Madras- Looking Back.

I know the title sounds precocious/pretentious, like I'm some 70-year-old aunty from Mylapore. Well, that was how The Hindu invited articles for its Madras Week celebrations, which happened to coincide with the week C,D and Sarbee left. The article had to be under 250 words, describing what one missed most about Madras.

And since Nxg amputated most of it and A wanted me to send her the whole article... It's easier this way, and a specimen of unwarranted sappiness can only cut the acidity a little bit, right? Here goes.

The thing I miss the most is not calling it Madras anymore! To call it by any other name sounds wrong and forced. I frantically whip out my Digicam on the rare instances I see an old board or building which still has Madras in the place of Chennai.

Seriously, though, I miss the people I grew up with; they made Madras what it is for me.. we discovered the Beach, Sathyam Cinemas, Sports Day at Nehru stadium, Apartment parties and multi-cultural festivals together.

The ones who forced you to go along to plays, French classes at L'Alliance Francais, hole-in-the-wall eateries/posh restaurants (pooling all our money for two cups of coffee), swimming classes, summer camps, entrance coaching (the horror!), birthdays, shopping at the July sales, convocations and weddings. Living in every nook and cranny of Madras, half my allowance spent on fuel/transport.

The ones who've migrated in search of greener pastures, who inevitably shed tears each time they leave, taking bits of Madras in their within-allowed-limits luggage and leaving people-shaped holes behind. What I don’t miss are the goodbyes at the airport. And entrance coaching. Can do without them.

-Seyed Rabia

(Recently finished M.B.B.S. at Sree Balaji Medical College & Hospital)

They printed the first paragraph and the bit about recently finishing MBBS. Yeah, not embarrassing at all.

Birthday. Not mine.

I have a penchant for the weird and the dramatic. Anything normal I automatically discard in favour of the obscure.

And this has been a life-long thing for me. Occasionally though, normalcy creeps into my life. Dark-washed skinny jeans, engineer/doctor career options and a hugely sensible friend.

This hugely sensible friend (let’s call her S), I met in the eleventh standard. The academic year started off with me being bitter because all the friends I had made so far had been cleaved from my life and thrown into different sections. The girls I gave my tenth boards with were all scary smart, witty and frankly, a little crazy. Hear me out.

We made a hue and cry when the waiter at Café Coffee Day didn’t do his job (dude, 100 bucks seems like a lot of money for a cup of coffee when you’re 14. Actually, it still does). We coined semi-bitchy, self-praising jingles for Sports Day (actually, I did, but the others were game enough to chant along. Sports Day had all of us on a high, not necessarily because of the adrenaline, but more because of the caffeinated drinks and sugary bars of chocolate). These girls helped me tide the crimson wave, every month (not fun, especially with pink uniforms and puberty menorrhagia and whatnot). They didn’t make a fuss about eating; created a riot synonymous with pathu-ruba people at posh theatres whilst watching The Ring; and most importantly, they never forgot birthdays.

Cut to Day One, Eleventh Standard.

How do you expect a class of geeks who’d decided to study Mathematics, Biology, Physics and Chemistry to be? Fun is not the word you’re looking for, mes amies. These girls seemed kind (ew), sweet (double ew) and were the save-the-world-types (ew, ew, ew, ew, ew).
I went back home that day and wrote a poem about how much I missed my friends. I really did. The poem is trash, but it was heartfelt. It still makes me miss them all over again, even though they are still very much a part of my life (even the annoying ones).

Within the first week, we were subjected to the horrors of a medical examination. Yes, it includes checking your weight. In front of the whole damn class. And if that’s painful, a visual acuity test isn’t far behind. After a year in Ophthalmology, I’ve come to realize that there is no point in asking us myopes to try reading the stupid chart without our glasses. Heard of Astigmatism? The world is just a blur to us, sans glasses.

So while we were in the line (no, it wasn’t a queue. Despite being in the eleventh standard, we were still made to sit cross-legged on the floor, in pairs), I tentatively remarked on how I should go memorize the letters on the chart… not too many, that would definitely arouse suspicion. A couple of girls in the S’s giggled. Fuelled by the response, I started shooting my mouth off way more than I should, and ended up being best friends with both of the S’s.

S was a recent graduate of a CBSE school. She was a topper there, and though I didn’t know it at the time, she would be a topper when she left this school too. I usually can’t stand people with a perpetual smile on their faces; she’s been one exception. Can’t stand those who wear their shoes, size goody-two, either. Nope, not an exception, it’s exasperating at times.

But. She’s game for a cup of coffee before an exam; a movie on the day of the board exam results (not that she’d have to worry); waiting until midnight for Ashish Nehra to turn up; Spencers’ every single day of our board holidays (7 years back, it was kind of cool, OK?); double biryani on Eid; bursting the scariest crackers on Diwali; cruising around like she owns the city on a Scooty Pep; covered for me with my folks and she has the coolest sister who’d come back from the US with goody bags filled with chocolates and lipgloss.
She even came to the Tamil remake of Bhoot. Shock, it’s called. Apt. It features a love scene between Prashant and Meena’s thunder thighs. That is shocking. For that alone, she deserves a post. For that and for the yummy food her mum stuffs us with every Diwali.

But this post is mostly because it’s her birthday. Her birthday kind of signals that mine is coming up, so it’s even cooler. And inevitably brings back memories of the surprise party my tenth AND twelfth friends (weird how I still label them that) threw us at Hyderabad (I unwittingly helped plan it, even). And no more praising her, because I’ve a feeling she’s going to be around for long.

Happy 23rd, Sail-um-yeah!

The Great Indian Marriage and other stories.

Yes. I have the audacity to reclaim my miniscule plot on Blogspot with a post on something as outdated and tiresome as the Great Indian Marriage. Maybe a little throwback, or tribute, to my first post.

What set this off was a conversation I had with a friend of mine this past week. We were navigating through the perilous Road Rash-y post-office hours’ traffic, in the concrete jungle that Chennai is turning out to be.

This friend, let’s call her N, was navigating through the noise and metal, with practiced ease. I don’t have to tell you that scary-good driving skills and thinness are two traits I’m awed by. I remarked how jealous (and proud, but I didn’t say that out loud) I was of her.

She had a job she enjoyed, a purple Charles & Keith bag, over 500 friends on Facebook, the like. She’s the type who gets free freaking-expensive spa coupons, eats at every new hotspot (from Kobe to Momo Mia) and “parties like a rockstar.” Oh, and also a solid education, a sunny disposition, and a usually supportive family.

She rolls her eyes, and takes me by surprise. “I’m going to die alone, anyway. I’ll live with my cats, and then, I’ll, like, DIE. Alone.” Quote, unquote, all hers.

Really, how have we all got the idea that marriage is what puts the OK seal on us? Education-to-Post Graduation-to-Respectable Job-to-Marriage-One car, Two kids. I’m not saying that there is anything wrong with that “Tried & Tested!” formula, but deviating from it makes us incompetent failures?

As is the norm, my religious beliefs make me feel guilty for even typing this. Those who deny marriage are not of the Sunnah, not of Islam. I’m not denying marriage. I just think that Society should shove its crap mores/expectations/pressures up its own ass.

Random house guests should gulp down their chai, eat their kheema samosas and the "foreign-chocolates" their hosts are kind enough to serve, make small talk as random as themselves, discuss the weather/politics and leave, thanks very much. Were they brought up so badly that they think it’s alright to ask why their hosts’ daughter is still unmarried? It’s permissible to ask if they genuinely cared or were close enough, of course. But that condescending tone of voice, just because their 16-year-old is “fixed” (by that I don’t mean splayed, even if the 16-year-old in question looks like a small domestic animal), their 17-year-old has been given away with a big house and car, or their 18-year-old is *blush* “conceived” for the second time?

Even more annoying are the prissy missys (I couldn’t resist that) themselves. These children, born in the nineties, deem themselves mature and experienced enough to offer advice. Somehow, they are glorified, teased and loved by the public; whilst the rest of the world gets labeled sluts if they dared talk to someone they’ve been seeing for five years. Maybe I should be more vocal about how I have access to information and drugs/instruments that kill without a trace.

But. At the end of the day.

We’re the outcasts. We’ve studied something other than half-a-B.A. Lit course; maybe even courses that span over 5 years. We wear skinny jeans (not to give ourselves orgasms, as is oft-speculated). We occasionally swear. We cycle or trek. We dance to dapan-koothu or we hip-hop (or try to, at the very least). We save lives (or check BP, PR, and other edu-pudi work), build buildings (drafts, anyway)/websites, study at Ivy Leagues. We’re blessed with an amazing group of intelligent, funny and annoying friends. We might be lucky enough to have understanding families, who stick up for us.

Some of us, may even have that “special somebody.” Corny, but true. For reasons that cannot be explained easily, or for the reasons best undisclosed, it might not be possible to marry them just yet. I’m not degrading the sanctity of marriage. I’ve seen too many happily married people (as opposed to the Smug-Marrieds, a la Bridget Jones)… Marriage has made them blossom; they are still kick-ass and non-judgmental, and their husbands are guys who know they’re lucky. And they get the “When will you make us grandparents?” torture, so we’ll excuse them.

After dealing with the brutal albeit over-dramatic circumstances Life has thrown my way, after years of depressing do-or-die decisions… I’m warning you that it just isn’t compelling enough to throw away everything, and rush into an incompatible marriage, in a tired attempt to fit in or keep family happy. Those fitting-in issues, sister, you should’ve worked them out by eleventh standard, maximum.

I’m not a hypocrite. I keep website-surfing for engagement rings myself; citrine diamonds and emerald, rose-cut, princess-cut, square cut… from Bvlgari to Jaipur Gems. Do not accuse me of dropping hints.

It would be different to have a Dr and an Mrs in front of my name. Weird, but nice. You know how “Mrs.” is usually vomit-inducing and reminiscent of Bree van der Kamp? Turns out it isn’t, when you actually find the Dr/Mr. you’re meant to be with.

When it happens, it happens. And “it’ll be good.” And until then, Life will happen. Why change or meddle when the going is uncharacteristically good? Settling down, fantastic; settling for, not so much...

And for the otherwise engaged. Forcing and putting pressure on yourself or the guy can only be detrimental. Right?

Swing in the rain!

Never mind the title. It's just something my cousin sang, and now it's stuck to my head.
Oh, it isn't Gene Kelly. It's Vadivel's version. She's an ardent fan of his, and can rattle off the daily programme schedule on KTV, even in deep REM sleep.
So, to my brether Mark, and nanba, happy V-day (will not mention the V word. The day where the Saffron men torture 'dating couples'. Ew. Those words stimulate the vomiting centre in my medulla.) At least this promotes unity between communities. They've copped this idea off the Arabs. The Muttawa are the feared religious police in Saudi Arabia; they whip you if you've been naughty. Exposing a strand of hair, talking with a non-incestuous guy in public (private spells D-E-A-T-H), the like. I'm just saying. Not judging.

So. What is the point really? Not of living. I've realized long since that living is not something you can get out of. Not legally or easily anyway.
I mean, what is the point of everything that happens around us?

I'm not channeling Carrie Bradshaw. Just for self-satisfaction, and general knowledge, I want to know. I HAVE to know.

Why immolate oneself in the name of the Lankan crisis? Why? I will not rest in peace until I know the answer to this one.
Is it to get cash from the government? Or getting out of the suicide stigma? Because you hate the world and want to punish us all, by getting colleges closed?
And why close colleges? With the economic recession et al, nobody wants to smash buses or stage protests. They just want to vomit the little that they've amassed into their exam papers, pass and leave to some place where no one knows who they are.

Exams in 6 days and counting. Stomach feels like a washing machine. Reduced to watching horrible movies like Norbit to escape from the voices (my weak conscience, not from my head). Voices in one's head.. . Schizophrenia. I do not know what I'd write if it's a short note in Medicine Paper II.

This is beyond bad.

Hello? Is anybody there?

I haven't disbanded the blog; it isn't dead. It is in need of defibrillation, though.

I've realized that I can't be acidic as I want (not because I've seen the light or the art of living or whatever), thanks to people, including, a parent, guessing my identity. Thanks, C.

So.

I had to blog today, because I had another viva in Orthopaedics, which wasn't atrocious. Not as bad as the last one. I was almost happy, until my Professor suggested I take it up for my PG, as there are so few female orthopaedicians, and that I was built for it. Being built to wield a mallet and bone chisel? Not the best thing.

I still wish I was at Fruit Shop, with a Jughead's Special, but not as much. Being a doctor? Not a bad prospect. Not as bad as being a medical student, at any rate.

OK. Done being pink, fluffy, happy. For the week. Cut that. Month.

Yay. I posted.

Of Medicine, Medicine and Medi-freaking-cine.

Since I've been called Grumpy/Grot/Droopy in various languages for a long time now, I've got to set the record straight.

Blogging is therapeutic, almost spiritual for me. If you happen to ask around at my college, what my peers would probably say about me was that I was a cheerful, bubbly girl who whoo-hoos at every given opportunity. I am that. But the adolescent part of me, it never dies. That angst, that rebellious drive surfaces way too many times and that is when I bid Adieu in the most sugarcoated voice I can summon up so as to not blow my cover, and instead, I blog.

Modern-day Clark Kent I am, only my Superman avatar wears hideous pajamas and scribbles furiously in a journal or calls up similarly-inclined friends and people-bashes. When I'm at college, I throw away my 2000-page Surgery text and hide myself behind the monitor and type away. This is my comforting foetal postion (way more comforting than my mother's womb, anyway).

This blog is a sincere appeal for all those who ever plan on taking up a 7-year-but-feels-like-a-gazillion-years course of MBBS.
This is my fifth year in this course, and I can tell you that IT SUCKS. Don't EVER take it. Even if you are a masochist. Wear a cilice. Commit death by slow starvation. Slowly pull out your fingernails using an artery forceps. DO NOT TAKE MBBS.

Your life will be redefined. You will cease to be a human being. You're a medical student. That's all you are.
Your happiness would be scoring 50% in your daily internal assessment (minimum needed to qualify write the exams). You will be juggling 14 subjects for 6 years, and mostly let them all slip.
You will have to write case histories, perform various tests with ease and MUG up humongous amounts of material. Humongous. In a matter of hours.
Occasionally, you can eat. Maybe treat yourself to a little nap. Whoo hoo. Thoo, thoo, more like.

Fine. Why do I sound so venomous?

I just screwed up my Orthopaedics viva. I could not list out all the clinical features of a Colle's fracture. And my sir had no qualms about saying that even a 2nd year student could breeze through that.

All I want is to a nurse a Jughead's Special in the fruit-scented, air conditioned environment of Fruit Shop on Greams Road. Is that too much to ask for?

It apparently is. I'll be going now. Got an exam on Diabetes in Pregnancy in a couple of hours. Whoo hoo!

Why Blogger is a Pain In The Ass (PITA) - a critical overview.

Newspaper supplements are now dime-a-dozen. The main paper looks starkly anaemic, once these supplements slide out, in all their million-colour glory.

And I'm still addicted to them. Jessica Alba's baby showers. A chronological look at Dhoni's hairstyles. Slapstick articles on Chennai's auto-kaars. Yes, yes, yes.

One of the reasons why Blogs don't have that kind of appeal anymore. Because supplements are available on your doorstep, no WiFi, no Username/Password required. And you can read them on your train journeys (a very important prerequisite).

Now that the excuses are out of the way.

I blog now, for the sake of Refuge. Results are going to be posted any minute now. Two floors down, in the Lounge, for all to see and mock.

The pass percentage for my juniors was roughly around 32%. Such is Medical Education.

When Life crashes around you, you can do little but sit down and laugh. At least, that is how it works for me.

Scenario 1:
Dad/Paediatrics HOD/Misc. Authority figures: You have immensely disappointed me/let us down very badly/Didn't expect this from you of all people..
Moi: *Giggle* I'm sorr- *Snort*

Scenario 2:
Lame-ass loser classmate: *Hoots/Grunts/Catcalls as I walk past* Or asks intelligent questions like "Ethana maasam?" when I ask the Professor to excuse me from class on the account of nausea/claustrophobia.
Moi: Asshole. *Laugh*

My mobile is ringing. Presumably, with news of the Results. Nobody would call if I flunked, right? Who wants to be the bearer of bad news? Especially, to me?

Anywhoo.

I do not want to pick it up. If I pretend Results don't exist, they'd just go away. And I can continue surfing the Skinny Website. At least, for the next 5 minutes.