Gone are the days when we'd wake up in the morning on August 15th feeling all patriotic. A sad loss, I guess, but contrary to whatever whoever says, this day is, for the majority of us, a welcome holiday in the middle of the week. Especially for me. Life's hectic. And I've been pretty listless of late. Shunting back and forth, to and fro, from college and Max Mueller Bhavan. Standing in front of the wardrobe every night, head hung, wondering what the hell to wear the next day. To think I once would've died to get out of uniforms. And reading...ah me, reading. Studying literature is no mean feat. In the past month, I've read stories by Premchand, Ismat Chughtai and Virginia Woolf; Amitav Ghosh's The Shadow Lines, Mohan Rakesh's Halfway House, some utterly boring philosophical writings of Bernard Williams, Lauren Weisberger's The Devil Wears Prada (this obviously for my own entertainment; the movie was better. Wow, did I just say that?), Joanne Kathleen Rowling's Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (ditto), Chicken Soup for the Traveller's Soul (ditto), some short biographies and autobiographies, and am currently endeavouring to finally finish the Bartimaeus trilogy with Ptolemy's Gate. Currently on the waiting list are stories by Manto, his life, writings and stories on the Partition, more mundane writings by Bernard, Tennyson's poems, Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway, Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre (because I've forgotten it), George Eliott's Mill on the Floss, and Joanne Kathleen Rowling's Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (second reading). Ooh, and I also made it to the finals of a quiz. (I came last in the finals, but that's another story). I've been watching TV, this week's chief viewings being snatches of: the Montreal Masters final, Friends, Dawson's Creek, and some shows and films that shall remain unnamed. Ah, life. Still, can't say I'm hating it.