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.
Ribbit Ribbit …
Another soggy Wednesday morning. The amphibian lab.
Our first amphibian practical had us all slightly grossed out. In my parents’ time, they had to dissect the frogs themselves, but now all we had to do was watch as the professor did it. Probably to spare the poor frogs any more brutality than necessary.
The initial experiments were all to do with muscle stimulation, so all we got to see was a single muscle with a nerve attached to it. Not too hard on the eyes. It was when we got to the amphibian heart experiments that our tolerance was severely tested.
In front of our eyes, the professor took a pithed frog ( a procedure in which the frog’s spinal cord is damaged by twisting a needle through it- ironically, it’s supposed to be a humane procedure to spare the frog any more pain) and made an incision on its chest.
She then cut through the frog’s ribcage with a pair of scissors and extricated the heart, which, to our mingled horror and fascination, was still beating. As if this weren’t enough, she suspended the heart, so we could view it, by passing a hook through it.
And then, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, she launched into a description about conduction and ectopic pacemakers. For a few minutes, nothing she said registered. We were still trying to come to terms with the fact that a live frog had just had its heart impaled on a hook. How could she talk so matter-of-factly about it??
Something of our shock must’ve registered in our expressions because she stopped teaching. Looking us squarely in the eye, she repeated what she must have said to countless batches before us.
“I know this must come as a shock, but you have to get over it. The frog, although brain dead, is not feeling any pain and that’s the most we can do for it at this point. Sacrifices have to be made for the purpose of research, and we cannot experiment on our patients. If this frog helps save even one life in the future this experiment will have been worth it. As it stands, realise that it is both a privilege and a responsibility to work with experimental animals. Treat them, as such, with respect, just as you do the cadavers in dissection. Got it?”
“Yes ma’am.”
The rest of the class passed as usual, and we left within an hour. On my way out, however, I caught a glimpse of the frog tank. Somehow, the thought that frogs somewhere were being bred specifically to be killed undid all the cool logic the professor had tried to instil in us. It just couldn’t be right, that there was no other way.
I couldn’t reconcile myself to it then, and I’m not sure I’m completely ok with it even now. However, like they say, repetition breeds habit, and habit breeds indifference. Not like that’s a good thing. It just is.
Is there ice in your freezer?
Now when I say NRI, it should, by definition, mean any Indian born person who’s lived anywhere outside the country for a certain period of time – presumably most of their life. Somehow even this gets distorted in Manipal. One of my friends, a Californian, confessed that it’s just North Americans that come to mind when she hears the term NRI. Wait, allowances have to be made for Canadians right? Their friendly neighbours up north? You wish. My Canadian friends bear the brunt of endless jokes about their home. It ranges from “
to
“Border Patrol? Why would
to
“Hey, my drink’s not cold enough. Looks like they forgot to add the ice.
listen, would you mind blowing into this glass of water? Thanks a ton.”
Ha Ha. I’ve got to give the Maple Leaf Army credit though. They fight bravely. They’re just incredibly outnumbered by their bigger, more ostentatious neighbours.
What about the rest of us? No one’s spared. The
“Hey, are they house trained? Do they sleep with you in your tents?”
A couple of my classmates are from
Mauritians. We’ve never gotten round to making fun of them for any substantial reasons. For now, their accent is keeping people completely and relentlessly occupied. I love their French-tinged accent, but most people don’t even begin to understand it, and as a result, if you want to sound Mauritian, apparently all you have to do is ‘talk really really quickly and fling your voice about to hit the extremes of every octave you can think of.’
Somehow none of this really offends anyone. Everything’s in good fun and there’s nothing better than an avalanche of ice cubes or a crazy camel race to lift your spirits when you’re feeling down. After all, we ‘ave to understand that eet ees in the true spirit of fun, n’est-ce pas?
It’s an E, not an I … Understand? (nugget 3)
Accidents happen. They happen all the time.
One such accident introduced me to Eshita, and these mishaps have marked our friendship ever since. Eshi joined school a week late, and confusing as it is trying to find your way around a place for the first time, it’s even harder when the professors are throwing mutated Latin words at you hoping against hope you’ll catch atleast one of them.
I met my best friend in a class she wasn’t supposed to attend, having been assigned to another batch. As is typical of Eshi though, the shortest way tends to be the right one, and if it isn’t; well, atleast you didn’t spend too much energy getting there.
She arrived looking thoroughly confused, and sat down next to me. The moment we found out we were both from the Gulf we hit it off. A trademark of homesickness … I would’ve chatted up a baboon if it had told me it’d just come down from a summer holiday in
We walked out of class to another rainstorm, and were walking in no particular direction when a sudden gust of wind turned her umbrella inside out. For a moment we just stared at the umbrella and then burst out laughing. Maybe there was just something in the moment. People passing by stared at us as if we’d just lost it, and we fought the urge to poke them in the ribs with her now useless umbrella.
That was a year ago. I slowly learned things from Eshi that I never knew before. For example,
a) It is possible to keep a room so dirty that it repels insects.
b) The floor is as good a place as any to keep your clothes. Atleast you can
see them all at one go.
c) Granola bars are not a snack; they’re a way of life.
d) Makeup does not necessarily make you look like you’re 40.
e) Breakfast is a waste of time; time that could’ve been better utilised in
deep, refreshing, and completely unnecessary sleep.
f) It is possible to wake up at 7.58 a.m. and make it in time for an 8.00 a.m.
class (although I still believe she gets dressed on the run).
g) Food is completely optional for survival. A wholesome combination of
love, laughter, fresh air and Pepsi will do just as well.
h) It is possible to be extremely brilliant and extremely stupid at the same
time.
i) It is possible to laugh for hours on end for no apparent reason.
j) ESP is a useful talent to develop if your best friend has a cell phone whose
battery is always dead.
We made it through most of 1st MBBS with our sense of humour and joie de vivre intact. The only thing that really got her goat was when people spelt her name Ishita. She must’ve spent the first three months correcting our classmates over and over again – “It’s not I, it’s E … E for Eshita, E, E, E!!!” Wonder how many people kept repeating the mistake just to annoy her again. The message finally sank in and once this problem was sorted out, she was, predictably, swamped by new ones.
Open Sky
There's something about a clear blue sky. Maybe it's the fact that it stretches on forever, maybe it's the fact that the absence of a cloud cover in peak summer heat makes you wish you had some sort of supernatural control over the weather, but one way or another, it gets you thinking.
The sun-blaze ripe upon my face
Tells me to breathe free
Unhesitating.
A cloudless sky stretches wide,
Limitless in conception
Breathtaking.
For every man a throne to own
A song to sing from dusk to dawn
No ceiling on their wildest dreams
However childish they may seem.
I've always found it amusing when foreigners talk about a nice Indian summer....really? How can any weather that slowly chars you to a crisp be considered 'nice'? Oh well, to each his own. It's the middle of May, and all I'm saying is, i can hardly wait for it to pour...
Rainy days (contd.)
A couple of words to the wise… it’s best to understand some of the following things about the rains in Manipal –
1. No umbrella is effective enough, unless it comes equipped with a force field.
2. Wearing heels in the rain is a surefire way to lose both the shoes and an ankle.
3. Raincoats in Manipal have mutated over the years to resemble buffalo hide. If you’re into that sort of thing, get it from back home.
4. Never wear white clothes while going out in the evening. The fact that the transparent, bedraggled look worked wonders on Sri Devi is no guarantee that it’ll work on you. There’s a reason she’s the actress.
5. Even if you’re ten minutes late for class DO NOT run out the door in foam slippers.
The reason for suggestion number 5 is simple. I did.
One morning, as I left Interact on my way to a Physio practical, it began to pour. As expected, the umbrella did little to help. I figured my best bet was to run as fast as possible to the Physio building to avoid getting any wetter, although I was already saturated from head to toe. I suddenly found it difficult to lift my feet off the ground. Looking down, I realised I was wearing foam slippers that were by now completely filled with water and weighed about 20 times the original amount.
Alright, my brilliant and intuitive mind decided. If you can’t lift, slide. I then attempted to slide each foot forward one at a time, and ended up looking like one of those maimed penguins on the Discovery Channel.
After five minutes I was still pretty much where I’d started. Giving way to desperation, I shut off my ‘brilliant and intuitive mind’, took off my foam slippers and ran barefoot the rest of the way to practicals. Crude and effective. I’m told that was the way the West was won.
Of course, once I entered the lab, I expended the last of my energy coming up with an extremely elaborate and highly unlikely reason for not wearing any shoes. Even if I didn’t convince them, I’m sure I managed to confuse them, and no more was said.
For the time being, anyway.
Save it for a rainy day…
Like so much else in Manipal, the monsoon rains are the stuff of legends. Ok, nothing quite so dramatic, I assure you, but the rains in Manipal are still talked about all over the rest of the country. The monsoon season is the most eagerly awaited one in KMC, simply because there is only one other – summer. To my intense surprise, I found out that the season in December is known as summer, as is the season in May, both being interludes to fill in the gap between one monsoon and the next. Confusing? Try living in it.
When it does rain however, it does so with a vengeance. Storms that last for hours on end, flooding everything in their path. I’ve lost atleast four umbrellas to the cause in one rainy season alone. There’s something to be said for the rain though – it brings out the romantic in (almost) everyone. It’s not uncommon to see couples walking hand in hand through the rain, talking about things that don’t make sense to anyone but them, while grumpy singles follow at a safe distance behind, wishing they had someone to sacrifice an umbrella willingly for them.
The coffee shops do brilliant business this time of the year. My friends and I developed a routine during our first few months here. Every evening at 4, we’d leave dissection hall and wade our way through to the library. Now before you snort in contempt, let me make a couple of things clear.
The KMC Library is an extremely well-thought out piece of architecture. Six storeys of redbrick and glass sheets, a large lobby with leather couches, a group discussion centre, individual study rooms, an internet centre and (so I’m told) one of the best collections of textbooks, journals and periodicals in the country. Yet it’s not just the infrastructure that makes it worth the visit. The ground floor has a large Café Coffee Day outlet, to soothe minds tired from the pressures of studying.
We somehow worked in reverse, and herein lies the beauty of the system. Every evening we’d grab a cup of coffee … if I remember right it was Iced Caramels and Kaapi Nirvanas all through the first semester; sink into one of the maroon leather sofas and watch the rain outside, talking about inconsequential things. It’s truly the best way to build friendships – out of nothing.
An hour later, completely sated and unwound, we’d take out a couple of books and start studying right there. The atmosphere helped rid us of the boredom of work, and we always worked better with the music on. So much so that once we’d heard the CCD playlist for the nth time, we burned a CD and replaced their music with our own. It still plays there occasionally.
Monday, May 25, 2009
The Great Divide…
The first thing that struck me that week was the difference between the NRIs and the so called RIs. Circumstances in Manipal tend to force this difference out into the open. The NRIs first arrive with a slight superiority complex – not that I’m trying to generalise or anything- it just happens that way. Fresh accents, shades and a flair for smooth dressing. Maybe it takes practice, but give it a while and you can tell the NRIs just by the way they enter a room. Sounds blown out of proportion? Maybe. It’s always seemed apparent to me.
The RIs, on the other hand, have come from all over
What about Karnataka? Oddly enough, the state that houses Manipal hasn’t seemed to produce too many students either rich or smart enough to get into Manipal. A handful got in through the quota reserved for them in the Karnataka Central Entrance Test (K-CET). These are, by definition, the hallowed nerds in class. In other words, they’re the ones who actually bother to study, and actually do well. The reasoning behind this is simple, and can be illustrated by the following extremely simple laws –
1. The final score obtained is directly proportional to the amount of mindless cramming attained.
2. The final score obtained is directly proportional to the hours spent in prayer the day of the exam and the degree of luck to which the student is accustomed.
3. The final score obtained is completely unrelated to the level of intelligence of the individual.
4. The final score obtained is never, ever enough.
I learnt this the hard way, but it was a good lesson to have learned. Sometimes I wonder if, had I known this, it would have made a difference at all. Knowing me though, I think not. Not studying is simply a congenital defect; atleast that’s what I always blame my lack of concentration on.
So where did I figure in the pot-pourri of nationalities? Well, I’m technically an NRI, having been brought up in
Dis-Orientation (nugget 2)
Sometime in July 2006 –
come all ye greenhorns,
Joyful and triumphant,
Come ye o come ye
To medical school …
I wonder, I wonder. That morning, I woke up with an extraordinary amount of butterflies and assorted woodland creatures assaulting my stomach and senses. It was the day of my orientation and the mood at home was jubilant, to say in the least. It was only the second time I was going to the university, the last time having been for my counselling.
As we drove into Manipal, the view pushed all thoughts of medicine out of my mind for the time being. There’s this one slope that you encounter just before entering Manipal, and the scenery still takes my breath away. Green dreams, blue sky and white bird song… oh yeah, and the omnipresent monkeys. But those are another story in the telling.
We drove into campus and past the newly erected monuments to NRI funding. I’ll tell you one thing; Manipal puts its money to good use. And by Manipal, I mean MAHE, or the Manipal Academy for Higher Education. To anyone who’s been there a couple of days, it becomes increasingly apparent that the two are indeed synonymous with each other. The University town has gained increasing prominence over the years, and now attracts students from all over the world, most of who were to become my classmates that year.
As the car rolled into the drive at Valley View International, I looked around apprehensively, but the drive was devoid of people, packed to the limit instead with Ambassadors, the pride of Indian roads( indeed, the only vehicles that can survive them). Was I late? Had the orientation been postponed? Had I read the venue wrong? Ok, calm down. Breathe. I walked into the foyer, and inside was pandemonium. Representatives from KMC Manipal was frantically ushering people upstairs, to Chaitya Hall, where the orientation programme was supposed to be held. Nothing short of a miracle, the Chief Guest was on time. I entered the packed hall and sat down with my parents.
Shortly after, the programme began, and then followed a series of speeches you couldn’t pay me to remember. I get it, medicine is a worthy profession; hard as hell, and therefore we were all fine specimens of humanity for attempting it. All I could think of was “Where on earth is the food?” Amazing how those supposedly motivational speeches had practically no effect on me. At the end of the programme, however, we were told to stand up. With a deafening scrape of chairs, the entire student body stood up as one. Slowly, hesitantly, we were made to repeat the Hippocratic oath. My first taste of the responsibility medicine would bring with it.
The only part of the entire programme I remember with clear detail was an address by Dr. Shakuntala Pai, or Shak Pai as she’s now (affectionately) called. She was supposed to give us a brief overview of the rules that we were to follow as students during our term in school. I was looking up at the Powerpoint presentation when a pair of worn out bathroom slippers appeared and she very sternly told us not to wear bathroom ‘chappals’ to class- ever- a rule which, true to form, I broke during the next one week (unintentionally, of course).
White symbolises purity and hence our coats were to remain spotless throughout the year. Easily enough said, but I challenge anyone who’s attended a histology class to prevent the eosin and haematoxylin dyes from having their share of fun.
Every other rule was punctuated by a reference to vegetable biryani, which I realised she must’ve had a fetish for. Still, she was the most entertaining part of the morning, and I was sorry to see the back of her.
This was followed by a break for lunch and then we were taken in batches to all the buildings where our classes would be held for the year. For the first time I got to see the people I would be spending the year with. A medley of accents emerged from the group, mostly North American and Canadian; N.B. – there is definitely a difference between the two, and they will never let you forget it. A few from the Middle East, conspicuous by their lack of an accent, Singaporean, Australian, Mauritian and Kenyan. To be honest, I was vaguely intimidated by all the diversity.
The only other thing I remember about that afternoon was the amount of walking involved. The buildings sprawled over a large distance and we ran from one department to another, bumping into other batches on the way. Anat, Physio and Biochem ... the words buzzed in my brain as I tried to find landmarks that would help me identify the buildings the next time round. As expected, I failed miserably. I mean, c’mon, how is one large tree different from another large tree, especially when observed while running past them?
I met very few people that day, mostly because I was in a hurry to get out of there – the weather was disgusting, as usual. Also, as a home-scholar, which was the term given to people who lived off campus, I’d missed out on the whole initial bonding that comes from moving into the hostels. I knew practically no one there, and yet they all seemed to know one another. It was as if I’d missed out on a very crucial part of university, more vital, perhaps, than the classes themselves. Anyway, I assured myself, it wasn’t so bad. That was probably why medicine was a 5 and ½ year course, to give everyone a chance to make the same friends three times over. On that vaguely happy note, I left the orientation as the first evening shower joined it.
Prologue (nugget 1)
There's a story behind everything, and I'll tell this one in parts. the posts may be randomly, arranged, interspersed among remaining, unrelated posts, kinda like nuggets. Which is precisely what I'll call them.
Medicine. I’ve long given up on any notions that claim exactly how noble this profession is. It has become a standing joke among my friends that med school teaches you to appreciate the pain of other people by putting you through unbearable suffering to begin with. Oddly enough, a year into the programme and I’ve begun to see the truth of this statement for myself.
It all starts off as expected. A little kid with stars in your eyes, doting parents and grandparents constantly drill it into your head that medicine is a wonderful profession, that people will respect you and according to one of my distant aunts ( whom I’m sure we’re not related to) give you free upgrades on the flight of your choice. Jeez, and you mean to tell me people still don’t see the merit in the long and winding road of medicine?
Of course, there’s also the fairly respectable alternative –engineering. Any self-respecting Indian child will only consider one of these professions as a suitable after- school option. Makes you wonder then, have we killed creativity? Funny, isn’t it, that we rarely hear of the neighbour’s child going off to Turkey for a course in anthropology … or even a summer course in Middle Eastern philosophy. The annual turnover of doctors and engineers, though, is enough to populate yet another country. We’re amassing a workforce of professionals for jobs that don’t exist. And we call this progress.
However, before I digress any further, this story is about my experiences. Medicine, for all the amount I am liable to curse it, it the only option I ever considered. I could never imagine myself doing anything else – ever. And my parents heartily approved. Oh wait, I haven’t told you yet, have I? They’re both doctors as well.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
I watched 'The Fountain' a year or so ago. And while I have to admit that some parts of the movie were confusing, I found the overall theme pretty interesting. So much so, that i followed it up with an interpretation of my own...
Stretch your fingers out
Gently towards that leaf, it beckons
Tenderly caress its essence, for it
Might free you from captivity.
Would you grant a portion of your soul
In exchange for a life never ending?
Infidel winds may distract you, yet believe it is
Yours for the taking.
May new life flow through your blood
And your capacities soar to the heavens
Perhaps life is an illusion, a grandmaster’s trick
To bend our minds to convention.
Restore to yourself your visions of old
And unto them be true forever,
For the greatest who saw, often turned blind
To all else but their own intention.
Ancient bark binds you, yet your freedom is rife
In the air that consumes you tonight
Once upon a time is once upon a life
The distinction is often purely in the mind.
Temper your vitality with prudence,
Simmering under your skin,
Everlasting life begins, often times
With the death of all boundaries within.
Tread softly on unknown ground. Dolce.
Reach for that leaf. Again.
It might free you from captivity.
And the idealist who saved it...
"Trust not, want not, hurt not"... a self styled cynic said this to me a while back. "Don't trust the government... politicians will bring our downfall. Don't trust the drug companies... everything's pretty much adulterated. Don't expect great success and happiness from your job. I should know, i hate mine. Don't dream big... it hurts when they are crushed beneath you. Don't believe you're going to end up with your current partner. Chances are, you will outgrow each other soon enough. Don't do any of these things, and you stand a shot at being happy."
Happy? Since when did always playing it safe become a by-word for being content? What's wrong with taking risks and living a little? With refusing to accept your lot and doing whatever it takes to change it? Passion unbridled, even if destructive, is still a sign of life. "I'd rather be let down by my expectations than lose sight of them," I returned, ever the idealist.
He smiled at me. And shook his head.
Naive, naive, naive.
And like an annoying little tune that refuses to get out of your head, it's circling me constantly, reminding me that my years (or lack of them) have so far spared me what i fear the most... the inevitable demise of hope. And for that, I'm truly thankful.
