Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious
Coffee is not my cup of tea. Well, let me rephrase that - North Indian coffee is not my cup of tea. Call me racist, but when the concentration of sugar in the coffee crosses a 1000 PPM, I believe it's time to empty the cup in the nearest gutter. Which is precisely why I refuse to drink the murky, diabetes inducing saccharine solution they serve in the canteens by the name of coffee. So, the only thing that keeps me awake during those caffeine deprived all-nighters that I pull (strictly for nonacademic purposes, I assure you) is coffee's fairer yet fouler tasting cousin, tea. What does all this nonsense have to do with this column, you ask? Well, election season just got over and I wanted to remind the bhawan secy that putting up a coffee vending machine on the sixth floor of RKB could be just that crucial in securing that very important vote for his re-election next year. Kidding, of course. The only reason I chose to mention the fact that a caffeine addict, who swore by coffee in the pre-JEE era, has now turned to the dark side, is because it is one of the many things that remind me of how much I have changed after coming to Roorkee.
