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.

The Perils of a Medical School Neonate - Crawling on all fours

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


------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

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.

-----------------------------------------------------------

* 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.

The Perils of a Medical School Neonate - When Dreams turn into Nightmares...

Life is full of ironies. Mine especially so. Barely weeks ago, I was ready to attend the worst Medical college in the country if it meant I was on my way to becoming a doctor. Presented with ample options, however, I still wasn't content at being destined to attend one of the most prestigious colleges in the country just because it wasn't the most reputed one within reach. That many of these paradoxes are self-inflicted through our high expectations and low satisfaction is in itself rather ironic.

Random doses of philosophy aside, I was anxious for the dates for the second round of counselling to be put up. Two reasons - One, the very city that seemed like heaven when I was stuck in a dormitory in Trissur was practically burning like hell in what felt like the longest July of my life. I was bored out of my wits.
The second and more pressing reason was the fact that my dreams were threatening to fall apart akin to the state of the buildings of my assigned college. With each passing memory the place turned much worse a nightmare. But my impression of Chennai sort of diluted my passion for attending Stanley Govt. Medical College as well (First glance around the city? 100% tanning! Ouch, S.O.S.). Plus being put under half-century-temperatures-induced-house arrest sure turned me off all kinds of hot places - add to that the tropical climate and a journey home that stretches almost a day? Despite the genuine, sweet and helpful population there; "Count me out."

Kerala still didn't figure in my scheme of things. And Mysore? Just not right.


Then, the idea struck me. The lightning was provided by me, but thunder was courtesy my mother.
"Mom, I know the perfect choice: Bangalore Medical College!"

The immediate response, I suppose, would be inappropriate for a general audience.

Later, though:"Are you out of your mind? No, never, don't you dare asking me again!"

"But Mom! Don't you see? It's just meant to be! The college is one of the best (comes in the top ten all the time! Check this out, won't you?), is in Bangalore, where Lubi can always keep an eye on me, and, and..."
I read the rest from BMC's impressive Wikipedia entry which manages to pacify my mother just microscopically.


She still wouldn't budge. When I show her the previous year's ranks that got into the college, clearly showing I had a chance, all my mom could respond with was that her colleague's kids had attended different colleges in the notorious city to come out "alcohol, drug and sex addicts", mercifully not all at the same time.

Like mother, like daughter, I was stubborn not to give up. I tried playing a different card game altogether. This time with my partners in crime, Dad and Lubna. While my father was initially as reluctant as my mother, he eventually saw the larger picture and gave in. My sister had naturally assumed I'd choose Bangalore over Mysore and was in fact herself preparing to convince everyone else so.
Slowly zapping each obstacle out, I started living in a fantasy world. In my then-inflated head, BMC was awaiting me with outstretched arms.

So, when July 30th had been put up as the day I was to mount my medical throne, I was all ready to embark on an adventure that was set to begin with my first time on Emirates 2 days earlier. Landing in Bangalore International Airport on my sister's 24th birthday was itself a living dream - 18 years of exposure to the International terminal at Cochin sure notched up the former's standards by a mile. Next came the reunion of four sisters and a brother-in-law as my younger one Naila flew in with me, while Leena had arrived two days earlier.

But no time for Bollywood-style celebrations.

We had to reach Mysore in less than 3 hours, get the signature of a Principal who was guaranteed never to be around during visiting hours and flit back to Bangalore where we'd to pack and leave in no time.
Impossible is nothing - that's us.
Not only did we manage to do all that, I showed Leena around my soon-to-be-former campus and ensured I bid an insincere goodbye to the college.
"Don't be too sure...," the birthday girl cautioned with ever-increasing wisdom.


Off to Chennai, not before my sisters screamed an infinite number of times for me to check and recheck all papers were in order, aboard a late night train, I kept dreaming about BMC, although deep down felt it all too good to be true. Everyone in the family kept advising me to consider other options, 'just in case', but to me it was all or none. If it comes to the worst and I don't get either of the remaining 2 seats, I'll just let my instincts take over and choose the first college that comes to mind - that was the risk I was willing to take.

The morning of the allotment I was suprisingly calm. I guess I had exhausted my quota of panic attacks. Even at the counselling centre, as I witness the last but one seat getting occupied, I was willing to hang on to the belief that I'd get into the college that's best for me. I slowly loosen my grip over Bangalore and ready my fingers to grasp whatever's thrown my way. Naturally, my life is never short of excitement to let me settle down to practicing the intricate movements of my digits; just when I'm asked to submit my documents do I realize that a crucial one is missing.

I was too irritated with myself to even come up with an effective curse.

Suddenly the entire picnic of a family that had accompanied me to the centre was running around the whole place trying to come up with a solution. My sisters tried their best not to get me tense while at the same time making sure I felt bad about my negligence. My brother-in-law was dialling away frantically, switching from one place to the other to get whatever was asked for in hand as fast as possible. I, meanwhile, was busy debating college selections in my head. So much for the calm before the storm. What was I to do if I lost BMC?

Do I go for my original choice of Stanley, where 6 seats still remained?
Ought I stick to my hometown in Trichur where the lone remainder was tempting me to a seat I had never considered?
Or should I stay with Mysore Medical College, which was in a really nice place geographically, had my sister's cozy apartment barely 3 hours away, would (according to Dad) present me with lot more opportunities for Post graduate studies, give me an opportunity to learn a foreign language, and what not. I called my parents up a last time, discussed with my sisters and the tally was: Trichur - 2, Mysore - 2, Chennai - 0.

Sadly I retrace my steps up the familiar stairs and make my way into the final room. My head was swimming slightly and I just wanted to run out of the very place that had made a freak show of me a few weeks back, much to my pride. I talk to a few of the other candidates in the room and was happy to note that no one was aiming for the seat in Bangalore. I might have a shot after all.

Everything was going in my favor. Perhaps there was no need to be so negative - I dared to hope again.

Soon it was almost my chance. Just one more kid from the Kolkata centre and it would be my turn to declare-
"-KA01, Bangalore Medical College"

That was enough to snap me out of it. Did I just hear the candidate right before me, that too from far East, select the ultimate seat in the college of my dreams? I was getting used to last-minute prayers by now. But I still didn't know how to handle myself when I'm on the verge of tears.

"Mr.______, UR-rank___, would you please confirm your selection?"
"I, ______, UR-rank___, would like to confirm my selection of the seat for MBBS in Bangalore Medical College, KA01..."

I couldn't stop that first tear from rolling down my cheek, but I managed to compose myself. It was all over. I didn't care where I ended up anymore. Whatever college comes to mind at that moment, I'll just say that, I decided.

"I, Lamya Ibrahim, rank no. UR- 1137, would like to..."

Suddenly, the Kannada letters I had painstakingly practiced over the last few days dance in front of my eyes. And I know what to say.

"... retain my seat for MBBS at Mysore Medical College and Reseach Institute, KA04..."

The room looks sympathetically in my direction. Everyone knew I had my sights set upon "KA01", but I just shrug, smile sheepishly, collect my stuff and quietly exit the cabin, like a widow leaving her husband's funeral...

The missing document no longer an issue, we made our way out of the centre, dying to reach home after yet another emotional roller coaster ride.


It took me atleast 2 days for the reality to sink in. By that time, Leena bid a teary farewell and rode back to Trivandrum. My remaining sisters and Jeeju tried to lift my spirits, but a lot in vain.
I started mentally preparing myself for a life-long course that was to begin in an 86-year-old college and passively counted down the hours to August 2nd.

The day classes were scheduled to begin, I woke up at 4 in the morning. Not because of excitement per se, but a bout of sickness that saw me back in bed even at the intended time of departure. That was it - the day that was to mark my beginning as a doctor, I end up a patient confined to bed rest.

Irony strikes again.

The Perils of a Medical School Neonate: When Nightmares turn into Dreams...

However long the night, dawn breaks. Every cloud has a silver lining. It is darkest before dawn.
These and many other clichés stay stuck on the four walls of my bedroom, originally meant to motivate me to study, study and study for the exams that were so crucial for the previously career-driven me. With the events of the last week still swimming in my head, all I wanted to do was rip those cute little strips of paper off and scream,"Oh yeah?!" and I would have, if I weren't exhausted from a flight aboard Air India Express followed by a round of verbal dissection by equally tiring relatives.

Life had molded me into an incorrigible pessimist. Who was I to hope for a ray of sunshine while being battered by hailstorms? Every thing pointed only in one direction - down.

To hell with all that, I thought, for if I am to stay exile in India for a year, I'm gonna enjoy every single second I have in the only city I've known in my lifetime to the max. Every second, that is, till the first week of June, when the AIPMT results were scheduled to come out and I was to pack accordingly and leave for PC's version of hell.





So imagine my shock when I'm awakened on the morning of May 24th by my sister's phone call, with a frantic, "Haven't you heard? PMT results are out!" ("Get out! No way... That's 2 weeks premature!")
She let me off with a warning as friends'sisters who were repeaters hadn't made through and she didn't want me shattered by false hopes.
Shaken, I sleepwalk to our desktop, and was about to check out their website when my best friend Ritika's mom calls and confirms that the results are out. She lets me know that she hadn't made it, which further let me down as I was sure if a born-genius like Ritika couldn't make it, I had absolutely no hope.
Nevertheless, just to make sure, I type my roll number, submit and make small talk with Ritika's mom as she too waits over the telephone for my result.

As the page loads, I'm stunned into silence.
"Lamya, are you still there, beta? Got your result?"
"Ah... huh. Um, aunty, yeah. Just came up... Says here I got 1154-"
"Oh. But that's a great rank! I don't know what happened..."

But I wasn't listening anymore. It wasn't happiness I was experiencing. It was relief. Peace. Gratitude. And, survivor's guilt. Ritika and I did everything together - study, fool around, dream. Why the disparity in ranks? Whether or not I was successful in consoling her and motivating her for her next exams, I don't know, but I had a hard enough time convincing myself of the ranks.

Apparently, I wasn't the only one who had to be convinced.

First person I call is Leena, who is shocked to a rare moment of silence when I let her know.
"... are you sure? I mean, repeaters haven't made it... Hey, don't feel bad for my saying, but can you re-check the page? You might have misread something."
Which I had already done. A zillion times. It just wasn't possible. But there it was, my name, my parents'names, my roll no. and most shocking, my rank well within the required merit. This time, I waited a long while before pinching -if this were a dream, I sure didn't want to wake up.

Mom's reaction wasn't as sugar-coated. Sure, it too started with a 'don't feel bad for my saying...' preamble, she went as far as to say that I might have missed a digit in my rank. Dad and my eldest sister Lubna were elated beyond belief and both kept reminding me that though unlikely, they did have faith in me till the end.


Overnight, my world changed. I wasn't worthless anymore, I was phenomenal. I wasn't sure which was harder to deal with - not getting noticed as much as you desire, or being showered 10 times the attention you deserve.

I finally had an answer to everyone's 'What happened?', 'Neither here nor there' and others. Suddenly, not only was I ready to face anyone, I was anticipating meeting everyone - teachers, classmates, relatives, family friends, enemies - to shine in my moment of glory.


I was on the receiving end of mixed reactions - there were the Sirs at MAS who gave me nothing short of celebrity treatment, and my best friends who made it sound like I aced every single exam I'd attempted. There were those who had no idea what AIPMT stood for and just concluded I'd gotten enough dough to buy myself a seat. I tried my best to stay thick-skinned throughout, despite how tempting it was to show off more than what was necessary. I thanked every one of my mentors, who glowed with pride themselves, congratulating me to no end. I was king of the world, no less.

Soon, there were debates on which college to choose. Who would have ever wondered I would be in a state of confusion over that? Mom and Leena were adamant I study only in Kerala while Dad and Lubi considered the advantages of studying outside as well. I was equally stubborn never to study in 'God's own Country', as I felt I'd be totally out of place there. Endless terms and conditions later, they reluctantly let me choose Stanley Medical College in Chennai, which I felt I had a shot at for the second round of counselling.


Within no time, the dates for the first round of counselling and related information was put up on the official website. A hurried packing and scheduling later, Dad and I were aboard another Air India Express flight to Cochin on a seven-days, six-places trip that was going to be physically, mentally and emotionally exhausting.
Hopping from Cochin to my hometown Kodungalloor within hours of landing, barely 24 hours later saw us speeding to Thrissur Railway station, praying that we don't miss our train to Chennai.
We made it alright, without major scratches and bruises and had more than enough time on the 15-hour long journey to cool down. Whatever for, since the weather in Madras was anything but. Blindingly sunny and scorchingly hot, the weather still was no match for our mood. By the end of the day, when we had visited three medical colleges, the counselling centre and the local markets, we just weren't sure which college to choose. This time not because of the multitude of options available to spoil us. It was the alarming rate at which seats in all those colleges I had set my sights upon were vanishing. The night before my counselling session, I found myself crying to sleep, not very different a pattern from the eve of the AIPMT final exam.

The next day saw me in a fix. The only two colleges that fulfilled our conditions were Tirunveli Medical College in Tamil Nadu and Mysore Medical College in Karnataka both 3 hours by road from Leena and Lubna in Trivandrum and Bangalore respectively. Mom and Leena were all for me attending the former, while Dad and Lubi just won't listen to anything but the latter, to which my own heart was leaning, despite there remaining just 4 seats... Finally the hot-tempered ones in the family triumphed as I mentally prepared myself to select MMC&RI, last-minute calls to an intern there notwithstanding.

Striding into the building, I ensured I had all the required documents and sat in front of the notorious TV screen that would announce our selections, rejections and the seats remaining. Meanwhile Dad introduced me to a few of his contacts and their brilliant children whose universal taming of various entrance exams shadowed my single achievement yet again.

Disregarding my incurable low self-esteem, I slowly trace my steps upstairs when my number is called out. I am among the first two candidates that day. I keep talking to the next rank-holder who would be selecting the same college, albeit with no intention of attending it.
What seemed like eons later, I was called up to the table to make my selection.

4 seats still remaining in MMC&RI and I had made up my mind. Things ought to go smooth now. Until...

"Where did you do your XIIth standard?"
A mild expletive ran through my head.
"Um...I'm sorry, what?"
I had heard the question right - they had a little issue with the fact that I hadn't studied in India at all the last 14 years.
"How did you write the AIPMT? Were you even eligible?"
Despite knowing deep down that I was the sole claimant to that seat, I sat on the verge of hyperventilating and going into shock. Seeing my stunned silence, they contact the concerned authorities in Delhi to confirm. I break into silent prayer hoping that all that vanity parade hadn't led to a downfall of sorts.

The magic words zap me back into the present:
"No, that's alright. There are many NRI students in our CBSE schools in the Gulf region..."
I don't wait to hear the rest. I'm mentally back on my knees, thanking God profusely and seeking forgiveness for any negligence shown in expressing my gratitude hitherto.

The man sitting across me at the table apologetically inquires about my schooling and coaching history. When I reveal that I had attended a 2 month long crash course in Kerala, alongwith once-a-week class back in Abu Dhabi, he is beyond impressed that I managed the feat of clearing the exam the first time itself.

All the formalities later, I was on my way back to the hotel, now officially eligible to a seat for MBBS in Mysore Medical College and Research Institute. The same night, we vacated our hotel room and fought for our seats on a bus to Bangalore, where I would be reunited with my sister and her husband. After spending a day there, starting a passionate love affair with the city that was complexed with my vehement refusal to tolerate its people, we set off to Mysore as soon as possible, having secured the eligibility certificate, physical fitness certificate and other requirements by all means necessary.
The road trip was one of the best I've experienced in the country. Beautiful four-laned roads lined by lush greenery, I was really excited about my first glance of the college.


Except, the minute we arrive in Mysore, the college is nowhere to be seen. It was only a few phone calls later that we realized we had already passed by the reputed institution three times without knowing it.
As soon as I saw it, I wish I never had. The first thing I notice is the absence of any unbroken windows. Then I marvel at the architectural superiority of the palace-style buildings, for its capability to withstand tonnes of dust. The endless stretch of construction on the way to the weed-concealed Women's hostel did little to improve my impression either.
In short, it was hatred at first sight. I was already dying for the dates for the second counselling. Stanley, babe, wait for me.

Not one to waste time, we rush back to Kerala where we as good as head straight to the Airport and back to the Garden city of UAE.

-Interval-