yup, it's that time of the year again: when squirrels are sparse on the ground, puppies proliferate, and you spend half your time trying to dodge people you still haven't written write-ups for. Ah, it isn't really april that's cruel Mr. E, not when mid-January temperatures in Delhi start dropping to 0 degrees, and you find yourself coming down from dharamsala only to realize leaving half your woollens there wasn't such a smart idea after all.

Anyways, back to writeups and all such last-minute attempts at immortalizing oneself. It's quite unbelievable the amount of time and energy one is willing to invest in them - after all, they're no "Rime of the Ancient Mariner" (a prime instance of the Gothic in Romantic Poetry apparently, and the only poem by Coleridge that Rockers still refer to). Anyway, it was fun if exhausting for a person such as moi with my extremely insistent amnesia and stuff - but thankfully its all over and done with. Now of course comes the even more impossible task of editing my own writeups - the word limit is 200 but my we have somewhat successfully managed to bully Jayant into giving us something more like 350. Though you know he'd say anything to get out of a tight corner, so this might no longer apply. But hey c'mon, as higher exalted beings who merely deign to inhabit the world of less lowly mortals (read non-english people) we are allowed some privileges. Besides what right minded editor would give up a chance to have more good literature in his publication rather than less. After all (to end on a modest note), as our prestigious forefather once put it "We are such stuff as dreams are made on".