Guwahati, the mystical end point of Indian civilization, so contrasted to the standard of the Hindi speaking and pan chewing minority that the vastness of this place is all but dwarfed in the ridiculousness of the stereotype casts. As any effervescent Xbox playing 11 year old would say: LOL NOOB!! Juxtaposed in the flood plains of Brahmaputra, at the foothills of the throne of clouds, unchanged and persisting through the long lost time and fables, Guwahati hits you with a force. The force is not like the bratty Brahmaputra which, unlike Ganga, does not smother you to sleep by toxicants, instead will come at you with a carving knife of Tibetian flood waters, its fury unabated, but I digress, this is not a story embalmed by a creature of Tennyson’s era, this is my spot light on what an idiotic, immature boy living on the gold coast of India feels about living next to a mythic river. Of course a town and a paying job are just a bonus. Oh, but no wide eyes for me. It is more