It usually starts like this.
First, there is an invitation by phone. Pleasantaries are exchanged. The good news is passed on from network to network; landline to mobile to internet. Then comes the invitation by post. It is usually glittery with gold and silver paint on it and the usual images of auspicious Hindu Gods and Goddesses. Then comes the constant commentary from my parents about the details of...... The next wedding in the family.
I have always paused to question why I have such an aversion to attend weddings. Usually my family has to plead, convince, threaten, demand and finally resort to emotional blackmail to make me attend one. That happens only after I have exhausted ALL the options of excusing myself from the event. I don't have a big range of excuses. Since I am blessed with one exam every month, I can manipulate and juggle details, so that the wedding day becomes the most crucial arc of my educational curve. My folks eventually saw through it.
Since I am a born miser, and always seem to be down in finances, the amount of money spent on an average wedding unnerves me. Even my bai spent a fortune on her daughter's wedding. The other fact, of course, is that all the money is usually sourced by the bride's family. Which I know is not going to change for a long long time. And another point to be noted is the ease with which most brides assume that the wedding will be financed by their hardworking parents.
Usually just before any wedding, my social conscience awakens and sudden feelings of social injustice to women(read:arranged marriages) and hypocrisy of the society, surface in my soul. This has begun to happen due to two incidents. In the first one, a very educated relative of mine started bantering about my wedding. It was nauseating. He said that it would become very difficult to find a educated groom if I reached late-twenties. And if I didn't marry soon, I would be lonely for the rest of my life. All this, when I was 18. Basically it was bullshit. At another wedding, an uncle of mine presided over the wedding. He has the distinction of having already married off his two daughters as child-brides.
This is not all. If you are still reading this and know me well..... I hate to dress up!!! I hate wearing salwar kameez, plaiting my hair, bangles, earrings and all that comes with it. The most shudder-ful chapter of this is sticking flowers into my hair. I have failed to understand why women find pleasure in poking reproductive organs of plants into their hair.
The climax of my aversion to weddings comes from the endless repetitiveness of it. Each wedding may be special for the families involved. But for seasoned audience like me, it is mind-boggling repetition of the same rituals, same reception, same comments, same jokes.
The only solace for me is the good food. I can't wait to start eating the minute I reach the venue. Especially the desserts. Sometimes, I don't mind sticking a hundred pins into my head just to eat 5 plates of butterscotch icecream without anyone suspecting.
Now, you would wonder why I bothered to write this piece.
Please DON'T invite me to your wedding. I would prefer an icecream at good old Aditi's.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Tomorrow is another day
It has been a black day today. As visuals and news about the siege at Mumbai’s hotels permeates through my living room, I am filled with despair and sadness. Sadness; for all the mindless tragedy that is unfolding, for all the innocent people held hostage, for the families of our police officers, the celebrated faces as well as the unknown men who have been matyred.
Terrorism is hateful and terrorists are the scum of the earth. I find it hard to conceive what drives these men, what ideologies they believe and live by. To see young men so blinded by religious hate and bigotry , stooping to such cold-blooded, planned, mass murder is scary as well as shocking. Honestly, I am myself surprised by my irrational sadness and fear. It isn’t as if Mumbai is new to terrorist attacks-we have had enough of them in the past too…I think the answer lies in the “we have had enough” phrase, in the sense of déjà vu’, the sense of hopelessness. Truly, in this case, familiarity doesn’t breed contempt: familiarity breeds fear.
News channels have said it’s the worse attack in India till date. Though they were speaking in terms of numbers, I somehow feel that the psychology of it hurts even more. It was an attack which began at night and then it raged on throughout the night when people were unaware and blissfully asleep. I feel guilty about dismissing the initial reports as hyperbole, for believing that things would settle down in an hour or two with some expendable collateral damage. I feel guilty that while such happenings were unfolding outside, I was cooped up all-night within the closed air-conditioned confines of my room, more bothered with trying to tick off ‘Topics to be read” on my list for my exam. It was only when my Mom woke up at 3.30 a.m to see the TV and as news of deaths of the ATS chief himself along with other key aides filtered through; I realized the enormity and the scale of the attacks. While I swotted, Mumbai burnt.
I feel bad for the families of the police officers. Nobody could have ever imagined that a response to a late-night distress call could have such horrific circumstances. It was only yesterday morning that I had seen Hemant Karkare speaking to the media and then to know 24 hours later of his death was disturbing, to say the least. Same holds true for the deaths of the other top-brass. These were men, highly trained and highly reputed and if they could be shot down like that, then it underlines how even more vulnerable we all are.
The hotel Taj has always been a landmark of Mumbai. Many people, including my relatives from Orissa on coming down here, in the early Nineties, would go to see the Gateway and then marvel at the hotel Taj. People have been known to sit in the till-now free-for-all lobby of the Taj, gape, gawk and then go back home with stars in their eyes. The Taj has always been synonymous with the glamour and allure of Mumbai. But as the dome of the Taj burnt, as smoke and dust swirled around, it metaphorically seemed as if even my hopes and dreams were being reduced to ashes.
Yes, Mumbai has always been the city of dreams. 22 years ago when my Mom came to the city as a new bride from a small town in Orissa, she was considered lucky by most friends and well-wishers. But now, most parents have become wary of sending kids here, partly due to the attacks and partly due to MNS propanganda ( But let me not digress into that story). People have always emigrated with high hopes to this city, believing nothing is impossible but this has virtually been a death-knell for us. As Sonia Gandhi has put it rightly, ‘It’s not only about security, it’s also about prestige”. I think the usual noises will be made about “the spirit of Mumbai” and all that but I think it is all pure bullshit now. I think, this time, average Mumbaikars like me have been tested beyond the limits of endurance.
Politicians have started descending like vultures, making the right noises at the wrong time as usual. But frankly the security lapses are deplorable. This isn’t the first time nor will it be the last time. These terrorists crossed the international borders at the sea unintercepted and they sailed right below the noses of the Coast Guards and the Navy undetected to arrive at the Gateway. This only highlights the loopholes and the deficiencies that exist in our border patrolling and the entry-exit checkpoints into the country. If exclusive places like the Taj and the Trident with their well-oiled security mechanisms could have been rendered so vulnerable to infiltration and internal attacks, then spare a thought for the other rowdy, crowded public places in Mumbai. And to add salt to our wounds, we have e-mails from these terror outfits mocking our inefficiency and the bitter reality that “the Army and ATS do not have the weaponry to deal with ours sophisticated weapons”.
Now I am not an analyst. I don’t know and neither want to know the hows and whys of these attacks, the funding, the finances, the brains and the technicalities. All I care for as an ordinary self-respectable citizen, is an assurance of safety, the right to live without fear and the right to plan for innocuous things like an exam-ending celebration, a lunch date, a movie outing with friends and other such simple pleasures.
But is wishful thinking right? Because it is a war brewing out there right now. No easy solutions and no easy answers. In the last hour or so that I’ve spent typing this out, the situation outside still remains unchanged like over the past 24 hours…everything is in a limbo while we wait for a reasonable resolution with bated breaths and anxious eyes. In the meantime, there’s nothing much we can do except hope and pray, wait and watch…
All of you, reading this keep your fingers crossed and be safe…Take care and God bless.
P.S. Please think b4 u comment
Terrorism is hateful and terrorists are the scum of the earth. I find it hard to conceive what drives these men, what ideologies they believe and live by. To see young men so blinded by religious hate and bigotry , stooping to such cold-blooded, planned, mass murder is scary as well as shocking. Honestly, I am myself surprised by my irrational sadness and fear. It isn’t as if Mumbai is new to terrorist attacks-we have had enough of them in the past too…I think the answer lies in the “we have had enough” phrase, in the sense of déjà vu’, the sense of hopelessness. Truly, in this case, familiarity doesn’t breed contempt: familiarity breeds fear.
News channels have said it’s the worse attack in India till date. Though they were speaking in terms of numbers, I somehow feel that the psychology of it hurts even more. It was an attack which began at night and then it raged on throughout the night when people were unaware and blissfully asleep. I feel guilty about dismissing the initial reports as hyperbole, for believing that things would settle down in an hour or two with some expendable collateral damage. I feel guilty that while such happenings were unfolding outside, I was cooped up all-night within the closed air-conditioned confines of my room, more bothered with trying to tick off ‘Topics to be read” on my list for my exam. It was only when my Mom woke up at 3.30 a.m to see the TV and as news of deaths of the ATS chief himself along with other key aides filtered through; I realized the enormity and the scale of the attacks. While I swotted, Mumbai burnt.
I feel bad for the families of the police officers. Nobody could have ever imagined that a response to a late-night distress call could have such horrific circumstances. It was only yesterday morning that I had seen Hemant Karkare speaking to the media and then to know 24 hours later of his death was disturbing, to say the least. Same holds true for the deaths of the other top-brass. These were men, highly trained and highly reputed and if they could be shot down like that, then it underlines how even more vulnerable we all are.
The hotel Taj has always been a landmark of Mumbai. Many people, including my relatives from Orissa on coming down here, in the early Nineties, would go to see the Gateway and then marvel at the hotel Taj. People have been known to sit in the till-now free-for-all lobby of the Taj, gape, gawk and then go back home with stars in their eyes. The Taj has always been synonymous with the glamour and allure of Mumbai. But as the dome of the Taj burnt, as smoke and dust swirled around, it metaphorically seemed as if even my hopes and dreams were being reduced to ashes.
Yes, Mumbai has always been the city of dreams. 22 years ago when my Mom came to the city as a new bride from a small town in Orissa, she was considered lucky by most friends and well-wishers. But now, most parents have become wary of sending kids here, partly due to the attacks and partly due to MNS propanganda ( But let me not digress into that story). People have always emigrated with high hopes to this city, believing nothing is impossible but this has virtually been a death-knell for us. As Sonia Gandhi has put it rightly, ‘It’s not only about security, it’s also about prestige”. I think the usual noises will be made about “the spirit of Mumbai” and all that but I think it is all pure bullshit now. I think, this time, average Mumbaikars like me have been tested beyond the limits of endurance.
Politicians have started descending like vultures, making the right noises at the wrong time as usual. But frankly the security lapses are deplorable. This isn’t the first time nor will it be the last time. These terrorists crossed the international borders at the sea unintercepted and they sailed right below the noses of the Coast Guards and the Navy undetected to arrive at the Gateway. This only highlights the loopholes and the deficiencies that exist in our border patrolling and the entry-exit checkpoints into the country. If exclusive places like the Taj and the Trident with their well-oiled security mechanisms could have been rendered so vulnerable to infiltration and internal attacks, then spare a thought for the other rowdy, crowded public places in Mumbai. And to add salt to our wounds, we have e-mails from these terror outfits mocking our inefficiency and the bitter reality that “the Army and ATS do not have the weaponry to deal with ours sophisticated weapons”.
Now I am not an analyst. I don’t know and neither want to know the hows and whys of these attacks, the funding, the finances, the brains and the technicalities. All I care for as an ordinary self-respectable citizen, is an assurance of safety, the right to live without fear and the right to plan for innocuous things like an exam-ending celebration, a lunch date, a movie outing with friends and other such simple pleasures.
But is wishful thinking right? Because it is a war brewing out there right now. No easy solutions and no easy answers. In the last hour or so that I’ve spent typing this out, the situation outside still remains unchanged like over the past 24 hours…everything is in a limbo while we wait for a reasonable resolution with bated breaths and anxious eyes. In the meantime, there’s nothing much we can do except hope and pray, wait and watch…
All of you, reading this keep your fingers crossed and be safe…Take care and God bless.
P.S. Please think b4 u comment
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Strange Memories
I think I wouldn't rate them as top 10 or something, but they are truly kind of the most weird things that have happened to me. Of course, some of these things would seem downright boring to some readers. But compared to the rest of my life, these stand out pustules on the palm.
1. I was once on the street with C and S, when eunuchs came and attacked us. C, being a male, was actually bear hugged by one of the eunuchs while S and I escaped behind an auto. C, has never told us how much money he paid the attackers for freedom and hates us till today for ditching him.
2. I once had a blue colour gola and happily finishing it, boarded my usual local. One woman, stared at me for a while and then asked me. "Kya aapko pata hai? Aapke daant blue hain."
3. This one runs along similar lines. When I was playing on the road in my adolescence. "Kya aapko pata hai? Aapne dress ulta pehna hai."
4. I was waiting on the railway platform, sitting on a bench, reading something. This absolutely shabby beggar walks up to me and tries to see what I am reading with his hands behind his back. I could not shake him off and he followed me from bench to bench. Eventually, I left.
5. There is this mentally unstable beggarwoman whose behaviour is uncontrolled and she randomly boards and jumps off trains. For some strange reason, one day, she stood next to me and hit me on the head with an empty plastic bottle before getting down.
6. One day, there was a large breasted bai sitting opposite me in the train. Suddenly, I was shocked speechless when her left boob started flashing bright light. She then dug her hand inside her semi-opaque blouse and took her cell phone out and started talking.
7. Once when I was bathing , my short-sighted eyes noticed dirt floating in the bucket of hot water. I thrust my hand inside caught a beautiful live wriggling lizard, brought it close to my useless eyes, realisation struck too late, shrieked for a week's worth.
8.I was once sitting, in the hostel study room with R, completely absorbed in what I was reading. Apparently, that day, the BMC workers had come for fogging the hostel premises for the malaria season. We were calmly studying when enormous amounts of blinding white smoke started coming out of all windows engulfing us. Shrieked again. Laughed later, though.
9. Another train one. I was travelling with M this time. A little toddler with pustules on his face was picking at them. M alerted his mother who laughed it away. The little guy deviously dissected a large pustule. He examined the peeled skin in his hand for a second and then popped it into his mouth. Yuck.
10. I 'll write the tenth if I remember something . Its too late at night for me.
1. I was once on the street with C and S, when eunuchs came and attacked us. C, being a male, was actually bear hugged by one of the eunuchs while S and I escaped behind an auto. C, has never told us how much money he paid the attackers for freedom and hates us till today for ditching him.
2. I once had a blue colour gola and happily finishing it, boarded my usual local. One woman, stared at me for a while and then asked me. "Kya aapko pata hai? Aapke daant blue hain."
3. This one runs along similar lines. When I was playing on the road in my adolescence. "Kya aapko pata hai? Aapne dress ulta pehna hai."
4. I was waiting on the railway platform, sitting on a bench, reading something. This absolutely shabby beggar walks up to me and tries to see what I am reading with his hands behind his back. I could not shake him off and he followed me from bench to bench. Eventually, I left.
5. There is this mentally unstable beggarwoman whose behaviour is uncontrolled and she randomly boards and jumps off trains. For some strange reason, one day, she stood next to me and hit me on the head with an empty plastic bottle before getting down.
6. One day, there was a large breasted bai sitting opposite me in the train. Suddenly, I was shocked speechless when her left boob started flashing bright light. She then dug her hand inside her semi-opaque blouse and took her cell phone out and started talking.
7. Once when I was bathing , my short-sighted eyes noticed dirt floating in the bucket of hot water. I thrust my hand inside caught a beautiful live wriggling lizard, brought it close to my useless eyes, realisation struck too late, shrieked for a week's worth.
8.I was once sitting, in the hostel study room with R, completely absorbed in what I was reading. Apparently, that day, the BMC workers had come for fogging the hostel premises for the malaria season. We were calmly studying when enormous amounts of blinding white smoke started coming out of all windows engulfing us. Shrieked again. Laughed later, though.
9. Another train one. I was travelling with M this time. A little toddler with pustules on his face was picking at them. M alerted his mother who laughed it away. The little guy deviously dissected a large pustule. He examined the peeled skin in his hand for a second and then popped it into his mouth. Yuck.
10. I 'll write the tenth if I remember something . Its too late at night for me.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Yours Intestinally
After four and a half years of examinations and highstrung nerves, I have finally come to identify the only sensitive organ in my body... my intestines. Apparently, the Almighty wired my nerves a little weirdly and most of the neurons in my brains seem displaced into my intestines.
The autonomic nervous system innervating my intestines are closely linked to my limbic system, my emotional centre.
As I reached adulthood, I recognised my inability to feel happy, sad, angry, disappointed, anxious, surprised etc. and wondered whether I was born into Nirvana, something people ache for but never attain; no matter how hard they try. But this spectrum of emotions was perfectly conveyed to my bowels year after year, which I have just recently learnt to recognise (ever since I strayed into a medical college). I know there must be many such mentally insensitive souls wandering in the bleakness, being incessantly accused of having unfeeling hearts and I hope my frank revelations help them read their own minds.
Generally, a phase of regular bowel motions is suggestive of contentment. It is accompanied with audible gurgles at pinnacles of happiness, something my friends are completely used to by now. The gurgles are usually accompanied with a sensation of peristalsis from right to left at the upper abdomen. This will help you to differentiate happiness from hunger; the latter is accompanied by static gurgles felt in the left half of upper abdomen.
The autonomic nervous system innervating my intestines are closely linked to my limbic system, my emotional centre.
As I reached adulthood, I recognised my inability to feel happy, sad, angry, disappointed, anxious, surprised etc. and wondered whether I was born into Nirvana, something people ache for but never attain; no matter how hard they try. But this spectrum of emotions was perfectly conveyed to my bowels year after year, which I have just recently learnt to recognise (ever since I strayed into a medical college). I know there must be many such mentally insensitive souls wandering in the bleakness, being incessantly accused of having unfeeling hearts and I hope my frank revelations help them read their own minds.
Generally, a phase of regular bowel motions is suggestive of contentment. It is accompanied with audible gurgles at pinnacles of happiness, something my friends are completely used to by now. The gurgles are usually accompanied with a sensation of peristalsis from right to left at the upper abdomen. This will help you to differentiate happiness from hunger; the latter is accompanied by static gurgles felt in the left half of upper abdomen.
Negative feelings with violent fluctuations manifest as diarrhoea. The most important being anxiety and nervousness, especially just before exams (or similar events where the next few hours are determinants of your fate). The attack usually occurs acutely and you have to rush to the loo that instant or perish. (Which is why I have all the loo locations on every floor and departments of KEM hospital on my fingertips, in case you ever need help, call me.) Anger and hatred manifest similarly but with a hint of nausea. You have to repeatedly experience them to outline the subtle differences. Also, anxiety is the best purgative. So, if your bowels feel flushed out and all empty and hollow at the end, it is more likely to be anxiety than anger.
Phases of life marred by disappointment, discontent, low self-esteem (eg. Greek God asked out the Hot Babe and he doesn't even know your name) manifest with irregular, untimely, ill-formed and for some unfortunate souls- foul smelling stools. Boredom and a passive life with deterioration of intellect manifest with constipation and/or painful defecation. These individuals also don't respond to anxiety and anger and are referred to quacks such as medical doctors for treatment. Surprises manifest as blink-and-miss phenomena such as a quick burp or wind from the other end (better missed... hehe).
Jealousy and envy, one of the most rampant feelings in med-school are wired into the stomach. Heartburn continuous or intermittent is diagnostic. No amount of antacids, syrups or tablets, can cure it. These individuals again end up with quacking medical doctors.
Complicated emotions like devotion, admiration, caution are permutations and combinations of above given manifestations. And yes, of course, the most complex emotion, reproductive love. I wouldn't comment on it, as it remains one of the few I have not yet experienced. And when you do, please tell me the exact presentation. Who knows, I could be dumb enough to overlook it just because I took a laxative!
Saturday, August 2, 2008
LAQ.. Behenji
A Behenji is defined as a plain-looking woman who blends into the background and is an expert at commiting stupid errors because of her slow thinking and is struggling for survival and reproduction.
Her only solace in life is bitching about other people which she does discreetly though in large packs. Most behenjis are lonely in the beginning but eventually they sniff out similar beings in the crowd and form a cohort. It helps to have behenjis in different spheres because they can collect more information and form a greater database. Behenjis stick together through thick and thin. Like velcro. And make just as much noise. At any point of time a behenji is either giggling (we never laugh) or arguing or bitching. Activities like thinking, creating, innovating are unheard of as yet.
Behenjis repel men. Or they become good friends. Some behenjis are prone to attract men from lower socioeconomic groups when they are crossing streets or ambling around late at night. That's all.
Most behenjis use embroidered handkerchiefs with surface areas less than their own palms. It's used just for moral support. To establish yourself as a pucca behenji wear matching clothes and accesories. From hair clips to slippers. A behenji can never look into a mirror without convulsing 4 times worried about her appearance.
Behenji cohorts have one primary female who is the stereotype . Others are variations of her. Some just wallow in its principles.
The most intellectual decisions taken by us varies from what to wear this evening to what to wear next day. Majority of the discussions deal with what that bitch wore today. Or didn't wear.
Behenjis are accomplished in book-keeping. Be it borrowed money or grudges, we never forget, believe me. Behenjis have secret nicknames for everyone. It eases confusion so we know exactly whom we are bitching about.
Behenjis are introspective women who love to think and talk about themselves.
And blog.
Her only solace in life is bitching about other people which she does discreetly though in large packs. Most behenjis are lonely in the beginning but eventually they sniff out similar beings in the crowd and form a cohort. It helps to have behenjis in different spheres because they can collect more information and form a greater database. Behenjis stick together through thick and thin. Like velcro. And make just as much noise. At any point of time a behenji is either giggling (we never laugh) or arguing or bitching. Activities like thinking, creating, innovating are unheard of as yet.
Behenjis repel men. Or they become good friends. Some behenjis are prone to attract men from lower socioeconomic groups when they are crossing streets or ambling around late at night. That's all.
Most behenjis use embroidered handkerchiefs with surface areas less than their own palms. It's used just for moral support. To establish yourself as a pucca behenji wear matching clothes and accesories. From hair clips to slippers. A behenji can never look into a mirror without convulsing 4 times worried about her appearance.
Behenji cohorts have one primary female who is the stereotype . Others are variations of her. Some just wallow in its principles.
The most intellectual decisions taken by us varies from what to wear this evening to what to wear next day. Majority of the discussions deal with what that bitch wore today. Or didn't wear.
Behenjis are accomplished in book-keeping. Be it borrowed money or grudges, we never forget, believe me. Behenjis have secret nicknames for everyone. It eases confusion so we know exactly whom we are bitching about.
Behenjis are introspective women who love to think and talk about themselves.
And blog.
Friday, July 18, 2008
No blogs for a while
Mujhe pak raha hai.
So I am not going to be blogging till this phase passes.
(As if anyone cares about it.)
So I am not going to be blogging till this phase passes.
(As if anyone cares about it.)
Friday, May 23, 2008
3 equals 27
Believe me, I am not getting my Maths wrong. 3 does equal 27.
Getting repeats in OBGY lectures in KEMH is an age-old traditon. 118 lectures are held every year and you should have attended atleast 97 to complete your 75% quota. Now most people do complete this quota by hook or mostly by crook(courtesy proxies). But since the attendances are usually misplaced, the department hands out random repeats. And having done the folly of attending quite a few(read too many), I could hardly be glad when I got the dubious distinction of being a topper amongst the BBC again by getting the highest no of repeats - 27 to be exact! Now to repay this deficit, one has to attend with our joons who have 4 lectures a week. Since my joons had the distinction of being useless when it comes to attending lectures, I had resigned myself to wasting 4 hours per week in these lectures for 7 weeks till 19th July.
Then someone had a brainwave.
Divya made a list of names and roll nos of the 11 of us who hang out whenever time permits and smsed it to all of us. Now we have to attend serially according to our roll nos and mark the attendances, dutifully keep track of our turns and remind the next roll no for her turn. It is obvious that 3 actual attendances should be sufficient to cover up all the deficits with some surplus (especially for those of us who have been lucky to escape with 15-16 repeats. [:-(] )
Anyway the wheels have been set into motion...hopefully things work out so that the repeats are not carried forwards to the PL. Also hope that the attendance sheets are submitted properly and people don't spot the glaring similarities in the way 11 people sign especially on days when it is Saumya's turn! But then as a wise aleck once said, "Man lives in hope. Without hope, there would only be despair".
Touchwood!
P.S. 7 down...20 more to go.
Getting repeats in OBGY lectures in KEMH is an age-old traditon. 118 lectures are held every year and you should have attended atleast 97 to complete your 75% quota. Now most people do complete this quota by hook or mostly by crook(courtesy proxies). But since the attendances are usually misplaced, the department hands out random repeats. And having done the folly of attending quite a few(read too many), I could hardly be glad when I got the dubious distinction of being a topper amongst the BBC again by getting the highest no of repeats - 27 to be exact! Now to repay this deficit, one has to attend with our joons who have 4 lectures a week. Since my joons had the distinction of being useless when it comes to attending lectures, I had resigned myself to wasting 4 hours per week in these lectures for 7 weeks till 19th July.
Then someone had a brainwave.
Divya made a list of names and roll nos of the 11 of us who hang out whenever time permits and smsed it to all of us. Now we have to attend serially according to our roll nos and mark the attendances, dutifully keep track of our turns and remind the next roll no for her turn. It is obvious that 3 actual attendances should be sufficient to cover up all the deficits with some surplus (especially for those of us who have been lucky to escape with 15-16 repeats. [:-(] )
Anyway the wheels have been set into motion...hopefully things work out so that the repeats are not carried forwards to the PL. Also hope that the attendance sheets are submitted properly and people don't spot the glaring similarities in the way 11 people sign especially on days when it is Saumya's turn! But then as a wise aleck once said, "Man lives in hope. Without hope, there would only be despair".
Touchwood!
P.S. 7 down...20 more to go.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
The Devil Wears Naadaa
It was another uneventful day in college. The morning was punctuated with dismal statements. Some like, "I ll have to become a cheerleader in IPL, if I dont clear PG-CET...". There were umpteen discussions on "tie the saree" day photos. This made me ponder. On why we took all that trouble every year to look good and feel unbearable at the same time. Though I am sure I achieved the latter, the former is doubtful, as most people said just one thing to me, 'wow, you look so tall in a saree!' As if I didn't know it.
I was on the way back home. I was still pondering. I was sitting next to a thickset fisherwoman in the train. And a woman entered the compartment. She was six feet tall. Her face was beautiful. She wore a lehenga-choli with lovely windows here and there. For ventilation. The dupatta unfulfilled its purpose effectively. Everyone stared at her. Oblivious to all the attention she glided to the nearby seats and spoke aloud. In a masculine voice, she booked a place for herself. The stares intensified. People sitting close to her reflexly flinched.
She was a he. A eunuch. The woman, next to whom she sat, was at the epitome of recoil. Stares became whispers. Someone had a digicam. A request for a pose. 'Say cheese'. A flash in the ladies compartment. Whispers became conversations. It was a relief. She seemed to be just like one of us. Mansi. Her profession, dancing. Not barging into trains and slapping people on their heads and begging for money. Conversations became laughter. More photos, group photos, this time. She had a cell phone. It rang 3 times. She answered them loudly, like anyone of us, in a crowded train. She had friends.
She got up to leave. The stares were back. She walked past the eyeballs and descended gracefully onto the platform. The whispers turned into jibes. Chakki. Not Mansi. Not she. Not he. Just a beautiful body in a tasteful attire. And a hope to be accepted. Something which all of us take for granted. The desire to look and feel feminine. And fill up the gender column in every form. Without a thought. Where there is no third option.
I was on the way back home. I was still pondering. I was sitting next to a thickset fisherwoman in the train. And a woman entered the compartment. She was six feet tall. Her face was beautiful. She wore a lehenga-choli with lovely windows here and there. For ventilation. The dupatta unfulfilled its purpose effectively. Everyone stared at her. Oblivious to all the attention she glided to the nearby seats and spoke aloud. In a masculine voice, she booked a place for herself. The stares intensified. People sitting close to her reflexly flinched.
She was a he. A eunuch. The woman, next to whom she sat, was at the epitome of recoil. Stares became whispers. Someone had a digicam. A request for a pose. 'Say cheese'. A flash in the ladies compartment. Whispers became conversations. It was a relief. She seemed to be just like one of us. Mansi. Her profession, dancing. Not barging into trains and slapping people on their heads and begging for money. Conversations became laughter. More photos, group photos, this time. She had a cell phone. It rang 3 times. She answered them loudly, like anyone of us, in a crowded train. She had friends.
She got up to leave. The stares were back. She walked past the eyeballs and descended gracefully onto the platform. The whispers turned into jibes. Chakki. Not Mansi. Not she. Not he. Just a beautiful body in a tasteful attire. And a hope to be accepted. Something which all of us take for granted. The desire to look and feel feminine. And fill up the gender column in every form. Without a thought. Where there is no third option.
P.S. For the uninitiated, naadaa is a piece of string which holds a petticoat or lehenga around every woman's waist in this country. It is the unsung hero of why saree days are a success in KEM, year after year.
Friday, March 21, 2008
AS you see it
Abbreviations were invented to make life simpler and shorter, especially for medicos who, being short of time and heavy on things to memorise, bandy with them frequently and freely. So you have GIT for Gastro-Intestinal System, GUT for the Genito-Urinary System, c/o for ‘…complaints of’, o/i for ‘on inquiry’ and f/u for ‘follow up’ and so on and so forth. (And the fact that there is an abbreviation for something as ubiquitous as ‘Cough, Cold and Fever’ in the form of CCF is something I recently learnt and it is a wonder that I didn’t go into Congestive Cardiac Failure when I first heard of it!) Then there are abbreviations with twin implications; dual personalities, something akin to my sun sign, such as MI for Myocardial Infarct/Mitral Incompetence and IBD for Inflammatory/Ischaemic Bowel disease depending on whether it is a MD or a MS you are dealing with. But, despite being aware of the pitfalls of abbreviations, it is still disquieting to land into a trap by one as I learnt a few days ago.
Final year being here, wherein the search for ‘interesting cases’ has been replaced with the search for ‘exam cases’, the ‘post-emerge’ day found me looking through the Admission book for cases worth taking. With a pen and paper in hand, I cursorily glanced through, ‘for dialysis’, ‘AWMI’, ‘CRFs’, jotted down a few ‘Lt MCAs’ and a CAP, when my eyes finally espied two AS (Aortic Stenosis -the standard abbreviation known to all Under-Graduates) one below the other. My heart gave a leap at this sudden windfall as the sight of two such cases in the same ward on the same day. The first one was an old man whose murmur, on auscultation, sadly turned out to be unconvincing and not ‘classical’. [Unlike (yet) another case of AS which I had taken a few days ago!]. So I went back to note the name of the second ‘AS wala patient’ who turned out to be a resident doctor.
Still in a quandary whether to take the liberty of taking his case or not, a batchmate N finally summoned the courage to ask the Houseman where this doctor-cum-patient with AS was.
“Sir, there is a doc with AS here?”
“Yes”
“Sir, where is he? We want to see him…”
In the meantime the AS-doc came behind us and said gruffly,
“I am here. What do you want?”
Uh-ohh I thought mentally while N confidently went ahead. “Sir if you don’t mind, we would like to auscultate you, Sir please.”
“But, why…” he began confusedly when N overwhelmed him with his requests and finally we headed towards the side room. Now it often happens that there are small things which you sometimes see and register but the implications of which don’t strike you till much later. The same happened here. While tailing the doc, I noticed with a small frown that he was limping painfully and stiffly. But dismissing this, I entered the side room after N.
The Doc graciously cleared the bed, sat heavily on it while N started making small talk with him. He then borrowed my stetho and proceeded to auscultate him while I sifted through the file. Then it happened almost simultaneously.
N, with the stetho placing it all around on the chest and back and muttering, “Arre normal aahe. Murmur kuthe aahe? Ananya Murmur sunai nahin de raha hai….” while I reading through the history of the patient finally came upon diagnosis at the bottom.
The Doc in the meantime piped up, “Arre majha CVS normal aahe. How will I have a murmur?”
N in perplexity blurted out, “Sir, what do you have? It is written in the Register that you are a case of AS!”
“Ho AS aahe,” came his reply with me providing the shame-facedly-amused chorus “AS mhanje ANKYLOSING SPONDYLITIS”
Final year being here, wherein the search for ‘interesting cases’ has been replaced with the search for ‘exam cases’, the ‘post-emerge’ day found me looking through the Admission book for cases worth taking. With a pen and paper in hand, I cursorily glanced through, ‘for dialysis’, ‘AWMI’, ‘CRFs’, jotted down a few ‘Lt MCAs’ and a CAP, when my eyes finally espied two AS (Aortic Stenosis -the standard abbreviation known to all Under-Graduates) one below the other. My heart gave a leap at this sudden windfall as the sight of two such cases in the same ward on the same day. The first one was an old man whose murmur, on auscultation, sadly turned out to be unconvincing and not ‘classical’. [Unlike (yet) another case of AS which I had taken a few days ago!]. So I went back to note the name of the second ‘AS wala patient’ who turned out to be a resident doctor.
Still in a quandary whether to take the liberty of taking his case or not, a batchmate N finally summoned the courage to ask the Houseman where this doctor-cum-patient with AS was.
“Sir, there is a doc with AS here?”
“Yes”
“Sir, where is he? We want to see him…”
In the meantime the AS-doc came behind us and said gruffly,
“I am here. What do you want?”
Uh-ohh I thought mentally while N confidently went ahead. “Sir if you don’t mind, we would like to auscultate you, Sir please.”
“But, why…” he began confusedly when N overwhelmed him with his requests and finally we headed towards the side room. Now it often happens that there are small things which you sometimes see and register but the implications of which don’t strike you till much later. The same happened here. While tailing the doc, I noticed with a small frown that he was limping painfully and stiffly. But dismissing this, I entered the side room after N.
The Doc graciously cleared the bed, sat heavily on it while N started making small talk with him. He then borrowed my stetho and proceeded to auscultate him while I sifted through the file. Then it happened almost simultaneously.
N, with the stetho placing it all around on the chest and back and muttering, “Arre normal aahe. Murmur kuthe aahe? Ananya Murmur sunai nahin de raha hai….” while I reading through the history of the patient finally came upon diagnosis at the bottom.
The Doc in the meantime piped up, “Arre majha CVS normal aahe. How will I have a murmur?”
N in perplexity blurted out, “Sir, what do you have? It is written in the Register that you are a case of AS!”
“Ho AS aahe,” came his reply with me providing the shame-facedly-amused chorus “AS mhanje ANKYLOSING SPONDYLITIS”
Monday, February 25, 2008
Thursday, February 7, 2008
I never knew a laptop cleaning kit could be so much fun!
Life appears bleak when a posting reaches towards its end.Here I was ,the penultimate night of the last day of our surgery posting , making a vain effort to cram all the case proformas from R.D.B. which i had just brought a day earlier( I am a compulsive eleventh hour person)The chilling cold added to the threat of the end post exam synergistically and I was trying to pull a brave face amist of chiding self for such bad exam preparations.
Close to midnight, Jasmeen came to my room to ask me to sleep in place of Luci as Luci was home .I obliged. Now now both I and Jasmeen own laptops which are equivocally a hostellite's most expensive possession.And Jasmeen is overtly meticulous in the maintainence of her laptop. So while i studied, she cleaned her laptop with this especially formulated cleaning kit. I picked it up out of curiosity and though I find reading product information extremely mundane, for once I was proven wrong.
here are the excerpts from the laptop cleaning kit taken verbatim-
POLOJI My healthy treasure cleaner
The choice of the high quality personage!
Biologic high efficiency cleaner
Latest high tech living creature product in the United States,it is an original sea water to withdraw the liquid, the living creature resolves the technique, have the strong cleanly bactericidal finction.It is natural and green detergent of the new generation ,don't contain the chemistry composition , have the incomparable advantage of other chemistry detergent.
REGULATION
turn off the power supply first, then clean . switch on again to use after dry by air.
the cloth is clean , having no grain object to adhere to in the surface.
if there is an object on the cloth result in damage, we are irresponsible.
EXPLAIN
spray this product directly the surface of the objectin ,wipe lightly towards one direction , object possibility shining such as new.
REGULATION
turn off the power supply first , then clean .switch on again to use after dry by air .because of the low temperature ,result in the milk whiteturn the phenomenon,belong to the normal phenomenon , can trust the usage.
POLOJI
Eligible certificate
Produce the date: see the back
HINT WARMLY
authenticate according to the expert
1. if the computer LCD is not nursing.Their life expectancy is just four years
2. each keyboard about has 480 kinds of viruses, if not usually nursing ,the body of the health will be subjected to injure.
P.S. the product is made in china
So i owe the chinkis my first smile of that day.
Close to midnight, Jasmeen came to my room to ask me to sleep in place of Luci as Luci was home .I obliged. Now now both I and Jasmeen own laptops which are equivocally a hostellite's most expensive possession.And Jasmeen is overtly meticulous in the maintainence of her laptop. So while i studied, she cleaned her laptop with this especially formulated cleaning kit. I picked it up out of curiosity and though I find reading product information extremely mundane, for once I was proven wrong.
here are the excerpts from the laptop cleaning kit taken verbatim-
POLOJI My healthy treasure cleaner
The choice of the high quality personage!
Biologic high efficiency cleaner
Latest high tech living creature product in the United States,it is an original sea water to withdraw the liquid, the living creature resolves the technique, have the strong cleanly bactericidal finction.It is natural and green detergent of the new generation ,don't contain the chemistry composition , have the incomparable advantage of other chemistry detergent.
REGULATION
turn off the power supply first, then clean . switch on again to use after dry by air.
the cloth is clean , having no grain object to adhere to in the surface.
if there is an object on the cloth result in damage, we are irresponsible.
EXPLAIN
spray this product directly the surface of the objectin ,wipe lightly towards one direction , object possibility shining such as new.
REGULATION
turn off the power supply first , then clean .switch on again to use after dry by air .because of the low temperature ,result in the milk whiteturn the phenomenon,belong to the normal phenomenon , can trust the usage.
POLOJI
Eligible certificate
Produce the date: see the back
HINT WARMLY
authenticate according to the expert
1. if the computer LCD is not nursing.Their life expectancy is just four years
2. each keyboard about has 480 kinds of viruses, if not usually nursing ,the body of the health will be subjected to injure.
P.S. the product is made in china
So i owe the chinkis my first smile of that day.
Friday, February 1, 2008
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
The Seventh Woman!
I was hiding behind a big book (Harrison's 2nd volume). I was armed with two yellow and orange highlighters, a pen, a pencil (sharpened periodically to the extent of being labelled an OCD). Yet, they came, they saw and conquered by compelling me to volunteer for the IntraGSMC Girls' Cricket Tournament.
The most vigorous exercise my body has ever experienced, is on one fine day, when I attended three clinics and one lecture, bouncing from one ward to another and took down notes for 6 hours continuously (my idea of a marathon). I was blissfully unaware that the captain of the final year girls' cricket team had fallen short of one player, the cherished yet the most dreaded spot— the seventh woman.
The seventh woman has to have no special skills, just the ability to hide her inability to play good cricket. One has to practice fielding with the rest of the team and then stand in a position where the ball is least likely to head. I felt relieved when I heard this gameplan. Like a lipoma which needs no excision, I sighed peacefully. The only hindrance would be a few catcalls of "Amitabh" from the sidelines, which now I am completely used to ( and which is much better than "double-battery" or "fawdi"). The other hindrance would of course be the fact that I have to play cricket, if the ball chose to pursue me.
The most vigorous exercise my body has ever experienced, is on one fine day, when I attended three clinics and one lecture, bouncing from one ward to another and took down notes for 6 hours continuously (my idea of a marathon). I was blissfully unaware that the captain of the final year girls' cricket team had fallen short of one player, the cherished yet the most dreaded spot— the seventh woman.
The seventh woman has to have no special skills, just the ability to hide her inability to play good cricket. One has to practice fielding with the rest of the team and then stand in a position where the ball is least likely to head. I felt relieved when I heard this gameplan. Like a lipoma which needs no excision, I sighed peacefully. The only hindrance would be a few catcalls of "Amitabh" from the sidelines, which now I am completely used to ( and which is much better than "double-battery" or "fawdi"). The other hindrance would of course be the fact that I have to play cricket, if the ball chose to pursue me.
Shweta, Luci,me,Jasmeen,Karuna,Nirali. Shikha is missing.
In the first match, I proved to be an excellent example of inattentiveness and ineptitude. In the second match, I was a fair example of the same. The highlight of the second match (the semifinal) is that less than halfway through our batting, five wickets had fallen and I was on my way to the pitch. After snatching a few juicy tips from the boys ("Sambo, you have to give the strike to Karuna, ok?" " Try hitting the ball, ok... remember you have to hit the ball." ) who seemed to take my myopia too seriously, I did hit the ball and rotated the strike to Karuna.
Mahesh had bunked his clinic to watch this hoopla, when he suddenly began counting the opposition team players. (I don't know why.) He realised that we were seven and the opposition had eight players on the field. A beautiful argument ensued with one of the opposition players breaking into tears. (I don't know why.) The raada lasted for a time duration in which the whole tournament would have been finished with. Eventually a solution was worked out, which my uncricketing brain can never possibly understand, and keeping my batting un-skills in mind I was swiftly replaced by the team captain. Like a lipoma which has been excised, I sighed peacefully.
We lost the match. But it had been fun! I started wondering, why on earth did I resort to tricks— like sending a gullible batchmate to replace me and hide behind Harrison's second volume in the library, in the first place. My fears that my team would lose because of my presence were assuaged by the fact that my presence was as good as my absence. Like a lipoma which never existed, I sighed peacefully.
For all of the future sporting events, if I am compelled to volunteer, I have the "altered hearing" trick up my sleeve.
" So, Sambo, coming for marathon?"
" Mera-thong ho ya tera-thong, kya farak padta hai ?"
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