Boston Legal continues to be one of my favourite sitcoms... Between Alan Shore's witty charm and Denny Crane's undiluted 70 year old libido, they really have a good thing going. Besides, where else would you find grown men ready to dress up in pink fluffy flamingo costumes? No...don't answer that.
Sometimes, the most interesting things come to light. I was watching (re-watching) an episode from the second season, where Alan Shore tried a case on behalf of a little girl who was being kept out of a private school because she couldn't smile (read accident and nerve damage) and the kids at her current school were making her life hell. The private school didn't want to take her in, even though she got straight A's and was a phenomenal artist, because she wasn't 'normal'... What I liked about the episode, other than Alan's flamboyant theatrics in court, was when he quoted Epictetus to the little girl at the end of the episode. Now, not knowing who this man was, or indeed how to spell his name, finding him on Google turned out to be a bit of a problem. Still, I eventually did, and he turned out to be a Greek philosopher with a very well rounded perspective. The quote was from the discourses of Epictetus, Book 1, Chapter 2 -
For this reason, when Florus was deliberating whether he should go down to Nero's spectacles and also perform in them himself, Agrippinus said to him, "Go down": and when Florus asked Agrippinus, "Why do not you go down?" Agrippinus replied, "Because I do not even deliberate about the matter." For he who has once brought himself to deliberate about such matters, and to calculate the value of external things, comes very near to those who have forgotten their own character. For why do you ask me the question, whether death is preferable or life? I say "life." "Pain or pleasure?" I say "pleasure." But if I do not take a part in the tragic acting, I shall have my head struck off. Go then and take a part, but I will not. "Why?" Because you consider yourself to be only one thread of those which are in the tunic. Well then it was fitting for you to take care how you should be like the rest of men, just as the thread has no design to be anything superior to the other threads. But I wish to be purple, that small part which is bright, and makes all the rest appear graceful and beautiful. Why then do you tell me to make myself like the many? and if I do, how shall I still be purple?
Of course, the televised version was way simpler, and really boiled down to whether you had the guts to take a stand, and then stand out. To be purple, not white. To refuse to blend in no matter how much people make fun of you, or try and bend you to their way. Alan Shore definitely meant to move and inspire her.
The little girl had the last say though. With all the innocence and simplicity of childhood, she replied, "Maybe. But it's not always easy being purple..."
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Will you be purple?
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Not that finger, the other one!
Physiology is one subject that emphasises validation of theory by experimental proof. Now, I’m all for scientific experiments; until they result in bodily damage, that is. Somehow, the haematology lab simply doesn’t agree with my point of view. We must’ve done atleast fifteen experiments in haematology in 1st MBBS, most of which required us to use our own blood. The often repeated mantra is “Fresh blood is the best blood!” or something to that effect. Makes you wonder where the Physio department plans their vacations … I hear
“Anyway, the procedure is simple,” offered one of our professors during the initial lab classes.
“You’re supposed to take a sterile lancet and make a stab wound on one of your fingers, deep enough to draw half a pipette of blood atleast.”
Did someone say stab?? Could they make it sound any less inviting? Why would I want to stab myself? Why would anybody???
After five minutes of vociferous and completely pointless arguing with myself, I looked at my table mates. One of them had stabbed himself so hard there was blood all over the table and he needed a compress to stop the flow. Most of the others were looking at him in macabre fascination. Talk about a perfect example of what-not-to-do.
Ok, time to clear my head. I had to focus. I picked up the lancet and held a finger out. Raising it as high as I dared, I brought the lancet down hard. Just inches above my finger though, the lancet slowed suddenly and I barely managed to prick it.
Super. Time for round 2.This time I figured the closer the lancet was to my finger, the greater an impact it would have. So I held the lancet just above my finger and stabbed it. This time I felt the pain, but I still wasn’t drawing blood.
Why on earth was I being such a chicken?
Before I could get third-time lucky, the lab attendant passed by me to watch my next attempt, and before I could raise the lancet, he yelled, “what are you doing? Which finger are you using? You know you could perforate your tendon! You want to paralyse that muscle? Use only the middle or ring finger… don’t you students listen anymore?”
Ah. Not only was I unsuccessful in my attempt, I was also apparently deaf and about to cause permanent damage to myself. Brilliant. Sensing my embarrassment, the attendant offered to prick my finger for me. Without even the hint of an argument I consented. Forget about pride in one self’s achievements. I just wanted to get through the class without killing myself.
I’d like to pretend that I risked life and limb to maintain consciousness as the evil man withdrew unwarranted volumes of my blood, but that would be a lie. He was quick, calm and efficient, and I barely felt a thing. Let’s face it, he’s been doing this since before I was born. My only regret is that I closed my eyes the first time, and as a result forgot to watch him – to this day I’m still quite incapable of pricking myself effectively…
The demise of Hope
I've often wondered.... we judge people by their appearances, and once we get to know them, it doesn't seem to matter so much anymore. Sometimes appearances even get altered in your mind's eye ...If there's some character trait or quality you really like about them, they start to look better too... which got me thinking in reverse. If these qualities or traits took a human form, what would they look like? Would Anger be a short, pudgy man with a bulbous red nose? Would Jealousy be a reed thin vamp? and what about Hope? what would she look like (yes, it's a she...)? We would love her just because she would make the world seem a better place. And then, one day, say she died....What would happen then?
Amber mist, it shrouded her frame
Her gentle frame that spun and twirled
And not a plea that the Fates beseeched
could soothe the storm her soul had stirred
Lustrous locks she had, untamed
A song they sang, so wild, so free
Upon her brow, the beaded sweat
did Venus collect, to nourish a stream
Her wide set eyes did dream of things,
of places man could not yet see
And in their grey, reclusive depths,
Some travellers sought eternity
Her fingers, dainty, dexterous, played
A song to bring the living joy
And to the dead, it brought regret,
that life-song had but passed them by
Not for her the robes of old,
Linen sheer and cotton soft,
but satin rich and woven lace
Her garb was fashioned thereof
Rain-swept woods and autumn tune-
the music of her laughter sweet
A thousand notes from winter-chimes
Free verse muted in repeat
Wisemen wept and scoundrels sang
of glory yet to be restored
And when her footsteps laid to ground
They'd bought what they could not afford
And thence it passed a summer spell
Where on a scented mountain side
They came in droves, in black veiled clothes
To mourn the passing of the tide
For never had men been bound to cry
Or lament in such a broken voice
As with her died their secret dreams
Frozen still in blocks of ice
Roses black with petals wet
Were kept to guard her grave at night
And none forgot the whispering wind
That said...
'Tonight was the night that Hope - she died.'
It's not so pretty inside out ... (nugget 5)
Once we reached there, though, curiosity got the better of us. God only knew what these fabled cadavers looked like. Oh, we’d heard stories alright. Skin peeled off, organs hanging loose, faces split right down the middle … in short, the substance of your worst nightmares. The doors to dissection had glass windows in the middle, so we could see through them into the hall. And yes, there were bodies on the tables by the time we got there. I stepped up to the window to have a look.
Surprisingly, what I saw didn’t affect me. True, I could see a shrunken head and a shrivelled body with muscles spilling out, but it didn’t seem that bad. Then again, maybe the windows were designed to distort the figures inside, to make them seem less gruesome. Maybe that was the only way they got students to enter DH in the first place. Oh crap.
2.00 p.m. – the doors were thrown open and we were ushered in to dissection hall. Holding my breath, I slowly walked in, looking at the expressions of those ahead of me to gauge their reactions. Nothing to suggest either relief or disgust. Oh right, they’d been holding their breath too. Stupid me. Ok, enough’s enough. One, two, three ….. I took in a delicate whiff of air. Nothing. Puzzled, I took a deeper breath. What was going on? I couldn’t smell anything remotely revolting. Around me I could see other people do the same thing and for a minute, the scene was oddly comical. We were like a pack of trained sniffer dogs gone crazy. One of the post-graduates, sounding highly amused, told us that the air-conditioning would rid the room of any formalin smell we were anticipating. Ah. Technology.
One fear conquered, it was time to face the next. I was directed to table 1, which unfortunately, was the closest to the one seating the professors and post-graduates. I got my first close up view of the cadaver. Let’s see … face intact, although it was missing skin everywhere except around the lips, chest opened – Wait… were those lungs??? - , rest of the body pretty much intact except for the arms and legs, which were completely devoid of skin. I could see individual muscles running down the length of the arm, and I remember feeling, not disgusted, but amazed. So this is what muscles really look like.
After roll call, our class began. There were 20 students at each table, and two instructors- one for bones or osteology and another for the body, also called soft tissue.
Following the initial shock, I realised that DH, no matter what its initial interest quotient, was first and foremost a class, and nothing proved this more than the fact that fifteen minutes into the professor’s explanation, most people- especially those lucky ones, who, unlike us, had actually eaten lunch- had fallen asleep.
At the end of the hour, it was time for osteology. The post-graduate taking our table, Dr. Sapna was another monument to sarcasm… all 6 feet of her. What is it with the anat department? Must be something in the communal water cooler. Inspite of everything, she taught well and unlike the professors, thought we were insane to worry about exams. Initially, I may have questioned her sanity, but after one year it makes complete sense. The levels of stress you’re subjected to in medical school vary tremendously, and after surviving a University exam, it seems trivial, even foolish, to worry about a weekly internal test.
She ended by telling us to buy individual bone sets, and immediately conversation broke out. An entire bone set? Elementary school had taught us that there were 206 of them. The practically oriented people wanted to know if all the bones would fit into one bag. The studious ones wanted to know whether they had to know everything about all the bones. The rest of us simply wanted to know where to get them from. Dr. Sapna gave us a patronising look, like she couldn’t believe we were clueless enough to ask her that. It was obvious, wasn’t it? The Bone Man.
Now why did he sound like the lead character of a B-grade horror movie??
Of arms, legs and the body intervening…
Dissection hall.
Also known as DH. The most mysterious of all classes you ever attend in MBBS 1. It seems like tales of terror are especially written down in a tome and passed on from generation to generation; all with the sole purpose of scaring freshies. For example?
One of my friends from another reputed medical college told me that a 2nd MBBS student posed as a cadaver( dead body – parentheses included because I’ve had to explain the meaning of this word to almost every non-medical student I’ve talked to), lying down on one of the dissection tables as the green-faced first years entered the hall. After they quietly assembled around the table, he suddenly jumped up, causing 3 people to faint and another to throw up.
Words cannot explain how much I was dreading DH. Even my parents, who I’m sure had no intention of frightening me, told me that atleast 2-3 people in each batch pass out merely at the sight of the cadaver. I remember praying frantically, “God, please don’t let it be me! Please don’t let it be me!”
Sage words pf wisdom from my mom … Spray scent on a handkerchief and carry it with you. It should combat the smell of the formalin once inside DH; just keep it plastered to your nose. Hmmm. Uh…. Yeah, see mom, I would, but handkerchiefs went out of style three centuries ago. Given the choice though, looking like a SARS patient seemed favourable to actually being a comatose one, so I grudgingly sprayed a napkin with Burberry and left home.
An hour before DH. Me and a couple of friends were on our way to the Food Court for lunch (Manipal’s version of a mess- although we have those too) when we bumped into Vasant. He looked at us with what I took to be an are-you-thick-in-the-head expression. “You guys actually going for lunch now?”
To which Tina retorted, “Obviously. Haven’t eaten since morning so I’m starving now.”
He grinned. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. This is our first DH class. Chances are the smell of formalin’s gonna be overwhelming. Best if you don’t have any food in you. That’ll make it harder for you to throw up.”
None of us could argue with the inherent wisdom in this statement, so we unhappily turned our backs on the hordes of people eating lunch and made our way to the dissection hall...
Cramped Quarters (nugget 4)
The dance floor is always packed to bursting. One piece of advice… guard your toes with your life. More often than not, they will be stepped on a few times during the night. Of course, if it’s someone cute who does it and you end up going out the next day –just like in the movies; then good for you. I hate your luck. Most of the time, however, you end up nursing swollen toes the next morning which isn’t really the best way to round off the night.
The music selection really varies too. Some of the music keeps you on your feet and in the mood for more, while sometimes you stand on the dance floor completely confused as to what to do. Heal the World? Someone get me a candle and a toga, quick!
A lot of people end up getting so sloshed they can’t walk in a straight line by the end of the night. It’s then that the most hilarious stuff happens. Table dances, proposals, spectacular cases of projectile vomiting – it’s all there.
Of course, there’s the slight matter of a midnight curfew. Getting to the club at 10 makes it pointless to leave at 11.30. Who in their right minds would stay out for only an hour and a half? So the next logical step would be to stay out. Now that’s great if you’ve thought it out in advance and booked yourself a room somewhere. If, like us, you decided to wing it, be prepared for another five arguments and utter confusion. We finally left the club at 1.30 a.m. and went to a couple of hotels, all of which were booked for the night. Looks like other people did think their evenings through, then.
Just as we were about to leave the last one, we got a call from a friend. Someone had told him we were stuck for the night, so he offered to let us use his apartment. It seemed like a brilliant idea until we reached there. Turns out a whole bunch of his brother’s friends had missed their curfew as well. I didn’t even try counting, but there must’ve been atleast 30 people in his apartment that day.
2 bedrooms and a living room. You do the math.
The night to follow was one of the funniest I’ve ever spent. Ten girls had to sleep on one bed. I think I slept on a bunch of legs that night, or atleast I tried to. When we did wake up the next morning, Eshi’s legs were numb from being slept on the entire night, and I felt like I’d been stabbed in the back. Two of the guys with us, Karan and Vasant, in what was a half-ditch attempt at being responsible for us, decided to stay awake the entire night, but ended up passing out on the floor. Karan woke up the next morning on top of some laundry, completely disoriented. Our host camped out on a sofa, and his brother had to give his room up for his friends to crash in, so I’ve absolutely no idea where he slept that night.
The next morning, we left his apartment at around 8 in the morning, and as if it were the most natural thing in the world, went to Valley View for breakfast in our club clothes. I’ll say one thing for a night of bad sleep- you’re all the more hungry the next morning.
The rest of the day was pretty much a blur. I vaguely remember sleeping in one room, then going to another friend’s room and sleeping there; after which I went home and slept there as well. I only felt truly awake at around 7 in the evening.
Everything in moderation, they say. Moderation be damned. Pull out all the stops every time. It’s the only real way to live.
Blue Waters
Know how medical students aren’t supposed to have fun?
Well, if you believe it you’ve definitely been misinformed. True, most of our life revolves around tests, exams and textbooks that any teenage guy would be thrilled to use as weights. Still, there’s always room for fun if you’re in the mood. For a small town, Manipal’s definitely got a broad outlook on life. In celebration of the crazy people who call themselves the student fraternity of Manipal, some alumnus erected a pub/disco called Blue Waters.
The thing is, in Manipal, over-the-top is considered normal. So a night on the town means the works. People get dressed to the nines when they go clubbing. The concept is simple; bling is in. And our batch was eager to contribute its share.
Saturday night. The first time we went to Blue Waters. The guys, being as chivalrous as they are, offered to go and find autos for all of us. Being sixteen people in total meant at least 5 autos. The next fifteen minutes were spent arguing about who should go with whom and in which auto. I’m telling you, guys, for all their passion for simple logic, have this insane tendency to complicate things. To add to all the confusion, it started pouring while we stood there waiting. (Note to self – waterproof makeup is definitely the way to go in Manipal, and if you’re that stunningly beautiful, just skip the makeup. There’s no uglier face than a mascara stained one with patches of running foundation, trust me).
Finally on our way. The lights in Manipal aren’t really that great at night, which means the hills simply look like a big mass of black lumps… it doesn’t really make for easy navigating. Yet the auto drivers do it with ease, although the bumpy roads mean that your insides are flung about against your ribs until they’re beating to a primitive rhythm of their own.
Blue Waters is brightly lit at night, most of all the signboard bearing its name; the sign, predictably, is in fluorescent blue. Good thing is it’s hard to get lost on your way. It’s a straight road and you simply follow the fluorescent light all the way, quite like moths being attracted to a light bulb.
