baby shop-buying things for myself. The campus is now in terror of The Frog.

The Frog

The Frog is green and yellow, and camoflages with my clothes He croaks, and he squeaks. He is squeezy and cute. He has "positive interaction" with the senior whe we make him, when he is supposed to ask out other senior froggees. He jumps on unsuspecting females studing in the library at 11 in the night, and makes them shriek.And when i say shriek, i mean SHRIEK. He has also been kissed by a hostel-floor-ful of chicks, in the vague and childish hope that He'll turn into a Prince. He has also been emulating various advertisements for Sprite, and certain hair products(a la manav). He is, in short, fast turning into my Best Friend and constant companion. He still has to be named, though. My attempts at calling him Pappu were ungraciously shot down. I am open to suggestions though am leaning towards Ashwaththama.(Vrinda, AJ, and Ashwaththama. I can just about picture it)

I also got a purple belt, a ton of bangles for 20 bucks-which are aking typing this entry on the laptop bloody difficult, a bubble maker which blows unburstable balloons, another pencil whistle, and a stressbuster ball for the kind soul who accompanied me. On the upside, i gave in m eco homewoek via the cybercafe. and was told that i am damn fun person to shop with :D

Bit of a random post, but The Frog demanded Attention.

And for those of you who dont know:Ron Dies.

PS-Just kidding, of course.Its Hermione who dies.

Chocolate Wheel and Trees

I've been on an old time nostalgia trip, of late and I can't say it's been an unpleasant experience. I was reminded of my rubber ducky, which I took to Tenth Tuitions and helped me out with mathematics, and that pretty much got me started off on a whole wealth of stuff.

Driving back from the Railway station last night brought back a lot of memories. On the way back home, one passes through some of the most beautiful places in Delhi, Lutyen's city, the India Gate, the mueseums, the Lodhi Gardens. The streets are wide, and lined with huge trees, and unless I find some great colonial stylings in Singapore(which I'm told I will), I'm really going to miss it.

I traced back my love for Lutyens Delhi to my very early childhood, when times were actually good. Every so often, I would be taken with my brother to a place in Jor Bagh called Chocolate Wheel, which was, in pre and just liberalized India, pretty much the only decent bakery availible. Here, one would eye rich chocolate pastries, tarts doughnuts and wonderful patties that were availible nowhere else, except the cheap imitations in Modern Bazaar. The counter was manned, or womanned by this very cheerful, robust, and fat lady who was also the resident baker. She remembered who you were, and always had a cheerful demeanor. This was bliss, and was my family's big celebration treat, a trip to the Wheel. Additionally, my birthday cake each year, for a good few years was procured from Chocolate Wheel, which they fashioned in whatever form took my fancy. Batman cakes, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle Cakes, and I frankly forget the rest. They had 'em all, that's for sure. Times then became a bit tough for family, and trips there ceased for quite a few years. When we returned after a period of many years, when bakeries had sprung up like mushrooms in the rain Chocolate Wheel had sadly not kept up with the rest. I haven't been there in some time now, and don't even know if it's still around, let alone what it's quality is now like.

But my fascination for the place stemmed not only from the inside, but the outside as well. The bakery was in Jor Bagh, which is as close as you can get to Lutyens without being in it. Same colonial architechture, same wide open roads, but what really impressed me was the trees. On the road leading up to the wheel were these wonderful trees on each side, which merged into each other in the middle, forming this wonderful green canopy, that provided shade in a hot summer sun and a sense of dark romance on a winter evening. Chocolate wheel in my mind is interlinked with this green canopy, one doesn't exist in my memories without the other.

Judgement Day

Today, I took care of my final obligation as President of Debating Society of D.P.S R.K Puram. I returned in my passed out state(No, I was not drunk) to Judge the Dhruv Rajgharia Inter Section Debate. In doing so, I also had A Whole Lot of Fun.

First of all, it's really very different being at the other end of a stage. I'm used to being up there, speaking, making a complete fool out of myself, and generally having a blatant disregard for the Right Way of Doing Things. Instead, I was watching on in a nice and sober Shirt and Pant, looking very formal and listening on with immaculate care and interest. Never have so many girls tried to suck up to me, or butter me up; all in the interests of getting a few extra points on a sheet. Never have I so politely refused all their advances... Maybe that's pushing things, but I was really on my very best behaviour. I guess that's what the burden of responsibility does to you(rolls eyes at self). A line of speakers bombards you with the arguments, sometimes clearly formed and witty, most of the time utter and complete crap.

My co-judges were Sonali Punhani and Vrinda Marwah(The Glass Chewing One), and the topic was straightjacketed, albiet interesting. "Discipline should be inculcated, not enfored" was what it was. I am a rationalist and libertarian at the best of times, and firmly believe in the whole inculcation bit. Discipline in my opinion is nothing but the ability to pass off immediate pleasure for greater pleasure later on, and the ability to make that rational choice. How such a personal desicion can be enfored is beyond my simple comprehension. However, both the speakers who won were against the motion, so props to them.

It Moves!

One of the side effects of my months of insanity is that I have a pretty decent stomach, in the sense that it does not spill over, nor has loose folds hanging around it. One of the side effects of that is that it Moves! I can belly dance! Forget shaking one's ass, I can shake my abs. This also seriously freaks a lot of my friends out, and to get that point across, they punch my stomach. Repeatedly. Actually, they punch my stomach repeatedly just for the fun of it, and don't really need any such reason. This disturbs me, greatly. I have become a punching bag for batamweights such as Vidz, heavy weights such as Skaranses, and Oh My God He's Over-Weights like Nisheeth. I do not like being hit in the belly, it's a very personal thing for me.

So if any of you are reading, Cease and Desist!

Random Disconnected Post

So much to write about, so little time...
It's my last few days in Delhi, before I head off to Singapore. It's officially less than a month to go, and boy that makes me feel good. It's about time I became a college boy.

Printers

Printers hate me. I kid you not, they actually have a passionate dislike for me, especially anything that's labelled HP. Put the suffix Deskjet in front of that and I'm in for a fun afternoon of yelling, abusing and general nastiness. Last night I spent a good forty five minutes in Mortal Kombat with my deskjet 640C, to take out all of five printed sheets. Here's how the routine works. I click on the little print button on MS Word, a little printing symbol appears. This bears no relavance to the actual time the printer might decide to start up. A minute later, I heard the monster growl and grumble, and it devouvers paper to take the printout. Except no, it shall not take one, it shall take five in a go. The first printout only just squeezes out. The following four papers are now permanently lodged in the entrails and machinery of the beast.

Diversion::: Speaking of entrails, on one of my nice long walks back from faraway places in this oh so pleasant rainy weather, I spotted of all things, a very large dead frog on the road. There was no nearby pond, or even water source and it seemed very out of place. Poor Frog.
Moral of the story: Look before you leap

Back to the point. I now struggle to inch the paper out of the printer, and unjam the thing. This achieved, I start this process again. With the same result. Repeat Ad Nauseum, till my prints are complete. Gah. I Hate Printers.

Return of the Sasssta

On a recent expidition with friends, including the Afore Mentioned Anurag Sud and the Less Mentioned Akshat Vyas and Abeer Guha one played pool at Priya(I'm really the bomb with alliteration). So here's how things went.

Sud Tries to take very difficult shot, without much look at the cue ball.
Sud: Yaar, Bridge Nahin Ban Raha (I can't make the bridge)

Guha: Isliye Civil lena chaahiye thaa( That's why you should have taken Civil Engineering)

Bhavya: Slaps head and congratulates self on wonderful company, that can match bad puns with him.
Of course, there is little to beat Vyas's candid and brilliant observations. Sample this, while he was discussing the experience of being bitten in the arse.
Vyas: Yaar, mere colony mein German Shepard Thaa. Kutta Thaa, Saala!
Rest of Company: Saale, aur kya hota?

Ah, life, she is good again.

Book Review: The Simoquin Prophecies

By Samit Basu

As the weather over the last few days has taught me, when it rains it pours. So too with my Book Reviews.

The Simoquin Prophecies was a wonderful book, very endearing in fact. It's the first work of Fantasy I've read by an Indian Author since Salman Rushdie's Haroon and the Sea of Stories. This is quite a different read with it's own style and character. Let me expand on that, in a while.
The storyline is an atypical epic, that is a story of heroism and valour and courage and strength, and how it all really doesn't work in the end. It's a fantasy world that seems steeped in realism, or cynicism as some may have it, where the boundaries between good and evil are not only not well defined, but exist only in the media's mind. I'm guessing you've already figured out why I liked it.
The style of writing is brilliant. I would say the author is a Terry Prachett fan, and certainly comes out like him, but then who knows these things. The universe and characters are vivid in thought and description, be they scantily clad centauresses, Bridget Jonesey Spellcasters, Confused Hero's or James-Bond-Gone-Wrong-Assisins, you've got em all. He's got his own flair about him, and manages to maintain a taut storyline, his own universe and some great characters along with several parodies of epics and pop culture thrown in to boot.
What I really liked was the ending, even though a lot of you may find it very abrupt. It's very fitting, it's very real and it leaves you with a sense of goodness about it. You don't feel cheated by the enivitability of things, as you would reading most other Good Vs Evil storylines. But then, as I mentioned, this is not a Good Vs Evil book. It just makes itself out to be one.

I had heard Outlook had hyped up this book a good deal, some time ago, but I don't think it ever took off. I haven't seen this read in the bookstalls too often, and never in a bestseller list. Which is a royal shame, because surely it deserves it's position above the Arundhati Roy's of this world. So let me attempt to give it a second round of hype, and ask you to pick the book up.

Short

As my last post elucidates, the last book I read didn't have much in terms of sense, or content. However, one thing he said did stand out. Beware, and be very afraid of short people.

I am, as is usually and frequently pointed out to me, a short person. At Five foot Seven I don't exactly tower over anyone, except the occasional runt. That's also not a good feeling because not too long ago I was a runt, and only recently graduated to the slightly better off level of being short.

As a short person, you must constantly fight adversity, and if you are even the slightest bit driven, attempt with all your little might to overcome this physical downside with whatever you can. Some try to become damn intelligent, and thus you have the short-smart-fellow stereotype. Others learn deadly marshal arts, these are usually chinese short people. Don't mess with them. Others become computer geeks, don't mess with them either these days, they're usually more dangerous than the Chinese Martial Artists. Basically, us shorties must push ourselves as hard as we can, to prove ourselves in a towering world. It's survival of the fittest, really.
So next time you're nasty to the vertically challenged, be afraid. They're probably plotting and hard at work at vengance of some kind or the other. Think Napoleon. Think Ram Jethmalani. Think Sachin Tendulkar. There are enough Little Master's out there.

Book Review: Sun Tzu Was A Sissy

By Stanley Bing

Before I start on the review, let me expound why it is very pleasant to read books right now. The weather is perfect for it. It's raining outside, so stepping out is difficult, if you're a walker like me. A walk in the rain loses it's charm if you're walking a good 2-5 kilometers to anywhere, and getting splashed with muddy water loses it's charm after the first couple of times. Secondly, the temprature is in the mid twenties for the better part of the day and there's a nice cool breeze blowing. This I shall call "Critical Reading Temprature": the point at which you can curl up on the couch with a realm of written word and flip page after page, stopping only to munch on some nice biscuits, or to take a short nap.
Needless to say, it's been some time since I did all this and I lapped up the experience. The Biscuits, before not present in the house, have now arrived to enhance my reading experience.
To the book.

Sun Tzu Was a Wussy is an amazing read. This is not, however, because it is a good book. It's a terrible book, godawful doesn't even begin to describe it. It's supposed to be self help, and I just kept breaking out into chuckles all through. It's basically Kill Bill Meets Dilbert with Blatant Americanism thrown in. This is the "Bill And Ted's Excellent Adventure" of Management Books, it's so terrible it's actually quite endearing. It also has a total abscence of content, which it makes up for by adding quotes, insane amounts of useless but hilarious graphs, charts and bar diagrams and of course, quotations from Sun Tzu.

In case you are unaware of the man himself, Sun Tzu was the Chanakya of China. His Art of War is the general accepted godbook of managers, generals and anyone who wants to win a fight anywhere. His writings are not in anyway, that of a Sissy and the Art of War is one of the books I had the misfortune of reading before I was old enough for it. This has resulted in my becoming a powerhungry chinese warlord which explains why I'm off to Singapore in a month's time. His basic philosophy in life was strategize and plan and don't enter a fight untill you are assured of victory. Which is why I'm still waiting and planning, so watch out the lot of you who have crossed me. I'm not done yet. But I digress.

The Author, Stanley Bing, makes up for his total lack of sense and intelligence by repeating time and time again that Sun Tzu's time has passed, and we must all be ready to scruff up and get down and dirty for a good fight. His writing style is incredibly aggressive, which makes it all the more funny.

Bottom Line: Worth it for the read, but under no circumstances should you follow the advice. Be a sissy, in my opinion, it'll get you a lot further than the "Real Art of War".

Nothing

The scariest seven letters in the english language. N O T H I N G. I told you I'd find something to scare the beejeebers out of me, now that I'm comfortable with Lasagna, and here it is. Sheer and pure unadulterated boredom. It scares me silly. What's new, people ask. Nothing. What's up, people ask. Nothing. What did I do today, people may ask. Take a wild shot what the answer to that one is going to be.
So these things must change. The Blog itself is becoming dryer than Old Mother Hubbard's Cupboard. Since it is a journal of my life, and my life currently lacks writable things, shit is basically happening. This it is clearly obvious, must stop. Thus there are now things afoot. I have a new mountainload of books to get through, all of which I shall review. I must restart Mathematics and Statistics, because to be quite honest, it's been far too long without having studied anything. There's only so much a Dipsite can take. I need to get out and do new things which do not involve the words Priya, Saket or Barista. Otherwise, I run the very high risk of losing my hyperactive mind.

On the up side, I have half read a book, which I should finish and review tomorrow. I also need to make a kilotonne of questions for a couple of quizzes I must master before I depart these fine shores.

Group Dynamics

Yesterday's SMU Delhi Fresher's meet (organised, in part, by me) offered a great study in group dynamics, especially group formation dynamics. I met up with 12-13 people, of which I knew in person one, and by MSN maybe 2-4 so basically it was a first time group for pretty much everything. As is my grind, I was the first to arrive at the annointed venue, and thus had to sit around for about five minutes before the next chappie arrived. Each chappie was greeted with the questions "SMU?", at which point one started sitting around.
Now, a one to one new person conversation is slow, meandering and difficult. Once the group grew to around five to six, conversation became really very simple, and the dynamics were very fluid, so to speak. Pretty much everyone was involved, and the fun started. But the story didn't end there. There were more to come.

Now, see, difficulties start to present themselves after numbers ten and eleven show up. The group at this point is simply too large for a single conversation track to run, and thus two tracks develop. Now, things may start getting destructive as cross conversation develops. Luckily, and quite strangely, it was quite a non-defective group, and we corrected ourselves whenever something like that started up. We'd do awesome in a GD, is my humble opinion. But then, my opinion is never really very humble.

Once we hit 12-13 simple physical laws ensure that problems are going to arise. There is no realistic way to seat 12-13 people at Barista in a way that everyone can hear and talk to everyone, so at this point, your discussion is by force going to break up into two. Now one can judge how well people have got along as just in this one hour period, smaller subgroups will form, depending on what they have to discuss. So, for instance while three or four of us debated the merits of which laptop to take, a seperate housing discussion group opened up, while others discussed CCA's. From here on, things take a marked turn for the worse so what all good people must do to ensure that this newly formed seemingly effective group does not break up is....

Go For Lunch.

Strapped for Time

Early Sunday Morning, I wake up. After shaking the last remnants of sleep and rubbing out the eye gook from my naina's, I raise my arm, twisting it to turn the watch face towards me and discover to my ultimate shock and extreme panic that it is not there. Instead, a strip of white skin greets me, to remind me exactly how fair I am. For the next minute, panic ensues. The first five seconds, I think I'm in some sort of nightmare, where time itself has been taken from me. This done with, I get to my senses, and search the bed in worried haste for my missing timepiece. A few seconds later, I happen upon it, and tragedy of tragedies, the strap has broken in two at night. Two scenarios are made clear to me. Either my pencil thin wrist has finally decided to keep of with the rest of my weight gain, and expand a bit thus putting undue pressure on my Casio, or my Subconcious is indulging in unseemly and violent nighttime activities. The scary thing is that both these scenarios are equally likely, and I'm starting to lean towards the latter.

See, my watch is an extension of me, it's a part of me. I'm compulsive about the time and check it at least a hundred times in a day. A lot of my activities are taken down to the last second, and I'm paranoid about punctuality. If my watch is taken away from me, I feel very very naked, it's an integral part of my body and I NEVER take it off. This of course means that it has to be a hardy outfit, and nothing fancy, so I go for a Casio Digital with Plastic Straps, waterproof, shockproof, dustproof and with no large pokey buttons that will gouge my wrist while I sleep. And I need it back. And I need it back fast. Me going nuts here.