The History of a Med School Sophomore - Around My World In Eight Days

For a doctor in the making, here's one truth that stands stark against the rest - nothing remains the same. 

Just as I was settling into college, I grew sick of the course.

Soon as I decide to apply the 'rip it off like a band-aid' principle to hostel life, I begin enjoying it.

Amidst a perpetual cycle of let-downs and pleasant surprises, an amalgam of moments of pride against getting stuck in a rut, came the  announcement of our batch trip.

I was left twirling in another emotional whirlpool when informed the destination of our week-long expedition -

Kerala.

God's own country. My native place. A vacation. Home. A new experience. In the same old places. 

What was I to expect?

Reporting from behind the lens, as opposed to in front,
here's letting pictures replace the proverbial thousand words, for each of the seven days:

Munnar:

Beginning with a classic landscape shot

Our ambitions soon branched out skywards.

From macro shots demonstrating 'small is beautiful',

To nature's uncanny sense of symmetry.

Lending glamour even to the unlikeliest subjects.

Never ones to be chained

We decide to take things into perspective

Focusing on things, near at hand or out of reach.

Our aim: to leave a mark wherever we may roam.

Trivandrum:

Stepping into Sree Padmanabha Temple, to witness tonnes of gold and golden sunlight.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Padmanabhaswamy_Temple

Alappey:

Whether the grove of coconut trees in Kovalam or the houseboats in the Venice of the East - can never get enough of the water.

Cochin:

Letting sleeping dogs lie

Ketchup with friends over mealtime

Oberon Mall: My childhood fantasies in a nutshell - or glasscase.

Wonderla - was it all a dream?

Fort Kochi: Charmed by the simple things in life

Athirapilly, Trichur:

Falling in love at first sight.

Yeah, we too were stunned to silence by the scenic eye candy.

The road to happiness - or painful death - ain't easy.

No matter how tempting, when testing the depth of a stream, don't use both feet.

Turn your face to the sun and the shadows fall behind you.

"Denial ain't just a river in Egypt" - Mark Twain

Nineteen years  of disavowal later - Home is where the heart is.

                                                                     


Ultimately, it comes down to the choices we make - though the end may not always be in sight. Take that first step.

Wayanad:

That would be the Photographic Sabbath. End of a journey, as well as the battery-plus-memory.




-------

What was hard to endure, is sweet to recall. 

The trip had its highs and lows, sending us from North to South, from scaling mountains to flailing arms in the ocean. We shared secrets, we exposed our vulnerable sides, and witnessed the effect of pressure on our made-up selves.
Still, ask what we got after a week in the Southern Paradise?

New friends, beautiful memories and a fresh start.

(Photos: Courtesy Rahul) 

The History of a Medical School Sophomore - For Crying Out Loud

You know you're in trouble when you'd rather be operated on than watch a surgery live. Atleast that was my state the first 2 or 3 times I was pulled in to the OT, pale and woozy. Diligently, I convinced myself that each incision, every stitch, was just the doctor's duty of alleviating a patient's suffering than some absurd conspiracy to inflict visual torture on me.

Taught by the best Professors in the Department, I did the unthinkable – I fell in love with Surgery, or at least the unit we had been assigned. Having done a 360 in the branch I was most apprehensive about, I mistook my newfound confidence for a power to take on anything MBBS has to offer.
Till I learnt where we'd be posted next – OBG, or Obstetrics & Gynecology – a fortnight of dealing with women's health, expecting mothers and related surgeries.

The thought of screaming women and their wailing babies didn't sound very appealing.

I trailed my unit-mates in locating the "Out-Patient block" of our Women & Children's hospital. On reaching there, I discovered more than just the place – it dawned on me how literal its name was, seeing innumerable women scattered on the pavement in front of the entrance, while the designated waiting area inside lay barren as the Sahara. 

Careful not to step on anyone's feet, the seven 'doctors' parted the sea of patients to get in. Contrary to the cacophony outside, the clinic was dead quiet. A half hour later, Professors, PGs and interns filed in, ready to tackle the herd of expectant ladies.

Day one passed with instructions on determining the age of the fetus by merely feeling the protruded belly, in addition to declaring the unborn child's position in utero.  Basic concepts aside, we were asked to measure the blood pressures of several subjects before being let off.

Two days later saw us all scrubbed in to watch surgeries in action. Three operating tables stood parallel to each other, with two different cases for us young guns to witness – a fibroid removal and a hysterectomy. Just as the uterus was being separated in the latter, my unit-mate Laxmi prodded me and Kriti to check out the case of a 'huge abdomen' in the adjacent chamber. Little interested in seeing insides stitched up, we abandoned our station to observe the new arrival.

The patient had already been given the spinal tap required to shut out all sensation from waist down. A scalpel came out of nowhere and promptly cut the stomach with a clean, horizontal incision. Droplets of blood spurted out the layer of fat and muscle, as gloved hands grabbed the opening to tear it up wider. Before we could comprehend what was happening, something was pulled out by a nurse, just as it broke into a shrill cry.

 We had just witnessed the birth of a beautiful baby boy. A Cesarean.

The blue preemie was rushed to the incubator where a pediatrician ensured its stability while checking its sex, weight and general health, oblivious to the three awe-struck second-year students. On finding our voice, we started thinking of hypothetical names for him, settling on Kriti's suggestion of 'Pratham', Sanskrit for 'the First'. After efforts of cooing and whistling bore no outcome, I moved on to singing everything from Guns 'n' Roses' "Don't Cry" to "Happy Birthday" till the clock forced us to proceed to class.

The fourth day saw us summoned by our Head of Department, who was ticked off by our failure to report to him hitherto. After a warning, he handed us over to our Ma'am, whose first assignment for us was to figure out the layout of the entire hospital. That exploration had us charting everything from the labor wards to the neonatal ICUs onto our notebooks, with no idea why we'd suddenly turned cartographers. Only later were we informed of the gravity of admitting people to the wrong ward by ill-informed doctors, often proving fatal.

Curiosity got the better of us during the subsequent visit; we decided to hit the NICU instead of taking the routine history in the ward. We tip-toed into the sterile, air-conditioned confines of the unit, immediately meeting a dozen incubators housing the tiniest babies ever seen.  I hovered over the heated containers, experiencing both the joy of survival and the misery of suffering the pre-term neonates symbolized. At one point, the nurse who came to check on them, handed over a newborn for us to hold – each of us girls fully utilized the opportunity to cuddle the bundle of joy as long as allowed. Bidding it farewell by letting its minute digits curl over my little finger, I halfheartedly made my way out with the others.

Rounds were the least attractive part of the week. Shadowing Professors who completely ignored us to teach Post-graduate students, we were confined to asking the same old questions to women admitted into the hospital with complications like high blood pressure, Anemia and Diabetes. Announcements from the NICU wafted in now and then, beckoning the respective mother. "Lakshmi Vaibhav Kumar" came the first one. "Geeta Vaibhav Chandra" came another. One after the other, each amusingly with the same middle name, aroused our interest. It took "Noor Vaibhav Ahmed" for us brainy group of 7 to realize the nurses had an odd way of pronouncing 'wife of'. So much for our implausible theories of pre-term births connected to a particular maternal name.

As medicos, the most-expected and the least-awaited event of the department was labor. Days before we were to wrap up with OBG, we ventured off to the Labor Ward, the site for natural births. We went to the second labor ward, with cases prone to complications, where the soon-to-be-mom was lying in the typical delivery position.

I had anticipated the rush of emotions this particular experience would draw, but revulsion wasn't one of them. Being a poorly-funded government facility, it got away with filling the wards with numbers way beyond its capacity – in the 6-8 beds crammed into the tiny space, on the floor, underneath cots, the scene was pathetic. None of those admitted were provided the luxury of drapes or sheets to obscure them from the public. The state of the beds and instruments used was further appalling, but there was hardly anything we could do.

The lady lay writhing in agony, having been in labor for over a day, subject to the added annoyance of nurses screaming, "Push!", "Don't you want your baby?" and other remarks that didn't seem quite fruitful. Seeing her exhausted, the obstetricians decided to resort to an episotomy – a procedure to surgically widen the outlet of the birth canal. Jelly-like blood emerged in copious amounts, making us dread the mother's condition. Further difficulty in the process forced the doctors to seek the aid of a vacuum pump which used negative pressure to quicken the delivery. On pulling the infant out, its umbilical cord was seen dangerously wound around its delicate neck, leading to all the complications that ensued. As the baby was carried away, the medics remained for stage three of delivery (after-birth) and to stabilize the bleeding and pain.

While the specialists got busy with ensuring the mother's well-being, we went to see the baby boy, a celebrity in his own right, being photographed and recorded by the staff. Kriti suggested "Prateeksh", Sanskrit for 'the next', as other baby names got trumped in the discussion.

Strange enough, by the end of the week, I was a tad poignant about leaving OBG, its social relevance and medical importance a new chunk of awakening for me. Though I still don't see myself pursuing this particular stem of medicine, I have a newfound respect and awe for everyone who does.

More importantly, I've been cured of my wish to swap places with the patient, now totally content at playing the spectator. 
Announcing the rebirth of my passion for medicine,
Until next time.   

The History of a Medical School Sophomore – Blood, Sweat and Tears.

Five minutes. Four weeks. Twenty years. There's something about exact periods, I find the need to conform to - you won't catch me switching back to my textbooks at 6.19, or waking up at 7.38. Not superstition, just out of habit. So, a month after returning to college, here's the reality of the second year of medicine. So far:

September 8 – normally no big deal – was the year's most dreaded date; that from someone who survived the RGUHS University exams. The day I was slated to bid goodbye to my two-month long vacation back home and head to Mysore. My ticket was scheduled so I could reach early enough for the 9 AM clinical posting that started this year. Thanks to hauling 30 kilograms of luggage through Bangalore traffic, it took time to recover from exhaustion and sink into homesickness.

An unlikely selection to the college's group song for the inter-college Fest kept me busy for a week or two. The three-day event got over soon as it began, and while the practice sessions had its highs and lows, ultimately the big day saw me able to sing only alto, completely off-key, thanks to a well-timed sore throat. That remains the only experience still lingering from an otherwise amnesia-ridden event.

Meanwhile classes were advancing in full swing. The ones I took the trouble to attend at least, having depleted all guilt when it comes to cutting class this term. So much for all the talk of being real doctors this year – the first fifteen days were meant for 'intensive coaching', where they ran us through basics of history-taking and patient care. Ironically, half the classes ended with 'you won't get it till you come into the wards – we'll tell you then,' while the other half I bunked. Let down, I fancied at least the theory classes would be captivating. The subjects each looked as promising as the next: Pathology, unraveling the mystery of the crime scene, the human body, hunting for the pathogen in question; Pharmacology and its quest to brew the flawless remedy, sitting back to watch as different parts of the body react to various preparations; Microbiology, exploring the complex world of invisible germs; and finally Forensic Medicine dealing with the legal implications of healthcare and the medical facet of law. Instead, they were simply the perfect occasion to catch up on the sleep our hostel's mosquito population denied me every night.

That fortnight over, my half of the batch got posted in the Surgery department.  At last, some action. Little did I know I'd get more than I asked for. The first day, I forgot the white coat, and was frantically dialing friends up begging them to bring a spare. Once I managed to get one, the Professors came late enough for me to have fetched it myself. There was a lot of confusion with our division into various units, which ended with me separated from Kriti, my ideal lab partner last year. Adding to my dismay was the realization I was sorted with the sharpest minds and loudest mouths of our class.

Fear of being overshadowed gave way to annoyance when I saw the timetable – our unit was to head to the Operation Theater, which meant I never needed the coat in the first place. Crammed in the common room, we changed into green scrubs and waited for further instructions. Soon, a senior walked out, casually checking the notice board, when one of us approached him and meekly asked what the hell we were supposed to do.
A small glance at us and he burst into laughter.
"The operation's over. Go back."

Next when we were to go to the theater, it was a holiday and we missed yet another chance. Third time worked its charm, for we landed the earliest, all geared up to witness scalpels and forceps work their magic. I waited, thrilled and confident I'd long gotten over the anxiety of watching a surgery, all credit to "House", "E.R.", "Grey's Anatomy" and even "Scrubs".

We moved in to the Operation Room, careful not to make any noise. The first thing I see is the doctor administering anesthesia, the syringe lodged in the patient's spine, and all I could think was how in the world the latter was lying motionless during the apparently painful procedure. Then, a few people proceeded to cover his entire leg with caramel-tinged anti-septic. A surgeon moved towards him, picking up a massive scissor-shaped instrument, and started punching four to five "holes" in his calf, as nonchalantly as though he were popping bubble-wrap. My eyes wide-open in shock and mouth a giant circle, lay hidden under the face mask and shower cap. I gulped as the scalpel made its way towards the inguinal ligament, all ready for an incision. I tried to regain composure, assuring myself it would be little different from the dissection we did in the first year.

Only, the skin was the palest shade of brown inside and the blood brighter than ketchup. And I thought they used to exaggerate in movies. My knees grew weak and the room turned dark. I was nauseous and dizzy. All I wanted was pure water and fresh air. I moved aside. Asked whether I was giddy, I nodded, only to be dragged to a nearby bed and made to lie down, the mask and cap pulled down. Before I knew what was happening, a senior grabbed my legs and held them up, so that blood would rush to the head. I went red in the face, both in response to the position and out of sheer embarrassment. I just wanted out of the place, but no one would let me move from the awkward situation.  Declaring myself fit, I heroically went back to the table, but stood behind a screen of students to prevent me from seeing anything, staying sufficiently hydrated, till the varicose vein was removed as required and stitches were put in place. I was the first person out that day.

Day two, we were to get into the wards. By the time I figured out where to go, the PGs had wrapped the ulcer in layers of bandage, leaving little for me to examine. Seeing no other work to assign, they instructed us to take the case history of the patient. There began my next trip downhill – I knew zilch in Kannada, to converse with them. I focused on reading expressions and body language instead, but that only made things worse. I kept empathizing beyond tolerance point, and felt a lump in the throat as I watched the 48-year-old's mother pleading to let the doctors amputate his affected leg, 'for he was useless at home anyway'.

The son was understandably too overcome with emotion and refused to speak anything eventually. Helpless, we explained the situation to the Sir in-charge when he came to check on us, because of which the patient got reprimanded and was told to respond to our line of questioning, 'or else…'

Hesitant at first, we returned to the basic scheme of history taking – name? Age? Place? Occupation? Seeing me clueless, my unit mates generously translated basic sentences to Kannada and asked me to repeat them. As gently as I could, I pronounced each syllable, waiting for the answer. Only, he was as blank as me. My classmate repeated the question, almost too quick for me to comprehend and the response came, glibly.  Not fair, I thought, and decided to listen and learn before confusing him with my accent. Slowly I gather what to look for, how to do so and more importantly, how to stand on my own in the most hostile of environments.

With each passing day, my knowledge of medical terms in the local language is growing, but so are my doubts and fears. Does being headstrong enough to look at a surgery undeterred mean I'd be too desensitized to feel basic compassion? How do I strike a fine balance between empathy and nerve? Will clumsy ol' me fatally mess up a procedure or let my absent-mindedness leave items behind? Would I ever muster enough courage to break bad news – from terminal illnesses to unexpected deaths – to the patient or their families? Will I end up being indifferent to everyone's suffering, the kind of doctor who labels all her patients mere hypochondriacs?

Whether I'd ever attain my goal of being a sincere, sensitive, successful practitioner:
In exact stages or otherwise,
only time will tell...

The Perils of a Medical School Neonate - Springing into Action.

To be or not to be:

Most of the batch had decided to go with the second choice. Who cares if it was a college tradition, we were different. No matter that the seniors were prodding us to get things ready, the previous edition had raised a few issues, so our year wasn't entitled to one.

Till Pallavi, our class rep, took an instant referendum after a lecture:
"As you know, the first year students hold their Socials this time of the year... Now, how many of you want it?"
Not a hand went up. A couple of sneers later, the class looked around to see who was bold enough to disagree. Apparently, no one.

Miffed, Pallavi announced the program was thus cancelled and stormed off.
The noise levels came down a tad bit, people still buzzing about the event on their way to the Anatomy lecture hall -
Socials for our notorious 'anti-social' batch? A night of mixing for a batch always hidden in their books? Come to think of it, most kids probably never realized 'fun' was a part of function. Nobody could see anything positive emerging from the whole affair. The girls were annoyed by the unwritten, unbroken 'Sari-only' rule. Why bother?

I was on the fence on this one. I was certain my batchmates would be more comfortable clearing cadavers off fascia than approaching someone from the class whose existence they weren't particularly aware of.
 For the same reason, I wanted it to take place, if only to launch people from their cocoons. I  let my fear of being noted prevent me from lending Pallavi any support; I had been all for it when she first mentioned the matter - but I wasn't so sure myself.
Here were a hundred kids, who saw a week-long mass bunk go awry with lack of basic unity. Yet, weren't they the same bunch that had the guys cheering their girls' teams and vice versa for the recent sports events? The friction between the seniors and the female half of the batch made me reconsider in favor of the soiree - word had it we were to be royally ragged on the big day, hopefully cracking some ice between freshmen and their superiors.

A few of us quietly took over the process of convincing everyone of the need of the hour and setting up the evening to perfection. The equivocal were roped in with certain strokes of genius, while the outright-opponents weren't as easily swayed.

A dozen of us assembled after class around the within-campus (dry) pond. There stood Samreen and Roshni, small talk in progress with Bibi and Charulata, next to Pallavi who was busy in conversation with Shanmukha, slightly hiding Rahul and Melvyn from view, a couple of meters away from who stood Utsav, Vinay, Manoj... the group was bigger than I'd anticipated. What am I doing here, I thought. I had no clear visions and clearly no talent useful for the show. Still, tag along was all I had in mind originally, and little harm done.

Soon as we established the fact that we would do everything to make the night a reality, we set off in two directions to book a ballroom. Some tempting offers later, we settled on nearby King's Kourt to avoid transport hassles. Only, that also meant the date had to be fixed - the options weren't the best possible, but we had to move fast. April 9th, it was decided, despite the guys fighting for more time for blazer-hunting. I was pleased, till I realized one of my friends couldn't make it. My enthusiasm was running out - I was more spectator than participant and no longer held much faith in our abilities to move mountains. When I said 'don't mind me', I was hoping to be more accommodating, but who knew I'd be taken seriously.

We stayed back after class the next day, assigning everyone roles and I had to come up with a title for the event. Naturally, when brains were called for, my system shut down and I was blank. Pulling Melvyn in for inspiration and borrowing Rahul's phone for information, we set off to work - what does the function signify? What feelings does it invoke? What do you want out of it? No line of questioning got anything interesting from either of us. I fumbled with Google translate, converting random words into fancy foreign versions. 'Color', 'Diversity', 'Fun' - pointless.
"How about Primavera? That's 'Spring' in Galician," I joked. Somehow it sounded rich enough to the others. Twisting the whole concept to revolve around 'a new beginning' theme, the name stuck. Funnily enough, neither he nor I was satisfied. Regardless, we went about figuring out a tagline to follow it with, till we struck gold with, 'If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind' from Shelley's 'Ode to the West Wind'. Happier, we spent the rest of the evening fitting things into budget, and simply chilling.

'Twas the afternoon before the Socials. There sat Pallavi and I, paying no heed to dissection, more interested in making sure everything was in order for the next day. The hotel was booked. The performances lined up. Mementos ordered en masse, banner printed,  invitations sent, items were quickly struck off the mental list, till she realized -
"- we have no MCs for the night"

Before that could sink in, she suggested Melvyn be the anchor. And me.

Not known for her humor, she wasn't joking, but I was tempted to burst into laughter anyway. The idea was ridiculous, Melvyn would do it alright, but me? I made a fool of myself the first time I took to stage at the raw age of five. I hadn't spoken onstage for a good six years. Heck, the last time I went there was for the Fresher's Day disaster. My mind was up - No. Way.

Neither would hear of it. Who else can do it, they argued. A couple of names were at the tip of my tongue, but they'd said the magic words. I did the unthinkable. I reconsidered. I disagreed. I thought further. A few rounds of silent debating later, I had my answer:
"What have we got to work with?"

 What if my performance was forgettable, or even memorable for the wrong reasons? Atleast I could try something new, boast of having played host, be part of an entirely different experience, and I had Melvyn to back me up. I was in.

That indomitable spirit was short-lived. It was no cakewalk. Neither of us had ideas conventional in MMC. Little by little, we strung our plans together, painting as big a picture possible, a brainstorming duo. Surprisingly, I was able to contribute a lot to the writing process, but I had no faith in my speaking. I was dead nervous.

I owe it to Rahul, for inspiring me to get back on my feet: "People don't know your past. They don't know whether you have hosted a million programs before or whether this is your first. All you gotta do is go there, full of confidence and show them what you've got."

Saturday came before we could pronounce 'Primavera' properly and it saw its allotted emcees bunking class for an early morning practice. Take one, take two, maybe three. We were bored with rehearsal and gave it a rest, watching everyone else instead. It ought to come naturally, and we didn't give it any further thought than that.

By two in the afternoon, we returned to our hostels to glam ourselves up. Draping the sari itself took two attempts and I was wondering how the rest of the evening was gonna be. By four, all of us were instructed to assemble in our quadrangle, some pre-Socials ragging in order. A half hour fashionably late, we waited at the far end of the ground, standing according to room numbers.

Manisha, Laxmi and I - roommates through celebrations and controversies, more trouble to each other than anyone else, stood hand-in-hand wondering what we'd be asked to do. Watching everyone being called in groups of three and hazed based on their 'hobbies' we were thinking of ways to outsmart them. Well, my interests were creative writing and drawing and I had no problem demonstrating either one there.  We were summoned, and put through the customary questions.
Laxmi was asked to sing something she didn't know the lyrics of, which we were supposed to dance to (talk about originality). To save face, I volunteered to sing 'Pretty Woman' instead. They couldn't care less, so agreed. We were let off after that, till I was called in time and again to sing some other song.
The ragging took longer than anticipated and the organizing committee broke into sweat - we had the hall booked only for a few hours and we had to rush if we didn't want to hold our Socials out in the street.

As soon as pencil-heels permitted, we hurried off to the hotel, where we got busy checking the sound system. The hall was decorated neatly, the mini-stage highlighted with a huge red banner, everybody was looking their finest and I had butterflies in my stomach. No one had any idea what was going to happen.

Seeing my co-host relatively relaxed, I completely let go. Somehow I could go from unbearably restless to the zenith of serenity within seconds and I was waiting for the signal. Pallavi's welcome line:

"O-okay. Hello, good evening everyone. Welcome to this year's Socials. As you can see, we - we didn't have much time to assign hosts for the show, so we would like to request one of you to please come forward. Anyone?"

Déjà vu. No limb fought gravity. Pallavi was about to respond when suddenly, from the back of the audience:
"Pallavi, Pallavi, I'll do it. Me!" He ran towards the mic and grabbed it.

Running his fingers through his hair, Mel continued, to deafening applause and cheers: "See, those guys want me here, don't you?"
A spirited yes-no chorus later: "Ah, I feel at home already... but it's starting to get a little lonely up here. How about some female company?" followed by loud hooting. "Divya, why don't you come up? Punya?" and a couple more guaranteed-not-to-come-up-and-ruin-the-whole-plan girls.

"I know! Yes, the perfect choice, why didn't I think of it before?"

 Keeping the crowd guessing, he announced:
"Ladies and Gentlemen, put your hands together for your hostess tonight - Ms. Lamya Ibrahim!"

Spotlight on me. Was my head shaking frequently enough? Were my eyes popped-out convincingly enough? Was my mouth too wide open? I never did find out, but the audience was wild. Giving in, I drifted towards the stage, looking peeved, when he broke into a romantic Kannada song, leading to further catcalls. I took the microphone and  offered to show him how to do it, after reprimanding him for lack-of-seriousness. All scripted, mind you.

I read a monotonous speech that was both boring and informative regarding the name. In the middle of my robot impersonation, Melvyn snatched the offensive scrap of paper from me, balled it up and threw it towards the delighted audience, to my mock-anger. Citing that a reason for introducing the prayer song performers, the two of us moved towards the side to make way for the singers.

Silent understanding, tacit reassurance, a mutual can-do attitude - we might survive the night after all. Regaining composure while Sam and Roshni explained the initial round of games, we sat back to watch everyone getting into the spirit of things. Shortly, our Physiology PGs and an Anatomy sir, our official chaperon, arrived. Not wanting to keep them waiting long, we shuffled things around a bit, and this meant improvising a lot. Wonderful.

Next came the 'Rose bidding' which was the highlight every year - roses auctioned off to guys (and in rare cases, girls) eager to wear their hearts on dry-cleaned sleeves. The first one, a 'special rose' showed promise. What started off at 499 bucks endeared an aggressive bid to end at Rs.1500. The atmosphere dampened a bit with the Bollywood drama, declarations of undying love, that followed the flower presentation.
The second rose, 'Pretty Woman', was offered a starting price of 300. It looked like none of the ladies was getting the flattering title. "Four," came the bid, eventually. Another battle followed and the rose ended up with the original contender at 800.
I was called onstage, this time not for hosting duties. Presented the red rose, 'for friendship,' I was at a loss what to do. I mumbled thanks, took the rose and left it with a friend.
More roses were handed out, but the program stretched to breaking point.

We decided to bring in the performers - first up were Rahul and Samreen, who introduced themselves with breathtaking solos before moving on to an admirable cover of 'When you say nothing at all.' Charulata followed with a song from 'Wake Up Sid!', encouraging the audience to sing along. The last for that segment was Bibi who decided to entertain us with a rendition of 'Tu Bin Batayein' - unfortunately a terribly slow song. She started off-key, but thought better than to stop and continued despite massive jeering from the crowd. Laughing in between, she sang till the end, walking back to her place in the audience to the loudest applause of the night.

Prolonging dinner no further, buffet was declared ready. Oddly enough, even the normally-insatiable Melvyn was too worked up to force a plate down his throat. I looked around and was glad to see almost everyone had turned up - heck, even Spoorthi who went on a hyperventilating spree when asked to don a Sari, showed up in Salwar Khameez - and happier still to note only the waiters were bored.

Song bidding  went on same time as the collective stuffing. Anonymous dedications, impossible auctions, photoshoots, all brightened everyone's mood and it was time to announce a few more games, especially ones pairing opposite sexes up. Participants and onlookers seemed to be having the time of their lives, when the hotel staff approached us and asked us to quiet down, inquiring when we'd empty the place. There were important clients checking in and they needed the hall as well. So, in addition to two wardens' midnight curfew weighing down upon us, we had to cut the night short by another hour.

Which meant, we couldn't invite Rahul for a stunning cover of 'Hotel California'. Which resulted in the cancellation of Melvyn rising to a mock-challenge to surprise everyone with his flawless singing of 'Yesterday'. Which saw us moving on to the later stages of the evening, fast forwarding to the presentation of titles, predetermined both by the boys for the girls and the other way round.

The girls were given titles based on aesthetic qualities, while the fairer sex displayed their wit in the names they called our boys. "Ms. Looks" went out to Bibi, "Ms. Fair & Lovely" to Vandana, "Ms. Chubby Cheeks" Kriti, even "Ms. Petal Eyes"  yours truly. "Bucket Rani", "Ms. Chatterbox" and "Ms.  Tomboy" dared to deviate from that theme to give Manasa, Spoorthi and Laxmi their titles.

In the meantime, Shanmukha, the event's main organizer, earned 'Mr. Punctuality' for his sparse attendance, while the 'barely-seen', in an entirely different sense, Pragati was determined Mr. size zero. Mr. Zygomaticus Major, in reference to the most-exercised muscle of athletic Utsav, saw him sporting his inexhaustible smile to justify the vote, while his big dreams and infinite slumber saw Melvyn crowned "Dreamy boy". Abhishek R. became Mr. Retro, while Jom was 'Mr.Draupadi'  for being forever in the presence of atleast one of the girls. Everybody's favorite Nandan turned out to be  'Mr. Threshold' and his own buddy Ganesh 'Mr. OOOO' - the former for his infectious enthusiasm in doing things big and small, and the latter with respect to his vocal reactions at the dissection table.

The hilarious ones were over and now it was time for serious business. First, who was to be 'Mr. 2k10'. Determined by the public, the line-up included everyone from drama king Mukherjee to ubiquitous Melvyn. The votes were counted and good-in-every-sense Pratap emerged the winner.
The ultimate race was for the 'Rose Princess', the very essence of the night. They were all good friends with everyone, the nominees - Manisha, Roshni, Vandana, Bibi... but it was for Samreen that almost every hand in the room (including both of mine) shot up. Unanimous choice, yet she was still surprised while adorned her sash by the batch's other musical marvel, Rahul.

Barely minutes left to be thrown out, we exited the stage to let the audience take over and dance into the night, to all kinds of tracks. With much regret did we unplug the music system, helplessly trying to pacify the students and the hotel staff. Time to hand out prizes, bid goodbye, and to thank all. Melvyn and I were grateful to every name that came to mind, exhausted from standing more than 5 hours.

In fact, so tired was I, I didn't bother to stay back for photos after ending the show. So bushed, that my legs gave way on approaching our hostel just before midnight, and I collapsed into my friend's arms. Nevertheless, we stayed up a few more hours, recollecting every detail.

I was disappointed that I got more noted on how I looked and for the irony in being ragged into singing a song which shared its title with my rose than for being one of the hosts. I kinda resented the lack of appreciation for not letting my voice ever shake, for not tripping over wires and falling flat on my face, not standing clueless in the middle of my stage debut and a million other catastrophes that I was perfectly capable of. Still, I was riding high on the overall success and decided to hit the sack only on realizing we had some college clean-up campaign early Sunday morning.

"Good night, sweet dreams."

One of those rare moments in life, I had had both before turning in for the night...

The Perils of a Medical School Neonate - Tip of the Iceberg

"There are two things to aim at in life; first to get what you want, and after that to enjoy it. Only the wisest of mankind has achieved the second."-- Logan Pearsall Smith

It preceded with a desperate attempt to make it into any of the several hundred medical school's in the country. It drags on with strenuous efforts to prevent anyone else repeating the mistake.

"To all those aspiring for a seat in medicine, a golden piece of advice: Turn away, head back, run while you still have the chance."
If I had stayed back, cocky about my determination and perseverance before, I now stand corrected. Plunging head first into the first year, I'm willing to belt the same chorus till my larynx begs for mercy - the way I see it, helping humankind formed the foundation of healthcare.

But, I exaggerate.
One thing that isn't blown out of proportion, though, is the amount of diligence required to make it through the course. Be it through a systematic approach of daily revisions or the stupider, harder alternative I chose - figuring out on spotting the questions ("Hey, c'mon, that needs brains! Not memorizing stuff.")

Funnily enough, the reality often strikes you when you're left with just the second option.

Right at the beginning, I was determined not to let a bruised ego and punctured dreams interfere with my ambitions. Soon as it was time to get our textbooks, I dialed everyone I know with a connection to the field, jotting down which ones to purchase. After receiving several conflicting suggestions, the criterion for selection was crystal: If the author sounded familiar, buy.

Thus arrived B.D. Chaurasia, Ganong and Harper as the first occupants of my bookshelf, Grey's Anatomy missing a spot because of its sheer enormity (Even my madness has a limit, I believe). A Guyton, two more Biochemistry books, several A.K. Duttas & I.B. Singhs, Netter's Atlas and tonnes of slowly-collecting dust completed my collection for the year.

Now, I stink at handling pressure. When stress comes into action, I'm play-doh in the hands of Fate. In class, I stood tongue-tied whenever questions were tossed my way. I sought advice and vetoed the inconvenient ones, religiously following the rest. Wise words of "Visit the library, museum, lab, as often as you can" and "revise daily" got sidelined, while "Take it easy," "College is when you should have the time of your life", "Eat, sleep, relax", didn't. 


Mountain-loads of work catch up with you over time. The enormous pile stands in front arresting further progress, till you realize there's no other way but to plough your way right through. Yikes.

To add to the complication, I wanted to gain knowledge and not just score great marks -, the two were exclusive in my head and it never occurred to merge the two. So out went the exam-oriented studying and in with the devil-may-care attitude that threatened to be the end of me.

Till:
"Hey! The time-table for the first internals have been put up"

Confirming that wake-up call was a tiny crowd formed around the notice board.  I waited my turn behind a wall of 6-foot tall boys. The minute I saw the schedule, the anticipated tachycardia made way for momentary cardiac arrest. 
Pathetic.

Sure, the order of headaches was bearable: Boring biochem, then Physio and finally vast Anatomy with a holiday in between. The proverbial straw was when the white sheet mockingly informed us that we'd also be having practical exams of entirely different subjects the same day. And that break in between? Coincidence, one of the only two festivals Muslims celebrate every year happened to fall on the same day. Goat sacrifice to be substituted with human dissection?


As last resort, a few of us approached the Anatomy Head of the Department requesting her to reschedule so that we had enough time to head home and back. Other than being noted as Keralites in an otherwise homogeneous batch, that bore no fruit.

If you can't beat them, malign them. But bad-mouthing too ran dry as we teamed up to tackle the horror of the first set of exams as college students. Samreen and I timed virtually everything from breakfast to breaks between studies, together. We were still dazed about what books to follow, everyone offering their two-cents' worth, with us expecting bankruptcy in the scoring department.
One minute would see the two of us fighting panic attacks, immediately followed by bursts of mutual consolation, ending in 'what's the worst that could happen' lectures. The omniscient seniors promised it would be easy, we comforted each other. People have faced worse, we proclaimed wisely. Hey, it'll be over before we know it, we reassured, uncertain whether that was a good thing.  

Weeks turned into days, days to hours, hours to  - you get the picture. Before you could say 'oligosaccharides', it was the weekend before the first exam. Which coincided with the first time either of us picked up the forever-forgotten Biochemistry textbook.
Carbohydrates, Fats, Proteins, Vitamins, Enzymes - it was all too much to digest. We hit each other with questions, doubts, mnemonics, anything to speed the process up. With the internals time bomb ticking, we could sense every bit of hope receding. "Biochemistry is the toughest exam to pass. Kids usually fail cuz of it," kept ringing in our minds the more we tried to focus on the subject. Practical exams lay neglected, Biochem for her, Physio mine - we were pinning on good fortune to smile on us when cross-examined by stone-faced Professors. 
The subsequent 96 hours:

Day One -
3:00 - Quits snoozing, grabs Satyanarayan, flips through the 100-odd pages.
8:00 - Forces partially edible breakfast down, simultaneously swallowing formulae, flowcharts and structures.
8:42 - Astoundingly avoids major accidents while walking to college with noses in textbooks.
8:57 - Gives up, wishes everyone within a mile's radius good luck, prays for a miracle or two.
9:02 - After filling in the essentials, musters enough courage to check the questions out.
9:03 - Shock wears off. Pen meets paper. Answers come alive, breathing returns to normal.
10:05 - Surprised - been writing continuously for over an hour. 
10:45 - Saturated, with time to spare. Slows down enough to think.
11:00 - One among the first to obey 'Pens down!'. Still too cautious to heave a sigh of relief.
11:05 - Forgets all about the paper, and eavesdrops on batchmates to catch tidbits of revision I pray I'd retain long enough for the viva.
11:30 - Assembles outside the dreadful Physio lab. Echoes everyone else in chanting, "God please don't gimme 'Differential Leucocyte Count'!"
11:34 - Picks a number, walks over to table, sees questions. Would have danced with joy if table wasn't right underneath the Professor's nose.
11:40 - Collects apparatus required for WBC Count, blood group estimation and Bleeding & Clotting times. Sets to work.
12:13 - Almost done. Pricks self at least 6 times. Distressed. Not sure what is viewed under the objective are white blood cells or dust particles.
12: 30 - Gets work checked by Ma'am. Scolded for not recognizing the WBCs for what they are. Asked barely five questions before being written off as a hopeless case.

By lunchtime, I was back in hostel and all set to rush through another Marathon of Blood, Nerve and Muscle Physiology for the next day.

Day Two:
3:00--11:00 - Little different from the previous day.
11:05 - Wishes everyone luck, relieved that own batch hadn't an exam in the afternoon, thanks to the Anatomy Dept. holding their practicals only the following week.

Relaxation coupled with homesickness set in. The next day was Eid-al-Adha, a holiday always spent with family. Last thing on my mind was Anatomy, suddenly the scariest subject on earth.

Day 'break':
7:30 - 8:00 - knowing only too well we'd let festivities come in the way, Sam and I head to the study hall within campus to force ourselves to study.
8:00 - 13:00 - Barely half a chapter and the entire phonebook covered.
13:30 - Decide to treat ourselves to proper lunch, both of us in the mood for some nice, hot, cheese-dripping Pizza.
14:00 - Reach KD Road with the Pizza in full swing in my head, only to realize Ashitha, who tagged along, 'can't stand the stuff'. Settle for biryani silently.

More revision and further sulking were the other highlights of the day. Eid Mubarak.

Day four:
For 99% of the batch, the fine line between Days 3 and 4 was invisible. No one slept that night. Except yours truly, unwilling to sacrifice  sleep even on the eve of an exam I was risking failure in. Sneaking in 4 hours,
2:30 - Wakes up, scared of having overslept, seeing everybody buzzing around with their books.
3:00 to right before the exam - An endless cycle of studying, forgetting, hyperventilating, pulling self together.
9:00 -  Stunned on seeing questions - couldn't have hoped for anything better (Actually no, but let's not go there) Mechanically answers the entire paper, squeezing in diagrams every chance gotten.
11:00 - Gives paper up, hopeful about passing. Rushes to the biochem lab for Practical exam.
12:00 - Gone beautifully, elated that theory exams were over. Anatomy practical exams light years away, at that point of time.

The atmosphere in the hostel was wild. We were like life-sentenced prisoners pardoned for good. Even sleep could wait, celebrations were called for. That night saw us all huddled together on my bedroom floor, playing everything from Rummy to the Killer, talking about anything but the exam.

Despite having half a week to master the subject, we were in no mood to hit the books. A revision class in the dissection hall soon brought me back underground - that was when realization struck how pathetic my Anatomy paper actually was. I listened eagerly as friends explained everything possible about Upper and Lower limbs, determined to recall them exactly for the exams.

Minutes replaced hours again and it was the eve of the newly-crowned scariest exam. While students of the previous batch assured us it wasn't a nightmare at all, I knew that few people would have gone as unprepared as me. I fought sleep as much as I could, skimming two volumes of BD Chaurasia, scanning the Atlas, and toying with bones to learn each crest, foramen and attachment with total conviction.

The big day:
I felt smaller than the slides in Histology, just wanting to run away, buckling under pressure. Solely depending on everyone's claim that nobody failed Practicals, I somnambulated all the way to the Physiology lecture hall, where we were to attend an hour's class before attempting the exam. After contaminating my meager supply of Anatomy with bits of Physiology, I joined my batchmates in going to the Dissection hall, not at all ready for the exam.
By God's grace, the spotters were all within my range of knowledge and I didn't have to resort to guessing much. When I saw the specimens I was assigned, the dark clouds over my head quickly got buried in bright sunshine: I got the 'humerus' for Osteology and 'Knee joint' for Gross Anatomy, both of which I knew enough to bluff convincingly about.
The icing on the cake was when I got the Professor who went easiest on the questions. I couldn't believe my luck.

My performance was nothing great, but I was just grateful for not having fallen flat on my face. Then realizing I hadn't gone through a single word of Histology all that time, I rushed to a quiet spot to get acquainted with the topic.

Sharp at 14:00, the exam started. We were given a slide each, which we focused while students were called in groups to conclude what spotters were displayed. My slide required no microscopic inspection to be identified - the only one with no Hematoxylin/Eosin stain - without doubt the section of a bone.

The smile didn't last long enough.

The examiner started his viva. Which stain is used here, he asked.
At my wit's end, I blurted, 'Silver stain, Sir.'
I cowered under his piercing stare, unable to answer his next question.
'I don't know, Sir.'
Well then, he informed, that's better than coming up with your own answers. In a disapproving tone he further told me that there was no stain involved in the slide preparation, and followed it with a barrage of several other questions, eventually their answers too, as my voice box and memory conspired against me.
This time, I honestly couldn't believe my luck.

Exams were officially over, but the 'tragic' ending spoiled my mood. Besides, Samreen's exam would be finished only 48 hours later and we still had a lot of studying to do. The next day being a Government holiday, neither of us left her bedroom, incorporating every sentence of the book into our minds. Ironically, it was after my exam that I studied the subject thoroughly enough to pass off as a medical student.

Before long she too was done with hers. It took some time for the sense of liberty to sink in. The tests were ancient history and all we needed was a total change of scene. First thing we did was ensure we paid off that Pizza debt - off we walked all the way to Kalidasa road, twice the normal distance thanks to a wrong turn, drinking in sights of the gorgeous city: the expansive grounds of Mysore University, dotted with graceful pine trees;
 the ladder-like railroad viewed from atop a traffic-laden overbridge;
 walking parallel to the calm waters of Lake Kukarahalli, along the busy side of the fence;
 discovering Café Pascucci, the most delightful Italian place to dine;
 a quick dash to Loyal world, entering Big Chicken, only to leave immediately;
 excitement that couldn't be suppressed on stepping inside nearby Domino's, to order a small Pizza;
 crossing the road to reach Pizza Hut for a second helping;
 finally riding a rickshaw back to hostel, where we snuck in a borrowed laptop to spend the night watching movies in Samreen's temporarily empty room.
The perfect ending to reverse a not-so-great beginning.

I'd like to say that after that roller-coaster ride, I turned over a new leaf and into a sincere, responsible, regular student to live medically ever after - if this were a fairy tale. Thankfully, both of us passed all three with above average marks. But more than acting as a driving force, it only encouraged laziness further, in my case, inflating my head with ideas of 'you don't need to work so hard to get what you want'.
Newly-acquired old habits die hard and I am no exception. Soon, I was back to 'eat, sleep, relax' this time with a better justification: I just got done with slogging for a bout of exams, I deserve a break!

And, break time it is.
Till the next post,
Au revoir.

The Perils of a Medical School Neonate - the Mysore Revolutions

Change.
The 6-letter wizard that features from Darwin's Theory of Evolution to Barack Obama's Presidential Campaign.
The magic that can bind two enemies together and pull lovers apart.
The only thing missing in my gigantic bag when prodded by the bus conductor on my way home.

Love it or hate it, you won't escape it. My turn was while transitioning into college.

14 years of academic achievements earned me the inescapable title of a 'Nerd' which countless number of friends would stand in line to testify.
All it took was the launch of my medical studies, or the lack thereof, to dispose any such impression.

I had no impossible dream of anything staying the same. Surrounded by all things brand new, I anticipated most of the differences in the external environment. It's just that I was hardly prepared for changes from within.
Guess the two were complementary.

More than anything, change was what I was dying to execute into everything in sight.
From the classes that called for superhuman effort to focus beyond ten seconds to the copious amounts of sunlight that toasted skin a nasty shade of brown.

Things continued uneventfully till, one day, two third-year students strode in to our lecture hall, following Anatomy period, to announce the launch of a state-level inter-college festival. Resurrected after a five year hiatus, this time our college was to host the three-days-long show.
Parivartan 2010 - A 'Revolution'in its own terms had Samreen and me signing up for group song auditions at a whim. But as the selection date drew closer, I was convinced I'd made yet another blunder, more so after Fresher's Day.

When we were called into the auditorium for tryouts, my thoughts kept shifting from 'let's just get this over with' to 'it's still not too late to turn back'.

After an initial round by already-established singers, they invited the minnows onstage one-by-one. By then just wanting to get out of the place, I voluntarily walked up to the stand and grabbed the mic. Not wanting to draw attention to myself, I decided to sing Hindi, despite not being confident about the lyrics.
The uncertainty shone through as my voice began to shake uncontrollably.
'Aw, to hell with it', I thought and announced I was switching to English and went about doing a Céline Dion cover without much trouble, before replacing the microphone and taking my seat in the audience. At least none of the twenty-something people gathered there laughed at that one, I noted.

Next up was Samreen, who approached the keyboard and introduced herself, apologetically explaining that it had been some time since she played the instrument. Lowering a few expectations thus, fingertips made contact with the white keys and some black - within seconds she had the entire hall under her spell. Two or more requests later, she too returned to her place. A couple other singing auditions later, we were all let off, without further notice.

Meanwhile, seeing no other way out, I slowly adapted to life in Mysore. Almost. The keralites strengthened their unity with presents and treats on each other's birthdays that felt awkward in the beginning, but natural eventually.
Other than the 13 who had arrived via the AIPMT seats, there were 3 Karnataka-bred Malayalees who'd entered through the Common Entrance Test quota - one from Mangalore, one from Tumkur and one, Bangalore. The last one, the sole guy among the three, had forfeited seats in IIT, NITs and BITS-Pillani to choose a career in medicine right here in Mysore, or so had the grapevine. I wasn't sure whether to be impressed or feel sympathetic.

Nostalgia hit me every time I thought about life in the UAE, but I was convinced I was the only one from the other side of the Arabian Sea that I hardly mentioned it unless asked about it.
So imagine my surprise when one day after class, while waiting at a street corner, I run into one of the members of the Malayalee family accompanied by the IIT-guy, as I had casually labelled him in my head, also known by his real name, Melvyn.
It was the first time I even saw him, so the last question I expected him to ask was, "Is it true you'd studied abroad?"
When I replied in the affirmative, he further inquired where.
"Abu Dhabi."
"Oh, me too! I'd studied in Sharjah!"

I would have done some cartwheels if I weren't stunned. And if I had any idea how to.

"But, how? What? When? Aren't you a Bangalore kid or something? How did you even write the CET?" I ask, echoing the man at the counselling center who had doubted my very eligibility in writing the Pre-Med Test.

Informing that his mother's Bangalore upbringing coupled with his post-tenth grade studies there was ample for him to attempt the exam, we went our different ways after some more small talk that was anything but 'small' in terms of revelations.


A couple of days later, good news arrived in the form of Samreen's addition to the group song, one of the seven major events of the Fest. The only other first-year-student included was the star-already-in-the-making Rahul, as expected.

With practice sessions that lasted into the night, days inched closer towards the event. All enthusiasm washed out by then, most people packed up and rushed home.

I was one of the few that remained behind, not wanting to miss out on Samreen's performances, who had, by then, gotten a place in the college band's item in the Rock show along with Rahul. Neither did I want to pass up on an opportunity that didn't seem very frequent in our campus.

The first day, I arrived late from a quick trip to Bangalore meant to grab my digital camera for a competition, dashing all hopes of roping in Melvyn, who I'd a hunch would be well-informed, in time for the 9 AM G.K. Quiz.
Most of the games that day were either not to my liking or over by the time I came to know of it.
With Sam busy with practice and hardly any of my batchmates there, I ended up calling home. Realizing too late I could have flown home with the week-long break we had due to the Fest, combined with some Government holidays, I sulked my way through the rest of the day.

The next day saw three competitions I wanted to be part of - Creative writing, Photomarathon and Pictionary - when it dawned upon me that all three were slotted to start at the same time. Juggling the chances in my head, I decided to try out for creative writing. Judging by the topics - 'Illusions' and 'My first love' - I was having second thoughts, as I hadn't enough exposure to Philosophy for the former, and hardly any experience in the latter. Still I went in with my empty head held high, deciding to have fun with first topic. I sat there as long as we were allowed, playing around with the pencil we were provided, fishing my mind for something interesting. After that failure to launch, I gave my story up and switched to fishing the crowd for my classmates in the hope that Pictionary hadn't begun already.

True to tradition, it hadn't, till we assembled in the room listening to the game's instructions. Sam and another friend formed the group that would be doing exactly what I was to do alone - depict in pictures the clues read out to us,which would then be exchanged between the two rooms dividing the predetermined three-member team, for interpretation. I sailed my way through, facing some challenge in only drawing 'The Monk who sold his Ferrari' and waited for their artwork to arrive.
Unlike the completely filled sheet, my mind was blank, when I saw it. From mistaking the Hanging Gardens of Babylon for a local garden, to being puzzled over their illustration of 'the Lord of the Rings', the final tally came out to be - 6/7 right for the Samreen & Charulata duo and 6/7 wrong for yours truly.

As luck would have it, Photomarathon submissions had to be made only by 4 in the evening and I was able to give that a shot too. Samreen had to return to practice again, as her programme was scheduled for that afternoon. Dragging my good friend Saritha, I made grand plans of visiting the Mysore Zoo. I could already see the animals posing in all their glory for the three topics:
1 - Order in Disorder
2 - Serenity in Nature
3 - Splash of Colours

All fired up, I didn't even bother to quarrel with the Rickshaw driver as he charged a hefty sum to take us to Sri Chamarajendra Zoological Gardens.
Only, the minute we stepped down, we were met with the glaring letterings of a board announcing that the particular day, Tuesday, was the only one the immensely popular tourist attraction took a break, every week. Staring helplessly at the chains binding the massive gates shut, I momentarily considered jumping the iron bars to dash in for a quick take. One look at the loaded gun perched on the guard's shoulder made us turn 180 degrees and retrace our steps.

Miffed as I was, I carelessly glanced around hoping for some inspiration to strike. Whichever way I turned, all I saw were - cows.
Brown, black, white, white-and-black.
By then, shooting solely for the sake of participation, I nudged Saritha to come closer to a herd of cows for the right angle. But she wouldn't budge.
"What's wrong?"

Slowly, she shook her head and pointed at the small bovine population queued in the direction of the general traffic - almost perfect for 'Order in disorder'.

"I. Can't. I don't. Like. Cows."
"Oh, don't worry, we'll approach them from behind."
"NO! Their backsides are what I'm most scared of!"

Hence settling for a zoomed out version of that master-stroke, we roamed the city dissatisfied with the sights it had to offer. Further adjustments with a cud-chewing cow for 'Serenity in Nature' and a multiple-patched cow for 'Splash of Colors', I suggested we walk down to the nearby Mysore Palace for better pictures.

Hovering near the stalls outside the Palace gates, I set about clicking away all kinds of pictures, hardly keeping the topics in mind. Finally, perfecting a shot of a collection of bangles hung in a corner, I gazed at the time nonchalantly, when it hit me that Samreen's & Rahul's performance was barely a half hour away, same time as the deadline for this contest.

Gathering all equipment, we rushed back to the hostel, where I had to make the quick decision of what photos to submit. Still discontented, I whipped up my cell phone to browse its Images gallery.
"Hey, was there any mention of when the photos should have been taken?" I asked Saritha, an evil scheme taking shape in my head.
Both of us unable to recall any such restriction, I transferred a few impressive photos I'd taken before, from my phone to the camera and darted to the auditorium.

Once there, I nervously handed over my digicam to the sir in charge, all ready to explain the pictures according to their theme.

However, as soon as he viewed the first one, a picturesque view of a lake in Munnar, he placed the cursor over the file, and-
"What is this?!"
"This was what I meant for 'Serenity in Nature', sir," I clarified.
"No, this was taken on September the 14th. Today is October 5th. You could be disqualified!"

My lips form a tiny 'Oh' and I'm suddenly lost for words.

"You mean - I thought - I'm sorry, but the photos HAVE to be taken today itself?"
"Of course! Why else would it be called a 'Photomarathon'," he snapped. "You are supposed to run around and click pictures within the said time limit!"

Not one to invite further embarrassment, I apologized and offered to withdraw my submission, two of the three pictures not fulfilling the condition.

"Wait, this one's good. We'll take this," he said, pointing at the colourful array of bangles I'd fortunately captured the same day.

Thanking him, I made my way back to the hall where the group song had already begun. After watching a sensational performance that won them the first place, I spent the remainder of the day enjoying other shows, including the Fashion Show that received mixed reactions.

By the third and ultimate day, aversion to head back to class had me wishing I could rewind 48 hours in time. Even a Harry Potter quiz first thing in the morning did little to lift my spirits. The programmes listed for the day were hardly my turf - floral arrangements, Rangoli, solo singing, etc. While I was flattered by a senior's insistence I go for the Western singing category, because I was "good!" at the audition, I settled for playing spectator.
Samreen had to go for band practice and I resented having to spend time on my own, yet again.

The two of us were lingering on the lawn outside, right before she had to leave, when we ran into Melvyn. Seeing as neither of us had anything better to do, we returned to the auditorium to observe the singers, while Samreen bade us goodbye.

The floodgates opened soon as we broke into conversation.
I had to wait three months for someone to understand what it was like to walk half a mile to beat Shawarma cravings;
the summers with temperatures to rival Hell's, making air conditioners a bare necessity;
the fun in attending schools where you could get deemed a juvenile delinquent if caught looking at the opposite gender, housed in separate buildings to boot;
the ubiquitous groceries capable of storing all things imaginable in a 2x3m space;
the life in a cosmopolitan society where the hardest task was to locate a native of the country;
the humongous malls with their widespread Food courts that was every glutton's dream;
the endless stretch of its beaches, the Gulf waters lazily breezing on and off the golden shore...

For three hours, both of us couldn't stop talking about everything under the sun. I was glad to note that apart from the similar circumstances growing up, we also shared identical interests, talents and viewpoints - a history of quizzing, a passion for books, a love of writing, and endless more.

Meanwhile, I got a text message from Namiya Di, congratulating me for winning the Photomarathon, in the only category I'd participated. Puzzled, I checked the notice boards, but all in vain. Writing it off as an error, I paid no further attention to the SMS.
I went on to enjoy the Rock shows, our college the only entry that decided to go relatively soft, sending all of 2K10 brimming with pride at its musical virtuosos.
Following a wild ending to the initially drab fête, attending college the very next day was akin to recovering from a hangover.

Reluctant to renew acquaintances with our textbooks so soon, dissection hour saw all of us discussing the preceding week with much gusto. Once again I got applauded for my photo victory, by which time I'd forgotten all about it. Someone mentioned it had come in the local newspaper and I grew even more suspicious.

That afternoon, I discover an article in 'the Deccan Herald' reporting the happenings of the Inter-College Festival and sure enough, my name was there in print: 'Lamya, MMC&RI, first in 'Splash of Colours''. Excited beyond belief, especially after witnessing posters that claimed there were 'prizes worth Rs.10,000 to be won', I was jumping with joy until some helpful bystander pointed out that participants of the host college reaped absolutely nothing of the prizes.

Getting used to bittersweet revelations by then, life slowly crawled back to normal, extreme boredom reinstated to its original post.

Be back at the end of the break,
Cheers.

The Perils of a Medical School Neonate - One step at a time

The perfect beginning.

It is just one of my many obsessions. Along with the flawless finish.
Be it my writing, a rough sketch or even a soliloquy of advice and pep-talk, for me, if the start involves even the tiniest of a stumble, the process is no longer worth half the effort.

Hordes are the wise sayings emphasizing the importance of the journey, sometimes more so than the destination, yet I subconsciously hold on to this compulsion, often slowing me down and stopping me in my tracks than help in any way.


College was little different.


Perhaps the fault lay in what I chose to mark as my starting point.
The entrance exam results, the seat allotment, the admission process - none of these figured in my concept of 'the beginning'.
To me, my campus life set off with my first day in MMC&RI, 3 days behind everybody else's schedule. All I could focus on were my shortcomings, my misgivings and unfounded fears.


Two weeks into classes, I gradually became good friends with many of my batchmates, though initially I had a hard time recalling everyone's names.
("Her name's Keerti, right? Oh, Kriti?"
"Hey Shruthi. No, Shilpa. Oops, Shwetha?"
"Bibi Najmus Sahar. What do I call you?!")

I grew closest to Samreen and Ashitha, in whose shared ground floor room I was to be found at all times, having to return to my own to sleep, as their crammed quarters had no space for me to crash in on the floor. The three of us found company in misery as we discovered some sadistic comfort in each others' homesickness and unfulfilled expectations.

Samreen and I were closer still thanks to the fact that we were the only ones from our year fasting for Ramadan. After an initial trial of surviving on bread and other off-the-shelf eatables, we got ourselves a tiny stove to master the hostel essentials of Maggi noodles, ready-to-eat soups and toast.

The fasting period also saw me, and eventually Samreen, brought under the wing of my final year mentor, Namiya Di (or Namiyatha, as we called her).
Those days me and Sam found it hard to juggle hibernation-inducing classes with a schedule modified for pre-dawn meals and late night talks, but the adversity we faced together then was what sealed our company tight.

Both of us were resentful how the cadavers in our dissection hall held more life than our campus; the fear of the unknown further aggravated our apprehension towards anything Kannada and we kept listing the merits of education in our own state every chance we got. We loathed the restrictions imposed upon us by the various departments, wondering what difference college had to grant from school life, except for the homesickness, loneliness and extra load of work.
Anything from an extra sunny day to the bland vegetarian food was enough to push us into another day filled with the blues.
So worked up was I that I kept pestering my sister in Trivandrum Medical College to look for prospective mutual transfers, and my parents to concentrate on the official website for our seat allotment just in case there was a third round of counselling.


After a much-needed bashing from Dad, it was clear that I was just making mountains of molehills, shamelessly ungrateful for all the obstacles I had gotten zapped from out of the way. I was simply stubborn not to look at the bright side of things, at my parents good intentions, at the larger scheme of things.
Slowly but surely I accepted my fate and it was a long time before regret turned into contentment.

Meanwhile, I, all my life having been closest to people from all over India, Pakistan and Bangladesh, had to land in Mysore to form part of an exclusive circle of Keralites, us six hostelites more a family than friends.
This close-knit mini-community didn't go unnoticed by the seniors as when Fresher's Day rolled around, a Final year student insisted we do something to highlight the 'Malayalee factor' or whatever weird idea she had.
As much as we tried out of it, due to the sheer absurdity of the suggestion, she stayed adamant.Unwilling to risk her wrath, we decided to go the easy way out by offering to perform a Malayalam group song, which meant no hassles regarding costumes, choreography or dialogs.

None of us were trained singers and thus no one was willing to lead. We had hardly a day to figure out the song, practice and perform alongwith a glitch that no one would let us open our mouths anywhere in the hostel, our tone-deaf notes sheer cacophony to their collective ear.

We managed to get hold of some karaoke music from a nearby net café to use in the background, and chose a personal favorite as what we'd be crooning onstage.
Copying the downloaded files into a CD, a pen drive and our cell phones for good measure, our next mission was to find a place to break into tune as clandestine as though we were robbing the Central Bank.


Settling for the moss-laden kitchen of our mess, we practised the song into the night, our throats hoarse after attempting notes never before seen by our larynges, a mobile phone providing the music we had downloaded earlier.


In line with the Mysore Medical College tradition, we freshers were ordered to wear saris on the big day hardly 48 hours before we were supposed to don the yards-long attire. Outwardly we joked we'd substitute saris with curtains or bed-sheets in case we ran out of luck, but scared of facing anyone's anger, those of us who couldn't get any from seniors or local guardians ended up buying them just for the occasion.


Thankfully, a day or two before the event, my parents and little sister arrived in the Heritage city of Karnataka, lugging several sets of saris for the trio, like door-to-door salesmen. As backup, I asked my eldest sister to come down from Bangalore with her own collection.

The day of the disaster, Sam, Ash and I went over to the suite where my parents were staying and got busy being wrapped and packaged. We could see the impending doom looming in clear view and wanted to just get the whole thing done with.

My brother-in-law dropped us off in front of our auditorium, where bystanders were curiously eyeing the sleek black Honda from which three sari-clad girls, who obviously wanted to be anywhere else in the world then, shuffled out, trying unsuccessfully to stay invisible.

After the initial inhibition, we started clicking photos and complimenting everyone in sight, fishing for more than a few ourselves.
We quickly sought sanctuary of the hall, moving as fast as our heels and saris would permit.

Once inside, we found our seats right in the front, and sat through several speeches my mother was later raving about, but I couldn't, for the life of me, have cared to pay attention to.
An oath against drug intake or something along those lines followed, with the cultural programmes right ahead.

Only, we were 'approached' to perform first. Unwilling to be booed at first thing that evening, we cooked up some excuse and led our class boys to perform their skit instead.
Not that it bought us much time, yet in the slightest hopes the audience were still thinking about the previous performance, we ambled onstage after the sound operators insisted we give them the untried pen drive instead of a CD.

The curtains having avoided cycles of raising and falling in between performances meant that the audience could observe us from our first to last steps on and off the platform.

We proceeded centre-stage, the mic pointing in my direction, waiting for the music to start.
Taking in the sight of a half-filled auditorium staring back at us.
Waiting.
Trying to look for familiar faces in the crowd.
And waiting.
Straining our ears to hear beyond the chatter of the spectators.
Waiting still.

And finally realizing when a sudden high note started playing, that we were already halfway into the song.

The crowd went wild. This was simply hilarious.
Eight girls standing there in the middle of the stage doing nothing but smiling. Amidst all the howling and booing, we spontaneously picked up from where we had missed out and continued the song.

If the previous reaction was anything to blush by, the one that followed required a whole new set of facial blood supply to match their enthusiasm.

No one in their most ridiculous dreams had imagined an unprecedented attempt at a Malayalam song on Fresher's Day at MMC.
That goes for those few that recognized the language.

In the meantime, the folly of having never checked the file before playing it hit us, as it was a very different version that was accompanying our sorry efforts at stringing together a tune, to match up to the unpredictable background.

Caught in the middle of all that, there still were two things in our favor:
1 - 99% of the audience had never heard the song before and had no idea how bad things were turning out.
2 - The hooting was so loud and intense, even we couldn't hear ourselves sing.

So lousy was the situation, we never even understood when the music ended.
But what topped off the performance was the back rows screaming, "ONCE MORE!!!" repeatedly.

Soon as we escaped backstage, Sam and I burst out laughing. So memorably pathetic was the whole thing, we couldn't have asked for a better way to etch the day deep into our minds.

At first, we were quite hesitant to make our way downstage, still red-faced from the encounter. We peeked in to the hall and saw that everyone's eyes and ears were glued once again to the stage.
Only then did it dawn upon me that I had family in the audience.
Wonderful - there's fodder for a week's dinnertime gossip, I thought, as we made our way towards them.

Just as I was sitting down, the current item began - a band of 4 or 5, and 'fresh' as I was, I had no idea who were from our batch, and who not.
The lead singer was strumming the guitar, with a light accompaniment of the other instruments, as his lips slowly parted and he set about working his magic.

Boy, were we spellbound.

"Now, THAT's how you should sing," my brother-in-law rubbed in. I couldn't help but agree begrudgingly.

A couple of equally mesmerizing songs later, the band-mates were introduced, and it was a pleasant surprise to note that the only first-year student there was this guy, who I felt was blessed with the greatest stage presence, major talent and even good looks. Oh well, what if we couldn't shine, at least there are other gems in our batch.

Although we didn't have Rahul's fortune of presenting a stunning performance, there's no denying we did shock them our own way.

The last event of the day was a fusion dance by our girls, who pulled it off rather well, despite finalizing everything from the costume to the choreography barely hours before the program.
While everyone was just glad it was over, the eight songbirds were lost in thought - ours was the only show that flopped, the whole evening.
Yet, no one really remembered the catastrophe as much as we did, and nobody was as tickled by it.

In retrospect, I guess sometimes the worst experiences get spun as the best memories, just as how, often, the most beautiful moments are the most painful to recall.

Until the next session of pain and pleasure,
Ciao.