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.