College life (n.): A phase of life that is hell in experience, heaven in retrospect.
See Also: “School life”,” Mom’s warnings”,” Dad’s lectures” and “Annoying siblings”
--- Lamya’s Dictionary of Limited Life Experiences
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We've all heard the cliché – “how time has flown!”
Along that line, there's a new addition to my life's script: one which concerns the first 270 days of medical school; one regarding my first year of MBBS in MMC & RI; one listing the ups, downs and in-betweens of the existence of a medical student dragged through the cracks and crevices of hostel life…
What, months ago, I felt an agonizing endurance of each comatose second has swiftly turned into fast-forwarded flashes of bittersweet memories.
An intricate mixture of emotions, apathy and hopelessness that miraculously presents itself as an inspiration for those who look back in reminiscence, as well as to the myriad gazing ahead in reassurance of their chosen path…
A review of the nine months spanning the preamble to this perplexing course, which shares not only its duration with the human gestational period, but also the transformation, development and differentiation from a single cell of an individual to a complex organism of sorts, all associated pain, misery and sense of accomplishment notwithstanding...
In chronological order:
* First day in Hostel needless to say was plain torture. Not only was I trembling within thanks to heaps of ragging tales planted in my mind by the wise elders of my house, the minute I stepped into my room lugging three suitcases of weights to match baby elephants, no sore body ache or dull yellow wallpaper could distract me from feeling increasingly lonely and homesick.
My roommates – a Bombay-bred Udupi native 2 years my senior, and a girl from north Karnataka whose place I'd never heard before - though sweet, were no compensation for what I left behind . The day I land I witness the former’s tears to the authorities' false accusation on hazing and the latter’s cold treatment due to febrile temperatures and a mutual instinct to survive in a space shared with a “senior”.
“All 2K10 girls, come to the reading room. Now!”
I had barely unpacked when the announcement wafted in through the corner of the 2nd floor where our cell was located. Dazed, I shuffled out the room and assembled in a hall crammed with 30 other pyjamas-clad girls, supervised by three grim-faced seniors and a man seated in the center.
Introducing himself as the Men's Hostel Warden, he went on to lecture about the rules of the establishment, dashing all expectations and puncturing many an impossible dream.
The first few lines were in English... the rest of the monologue played like a foreign movie sans subtitles as Kannada words flowed out effortlessly, surpassing all comprehension on my part.
An hour or so later saw me a zombie drifting back to my allotted room, not before getting introduced to and exchanging courtesies with some 4 other Keralite batchmates, the only lot that seemed glad to have me there.
In the meantime, everything was pushing me closer to my already low threshold:
The claustrophobia-inducing quarters;
the biodiversity-rich bathrooms;
the far-from-musical sounds of an alien tongue;
the midnight trains blaring through the flimsily draped windows;
the resonant buzz of a thousand mosquitoes;
the isolation from friends, family, batchmates and seniors alike...
Possessing just a SIM card on roaming as my sole contact with the outside world, I had no choice but to send a text message each to my sisters and parents to inform them of my sorry plight, silently crying myself to sleep.
I was too busy pitying myself to worry about attending my first class the next day, having already missed three days of regular attendance.
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* First week in college, my goal was to remain unseen, unheard and unnoticed in every other way.
"Do not draw attention to yourself and invite unwanted ragging."
"You're an NRI, to boot, so keep it low."
"Keralite, Muslim, Girl – alone in the city - you don't know the language, the people, the customs. Keep your feet on the ground."
"Already fallen behind. Get up and run, stat!"
Advices, warnings and pep-talk kept dancing in my head as I tried to maintain a calm exterior, shadowing my roommate everywhere she went.
First class of the day was Physiology which, unknown to me, was taken by a PG student. With English that I couldn't distinguish from his Kannada, I was left open-mouthed the entire period, not in a way I'd imagined. I glanced around the lecture hall, registering everyone's diligent note-taking and somber head-nodding, convinced I was the only blank idiot in a sea of 90-something braniacs. I withdrew further into my cocoon.
Biochemistry followed shortly, the professor briskly striding in and wasting no time in taking attendance. Getting used to the system of shouting out numbers, "Twenty three!" I call out like an auctioneer, which seemed like the only task I could accomplish.
Slamming the register shut and sending a storm of dust flying off the massive wooden desk, Ma'am proceeded to drone on and on about Lipids, citing Harper as her Bible, commanding her stunned disciples to pore over its holy words.
I made a mental note to fetch my own set of textbooks as soon as possible, with no phone, laptop or novel to keep me temporary company.
Dissection and Osteology capped the day's timetable. I was blindly led in to the Anatomy lecture hall, where two white-turned-grey doors opened into the expansive Dissection Hall. We were divided into five tables, and my enrollment number had me distributed to the second.
This is it, I told myself, this is the acid test. The prospect of cutting open cadavers that repulses so many from even giving the field a shot, this will determine where I stand, or so I proclaimed in my head.
Only, neither was this the way I'd pictured it.
I didn't feel a thing as I sat there, among 20 novices, around the bare-naked body, pretending to read the Cunningham manual for dissection.
Maybe it was the fact that I'd mentally prepared myself for this.
Or perhaps as the rest of the bunch had gotten used to it already, I felt the need not to be left out.
Or simply the small detail of a missing head. And shoulders.
That's right. The body we were assigned was cranially deficient, greatly numbing the effect and emotions of death. They might as well have placed a mannequin for us to dive our scalpels into as the group happily chatted away on their achievements and aspirations.
I too got lost in conversation with a girl from Bangalore, our discussion ranging from how we ended up in medicine to our discovery of a shared love of reading. Just as I was heaving a sigh of relief, a few of us were summoned to the Demonstration rooms where Osteology classes were to be held.
After a brief warning that we'd be thrown out of class unless we bought bone sets by the next class, the lecturer went on to teach us the basic features of the scapula.
Mechanically,I jotted down points, paying little attention to the fact that every other person in the classroom was holding, observing and inspecting real human bones. A lone skeleton was peering out a nearby glass case and many more bones lay scattered on the floor in the background, yet oddly enough, we all stayed undeterred.
Once dismissed, I retraced my steps down the shoddy path to the hostel, making small talk with other hostelites from the batch, until I climbed up the stairs and retreated into the bedroom where I stayed prisoner for the rest of day.
The trend continued into the weekend, despite an impromptu dash home to pick up a few things in time for the fasting period in Ramadan, which was to begin the approaching Thursday. Meanwhile, I received spiritual guidance and survival tips from a Final year student, who was no less than a sister to me.
Something was still amiss. Communication with family was at an all-time low, thanks to Airtel's delay in activating my new number. Conversations at hostel too were practically dead, both apprehension to face people totally dissimilar to me and laziness to cover two flights of stairs each time preventing me from setting out my room.
Monday came along and brought another Keralite to the hostel. Ashitha, she introduced herself, as I smiled to welcome her to the asylum, at the same time hiding my disappointment in realizing she wasn't the Keralite Muslim girl I had been informed about by my newfound sibling.
Off we went to class, where 3-4 new students made their entrance. Glad I wasn't the only one to have missed a few classes, I watched in interest as one after the other approached the Professors to report their arrival, my gaze subconsciously fixed at the sole girl in the group. She looked pretty and amicable at first glance, someone I wanted to get to know better, I decided, just as the Professor started teaching.
The subjects continued in monotony, the torture magnified exponentially in my head.
Afternoon sessions had mercifully not begun yet, but with nothing else to do, I dragged my roommate over to the bookstore and hypermarket to finish off my purchases, getting to know the city one bit at a time.
Wednesday came along, bringing with it the confusion of Ramadan's beginning. In Abu Dhabi and the rest of the Middle East, that day marked the commencement of fasting, while India conveniently lagged by a day. Staying true to my hometown, rather adamantly refusing to settle in Mysore, I made the unwise decision to abstain from food, drinks and all things evil and unnecessary in relation to the Calender in the good ol' "Gulf".
How was I to know the day also marked the start of painful Physiology practicals?
That day after lunch break, I dogged my roommate back to college, who led me down some labyrinth of a path to the Physio lab. Once there, a Sir held theory class for an hour, before calling us to the adjoining chamber. Quickly, he asked a student volunteer to bring his index finger forward, as he unwrapped a tiny blade ("Lancet," he explained, lifting it up for all to see) and wiped it clean.
In one swift motion, he lunged the instrument at the tip of the kid's finger, viscous crimson fluid spurting out immediately. As if watching the whole scene wasn't bad enough for someone with a pathological dislike towards all things sharp, his next words almost made me swoon.
"Collect your instruments, go to your tables and start pricking."
The rest of the instructions bypassed my hearing, for I was hastily fishing for excuses to avoid this exercise of torture. Like I'd just been sentenced to death, I gloomily drift towards my table, next to which another guy had already taken his seat, but I took little notice.
Realizing that he was my lab partner, I smiled sheepishly at him, and after exchanging formalities, confessed that I was in no state to poke myself with that scary triangular mini-knife. Not knowing what else to do, he continued beaming at me.
Growing impatient at his overworked grin,coupled with a resentment that he was already halfway through his work, I ask, "Utsav, right? Um... Why don't you- I mean, would you mind- How about... Can you prick me instead? Please?"
I brought the lancet to-and-fro, mustering all courage to complete the task myself, then gave up and let Utsav take over.
Turned out, he was a bigger coward than me, stopping inches short of my finger before declaring he couldn't do it.
Witnessing this drama was a lady PG student, who told us both off for acting stupid. Snatching the tool, she drove it cleanly into the digit, and walked off, leaving me to stare helplessly at all the blood oozing out.
My throat went dry, my knees felt weak and my head started to spin. I grabbed the nearest seat and laid my head on the table. Stubborn not to break my fast, I refused any offers of drinking water or glucose. Roll No. 24 started growing uneasy with this sudden display of weakness equally baffled by my ability to crack lame jokes about the situation in my semi-conscious state.
"Sad for you, I end up being your first patient, eh?"
His response? A polite smile.
"Not to worry though. Didn't have breakfast. That's all."
An understanding smile, mild laughter.
"I'll be alright. You don't waste your time now."
A sympathetic smile, a slight nod of the head inquiring whether I'll be alright.
After five more minutes of that session, I was back on my feet, thankful I felt dizzy only after having the presence of mind to preserve that precious drop of blood and finished off the experiment, before running to the safety of my room.
Thinking of the days events, I accepted that the pre-dawn meal required to sustain us till sunset would be an issue when the Mess was available only from 8 AM. Lost in thought, I was brought to by a mild rapping on the door. Cautiously, I opened it, to be met by Ashitha, this time accompanied by the girl I saw in class the previous day.
"Hi! Lamya, right? I'm Samreen," she offered, beaming.
The girl Namiyatha (my 'sister') had spoken of, I realize as we introduced ourselves.
"So... tomorrow Ramadan's beginning right? What are you planning to do?"
Smiling despite myself, I assured her that I had supplies to survive the night, and invited her over for a 4 AM breakfast. Eternally grateful, we both confirmed the appointment, exchanged phone numbers, spoke a little bit more and went our separate ways.
The next day, hours before the first rays of sunshine pierced the Mysore skies, the top floor of our hostel saw two First year girls quietly making their way on to an empty cot in the corridor, carrying a shopping bag bearing chips, cakes and other junk food.
Shyly insisting the other to start the feast, we settled on initiating with a few slices of cake, before moving on to an experimental flavor of Lays.
There,in the dark, silent corridors of the Ladies Hostel, marked the beginning of an extraordinary and enchanting friendship, over crumbs of Pineapple spongecake and Mango flavored Potato chips.
-- To be continued.
