In my imaginary world, there is a book called Under the bridge with Dick and Harry. I’m sorry, I meant Unabridged Dictionary. In it, today, I add a new word. Coword. Catchy, isn’t it? I came up with it myself, thankyouverymuch. Pronounced as “coward”, it means a word or phrase or symbol used to hide the fact that the user is missing his cajones.

The second part of the Dictionary entry will have examples of cowords as follows:

• With all due respect Sir…
• No offence, but…
• …just kidding.
• I don’t want to sound rude but…
• And lastly, that mofo emoticon –

The need for this niche word arose when I saw so many phrases that made me want to shout, ”Strap on a pair!” This world has become so polite, it has crossed the border into Pansyland. Everyone has this godawful nice façade. Everyone’s so wary of stepping on each other’s toes, they’ve started walking on stilts. Everyone’s become a coword.

We need a little meanness. We need some people who will call a spade whatever the fuck they want to call it and not give a damn about what anyone says. We need people who will have the cajones to insult or disrespect someone without hiding behind these cowords. Otherwise we’ll only ever see the world as we want to see it, not as it is.

With all due respect, and I don’t want to sound rude, but do you have a fucking problem with that? No offence, I’m just kidding .

Oh, I’m sorry, didn’t realize you were there. That was what they call a food orgasm; I get one every time I think about Lucknow and its food, where our gastronomical experiences peaked exponentially.. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Lucknow via Agra

On waking in Agra we were greeted by our old friend, the fog, which had grown since we last met and now reached all the way up to our second floor balcony. Vaibhav was already up and waiting to break the bad news; his Typhoid was acting up again and he needed to head back home (Not much of a fan of chat lingo so you can pretend I put a sad emoticon at the end of the previous sentence). To make up for his bad news he gave us the idea of stopping at Allahabad for the Kumbh Mela. We were quite kicked about this idea, right up until we found out that the Kumbh Mela was held in April and that this was the year of the MahaKumbh Mela which is held every 14 years in Haridwar. (Another sad emoticon)

For some reason, which I can’t remember right now, we didn’t spend another day in Agra to visit Fatehpur Sikhri. On the way out we asked our friendly neighbourhood concierge about the bus depot and thanked him for helping out with the Youth Hostel quandry. Despite getting good directions we got lost for a bit but eventually found our way. On asking for an electrician to fix our music system, we got directed to a dingy little shop about 10 km away. Seriously, this guy was such a good electrician that people on the other side of the city knew the way to his shop. Crazy place, I tell you. Anyway we got the system fixed and bid a tearful farewell (honest) to Vaibhav at the bus depot.

Driving blind

Caught by the cops. Repeat.    

No breathtaking montages. No winding roads. Same old trucks hurtling at us at 100km/hr on our side of the road. The drive to Lucknow was turning out to be quite uneventful, up until we ended up in Kanpur. Roadtrippers will always crib about how traffic while getting in and out of a city wrecks their schedule. But Kanpur has this freaking long flyover that almost covers the entire city so you can bypass the city traffic. Too cool. There also was a statue of Mayawati straddling the flyover. Haha, not really. Or was there?

Now this flyover is long, smooth, straight and pretty much empty. Kids, what do we do on an empty and smooth road? We drive “slowly and carefully”. So there we were driving “slowly and carefully” when these cops suddenly appear out of nowhere and flag us down for being too “slow and careful”. We were used to getting caught by cops everywhere, being an out-of –state car, and these cops were no different. Oh, wait they were UP cops. Ofcourse they were different. They asked for our car papers. We showed it to them. They asked for the originals. I gave them a look that says,” Dumbfuck, who drives with their original papers?” Then they created this whole scene where they said they would impound our car till we could procure the original papers. This is what being in deep shit feels like. We pleaded and bargained, finally settling on a few grand; the cop then wrote his name and the date on a piece of paper and said that if anyone catches us for the same offence then to show them that. Nice of him, I remember thinking. With money in their fat stomachs the cops become chatty and make small talk for a while. We asked them about good places to eat in Lucknow and that was when we were introduced to the legend of Tunday Kebab; but more on this later.

Off we went, finishing the flyover, only to be greeted by 80 km of shitty dirtroad pretending to be a state highway connecting Kanpur to Lucknow. If moving at 10km/hr through muck, rickshaws, pedestrians and cows isn’t enough, we got caught by a cop. Same problem. Same argument. Déjà fucking vu. So we showed the piece of paper signed by the cop on the bridge; to which his reply was,” That guy was a traffic cop and I’m a regular cop, so a separate bribe must be paid. Seriously. Having no choice other than spending the night in a police chowky, we paid up. So now we were hungry, poor and pissed off.

Anyway, we left there, our pockets considerably lighter, wondering how to solve this original documents fiasco. The problem was that we weren’t in one place long enough to receive a courier from home and we had no idea where we would be staying in the next city. The only solution was to stay in Lucknow for two days or to get the documents couriered to a friend’s place in Calcutta. We chose the latter, which required us to drive so “slowly and carefully” that no cop could catch us.

Lucknow

Traversing the 80 km puddle took us most of the remaining day and it was dark when we arrived. Regular city. Lots of rickshaw drivers shouting Haganj! Haganj!, which is short for Hazrat Ganj. I think Ganj is a generic word for market and Hazrat Ganj seemed like an important one. We went about our regular routine for a hotel. We found a couple but they didn’t have any parking space. After an hour or so we found the Youth Hostel which had enough parking for a fleet of buses. Government land, I tell you.

So we drag our stuff up and immediately head out, not having much time left to explore the city and, more importantly, satiate our tastebuds. We took a while to figure out the public transportation system in Lucknow. Rickshaws are the most common form; they have those large ten-seater rickshaws. The driver kept stopping every five minutes to pick up more passengers, ad not wanting to seem rude in a foreign city, we didn’t object. Up until there were so many people crammed inside that I had a 50-year-old guy on my lap. We were wondering what the hell was going on until we realized that we were stuck in a share-rickshaw. On reaching Hazrat Ganj we contacted a friend’s cousin who was really sweet and directed us to the best kitchens in the city. I clearly remember one place – Naushijahan – because that’s where we ate Mutton pasanda, the greatest non-vegetarian dish I’ve ever eaten. The mutton is slow cooked on a charcoal flame, making it the same texture as candy-floss; each piece literally melts in your mouth. We finished two plates without even realizing it. Not wanting to miss out on anything, we ordered all the local specialties and discovered firsthand why they were specialties. Definitely a stop for the non-vegetarian pilgrim.

The legend of Tunday keb

Tunday Kebabi

After gorging at Naushijahan and a few places around it, we moved on to search for the famous Tunday Kebabi. Now this guy is a rockstar. If Lucknow was Graceland, then Tunday Kebabi was Elvis. Everyone knows the place and the directions to it; I’m not kidding, just for fun we even asked a beggar on the street and he knew the way. Tunday Kebabi turned out to be a two-floor establishment; impressive, considering the cramped locality. Quite like the Karims in Chandni Chowk, Delhi. Our expectations were raised by the half hour wait for seating on a weekday. But the food was quite ordinary. It was very good, don’t get me wrong; maybe it was too hyped up for us, or maybe we too full from the previous places we ate at. But you still have to check this place out.

After a night of overdosing on meat, we tried some local sweets. I don’t remember what we ate, a sign that it wasn’t very good. But I do remember eating a lot of saunf that night; probably because dessert was bad. Spent some time strolling through the city’s backroads. Most of the cities we came across are exactly the same in this aspect, save the change in the surnames on the doors and the language in the streets. Hailing a passing rickshaw, we poured ourselves into it. On seeing the window-seat empty I grabbed it and threw Vikrant a smug grin till I realized my folly. The window couldn’t be shut, the crisp winter breeze was hovering around 10˚C and I was wearing shorts. The return journey was exquisitely painful, more so because Vikrant returned my smug grin for most of the ride, and I distinctly remember falling asleep that night with only seven fingers and eight toes. But it wasn’t all bad because I had a nice dream about the mutton pasanda.

1998: I’m eleven, the same age that Harry was when he started at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, when a friend hands me a copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone. By the new millennium, the rest of the world had caught on and I’m three books down, wondering what the fuss was all about. “It’s not new,” I told people who seemed to think they’d picked up the first edition. It was going to be the same with The Chronicles of Narnia and The Lord of the Rings. But that is a story for another time.

2007: I’m twenty and waiting outside Strand bookstore with Roshan and Ayan. It’s 6.15 am and we’re waiting to get our hands on the first edition of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. I grab my copy as soon as Strand opens and rush home to my sofa, getting up about 12 hours later. It’s the end of an era.

I’m writing this because the Harry Potter video killed the literary star. My books are sacred because they transport me to my personal Wonderland. I imagined the characters and their surroundings in my own unique way and they became a part of me. But then the film came along and very soon I can no longer remember how I first pictured Hogwarts. Now I only see it as it is in the film; and a part of my imagination was lost.

The films failed to capture the essence of the books. Watch The Godfather, Watchmen or the LOTR series to know what I mean. The people who made the films didn’t understand the book, probably because they weren’t children. They saw it as a series of books when it intended to be an entire world with people and emotions, not actors and expressions. And the bad casting didn’t help. Over the years we’ve seen Rowling’s writing skills grow just like her characters. Her shaky beginnings were shielded by a fantastic plot and the story kept us turning the page for more. But the films made a bad first impression and it stuck.

They faltered in the very beginning, with their laissez faire approach to the moment when Hagrid tells Harry that he’s a wizard. They tripped frequently along the way, occasionally saving face with their over enthusiasm in directing the Quidditch and dueling scenes, until their epic failure with Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows part 1. Spending reams of film and millions of dollars, they still couldn’t convey a simple emotion. Despair. The despair that Harry felt on not being able to find the Horcruxes. And my faith in the films was completely lost.

So, on the eve of the eighth and thankfully final film, the world prepares to bid goodbye to Harry. But I have already said my goodbyes, when I turned the last page of the Deathly Hallows on that rainy day in July. These films and their incessant marketing have become unsightly blips on a well worn path. But it wasn’t their fault, really. All they needed was a little bit of magic.

Mischief managed.

Now if there be some clever chaps among you who ask, don’t hypochondriacs want to be exploited by all doctors? Then this is my answer to them, not that hypochondriacs love themselves less but that hypochondriac parents love their kids more. Have you ever met a new parent? Then you’ll know how fussy they are about their latest mistakes (What’s that? All kids aren’t a mistake? Oh well, that’s just me thinking aloud then). Now multiply that fussy parent by the largest number you know and you’ll have some inkling of a hypochondriac parent. Every movement is scrutinized, every stool is examined and every morsel of food is disinfected with phenyl before consumption. Though that most baby foods would probably taste better after passing through phenyl. Again, that’s just me thinking aloud. Its ok, you’ll get used to it.

So back to the love-hate relationship. You see, Paediatricians are usually this rare breed of people who like kids which aren’t their own. And then sometimes they meet this nervous hypochondriac couple who’ve just had their first mistake and want to make sure nothing goes wrong, which is the first mistake parents make. Actually their second (Remember the kid?). Now the Paediatrician is a nice enough chap, allaying the couple’s fears and answering every mind numbingly boring question until he starts secretly wishing he was back home watching CID. Because now he’s at a crossroad. Either he can tell this couple their baby is fine (Which they won’t believe) and drive them away (Into the hands of some quack) or he could keep prescribing some harmless medicines (But there’s no such thing as a harmless medicine) and use the money to buy the new Nintendo Wii. Hmmm, tough call. Change the point of view and you have the parents, who think this Paediatrician, who is treating our little Pinku so nicely, is our new best friend and we must ring him up with every small problem which includes, but is not limited to, choosing the best brand of diapers, to discuss the consistency of Pinku’s first stool and to ask how long it takes to disinfect baby food with phenyl.

All this is well and good. Both parties are happy and thriving. But the curious case of the wily Paediatrician and the hypochondriac parent becomes exponentially more interesting when the wily Paediatrician is the hypochondriac parent. Now it gets really serious. Can you imagine how awesome and pathetic it would be to watch a Paediatrician-hypochondriac argue with himself to prescribe an expensive test for his kid, knowing full well that it’s useless but unable to stop himself?  What do you think the kid will grow up to be?

So kids what have we learnt today? First, if you’re a Paediatrician dealing with a hypochondriac couple, milk them for all they’re worth. They’ll even thank you for it. And second, if you’re a Paediatrician and you want to have kids, marry a Pharmacist. Atleast you’ll get your meds for free. Haha. Just kidding. Not.

So for what it’s worth, here they are. Hope they make for some enjoyable reading.

Lesson learnt from Internship #1: Something you should learn early on. To avoid work learn how to play a retard. Your default answer is NO. Can you speak? No. Can you type? No. Do you know any other word? No. Your projected IQ level must be – 17. Point, grunt and beat your chest regularly to reiterate the point.

Lesson learnt from Internship #2: Efficiency is your enemy; if you do something well you will be punished with more work. Sloppiness is your friend; if you do something badly you will be rewarded with indifference.

Lesson learnt from Internship #3: In all of the known Universe, there is only one known exception to the Time-Space continuum: Interns. The line for the Xerox machine is neverending, the person you’re supposed to be looking for is always mysteriously absconding and the canteen, though nextdoor, has a different pin code.

Lesson learnt from Internship #4: Along with medical techniques I have also learnt formidable martial skills. When my superior is hurling verbal assaults at me, I simply deflect them by saying,” Wax on! Wax off!”

Lesson learnt from Internship #5: You will be insulted and yelled at. Constantly. That’s because you’re at the bottom of the hierarchy and all the frustration is pouring your way. So if, at any level, you feel your superior has it easier than you, just remember – There’s always a bigger fish.

Lesson learnt from Internship #6: Don’t treat patients and they accuse us of indifference. Treat them and they accuse us of inconveniencing them. What are we saving them from, you ask? From themselves.

Lesson learnt from Internship #7: We have a win-win situation. Nobody expects interns to do anything worthwhile so the slightest bit of interest we show or work we do is detected and magnified and you are remembered as the intern who did something. So go ahead, knock yourself out and enjoy your 15 minutes of fame.

Lesson learnt from Internship #8: Responsibility is a funny thing. Everyone wants it but nobody wants the consequences of failing that responsibility. So when, and not if, you fail at the task you have been trusted with, take a stand and do what all responsible, mature adults do. Play the blame game.

Lesson learnt from Internship #9: It’s useful to apply the principle of “Distance makes the heart grow fonder”. When you aren’t feeling the love from your seniors, disappear for a few hours and let them realize your worth.

Lesson learnt from Internship #10: Murphy’s Law – The days you skip work to indulge in various auxiliary activities will inevitably be the days when your assistance is needed the most. Murphy’s Solution: When asked your whereabouts on these days, lie like a mattress.

Lesson learnt from Internship #11: Of all the seniors your houseman is your greatest ally. Being just above you in the hierarchy, he will help you out the most and show you the least attitude. But remember, don’t ever piss him off because Hell hath no fury like a houseman scorned.

Lesson learnt from Internship #12: The only difference between medical interns and all other interns is that when they play truant paperwork piles up but if we do it, bodies pile up. And I’m being dead serious.

Lesson learnt from Internship #13: It isn’t surprising that the Indian film industry is flourishing, what with all the actors traipsing through the hospital all day, explaining their symptoms with the flair of a 70 mm film replete with songs, subplots and villains. Along with their subscriptions we should also give them parts for extras in Bhojpuri films.

Lesson learnt from Internship #14: You have to learn to tone down your sympathy and become a human lie detector because hypochondria is a serious epidemic and even genuine patients will exaggerate their symptoms. I guess House was right when he said,” Everybody lies.”

Lesson learnt from Internship #15: We fight death and disease for a living everyday. You can’t let it get to you but more importantly you can never show fear. Because they just might kick your ass instead.

Lesson learnt from Internship #16: Most people don’t know that interns aren’t qualified doctors and hence we’re given considerable respect and authority at the smaller health centres for a title we haven’t yet earned. But always remember: Power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely.

Lesson learnt from Internship #17: People won’t accept free door-to-door healthcare and would rather wait in line and pay for bad private treatment. I guess it’s true, there is no such thing as a free lunch but that’s only because no one would appreciate it.

Lesson learnt from Internship #18: Conversations of bored patients in hospital waiting rooms are laced with nostalgia, sympathy and vanity; part veterans sharing war stories and part housewives exchanging gossip. “See this scar? Appendicectomy ’97.”

Lesson learnt from Internship #19: The lazy doctor principle – If you really want to sleep, there is no patient that cannot be sent away with a suitable dose of painkillers and/or sedatives.

Lesson learnt from Internship #20: Seniority seldom equates with wisdom but is often accompanied by obstinacy.

Lesson learnt from Internship #21: Breaking your routine from time to time is just as necessary and important as following a fixed one. Otherwise we never need be asked the plan for the day, the plan for the day, the plan for the day, the plan fo…

Lesson learnt from Internship #22: An overactive imagination is a useful weapon against the lethal ennui of Community Medicine. “Surrounded by the Gorgons, Spaceman Spiff calmly took aim and fired – Krakow! Krakow! Two direct hits!”

Lesson learnt from Internship #23: I amend my previous lesson. An overactive imagination isn’t enough to combat the ennui of Community Medicine. You’ll also need an MP4 assault rifle and some C4. As Dilbert said,”There are very few personal problems that cannot be solved through a suitable application of high explosives.”

Lesson learnt from Internship #24: Stand calmly in the Labour Room in front of a row of women screaming in different pitches but uncannily in rhythm, accompanied by the cacophony of medical personnel on duty and you’ll feel like you’re a Maestro conducting an amateur symphony replete with a choir et al, sans the baton and penguin suit. And the music comes on like the first day of Creation. Ironically.

Lesson learnt from Internship #25: In order to enjoy the mindnumbingly boring Paediatric posting, I was told that I must have the heart of a little child. So I did. It was delicious.

Lessonlearnt from Internship #26: Interns must learn to handle their boss’s ego with the same care afforded to expensive china. For example, when playing golf with your boss if you ‘accidentally’ manage a hole-in-one, say “Oops”.

Lesson learnt from Internship #27: Keeping awake all night for Emergency services duty is extremely difficult unless you do it with the right spirit.

Lesson learnt from Internship #28: Esorting a patient in an ambulance is serious business. And seious business precludes sticking your tongue out at the toll attendant on the Bandra-Worli Sealink and yelling,”In your face!” just because you’re exempt from the toll.

Lesson learnt from Internship #28: Yelling,”GET OUT OF THE WAY, THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!” at the top of your voice while riding in an ambulance is unnecessary, as it has a blaring siren; the sound of which can only be drowned out by some yelling,”GET OUT OF THE WAY, THIS IS AN EMERGENCY!” at the top of their voice.

Lesson learnt from Internship #29: You will end up travelling by train a lot, hence a tip (for people like me). Launching yourself spread-eagled out of the train to combat the incoming mob is much akin to a rockstar jumping off stage onto frenzied fans; only that on the station platform, no one catches you. Ouch.

Lesson learnt from Internship #30: It’s a pain to get to work early in the morning when you’re a compulsive snoozer. So now I’ve got this cool new alarm that it wakes me up, takes my blanket away, turns off the AC and walks away. I call it my mother.

Lesson learnt from Internship #31: Despite the existence of night shifts, work moves unbearably slow in a public hospital. The probable reason? Insufficient exhaustive, late night partying during the formative years of the concerned staff. I hope would-be parents of future doctors are taking heed.

Lesson learnt from Internship #31: Medical Internship – Primarily a vicious cycle of poorly paid slave labour followed by trudging back home to your books a.k.a The story of the man with a fat wife and an ugly mistress.

Lesson learnt from Internship #31: As interns, for every mistake we make, our seniors are vicariously responsible; meaning we escape scot-free to move on to our next mistake. Much like playing an arcade game with unlimited credits. Game Over. Continue? Hell Yeah!

Lesson learnt from Internship #32: Did you know that the term ‘Medical Internship’ is an anagram of ‘Slave Labour’? Well, not really, because that would have just been uncanny.

Lesson learnt from Internship #33: We interns exist in an egoistical warzone; gingerly navigating the ego-laden minefield of supervisors, caught between warring egoistic bosses and picking out the shrapnel from your own wounded ego.

Lesson learnt from Internship #34: You know how, in school plays, the unattractive and untalented but enthusiastic kids are made to play the trees and the clouds? Well on the hospital stage, interns are the equivalent.

Lesson learnt from Internship #35: Your relationship with your co-intern should remind you of Viru and Jai. Not of Cain and Abel.

Lesson learnt from Internship #36: Every free moment is squandered, yet we wail that internship spares us no leisure. Whining, I’ve learnt, is a very Human hobby.

Lesson learnt from Internship #37: Efficiency must be fine-tuned. Enough for the big boss to notice you. Not so much that your immediate senior seems like an idiot.

Lesson learnt from Internship #38: When it comes to your co-intern, they can be your best friend or worst enemy; hence always follow the Godfather axiom: Keep your friends close, keep your enemies closer.

Lesson learnt from Internship #39: If you work honestly all day, unnoticed by your senior, does it still count? The answer: If a tree falls in a forest and no one’s around to hear it, did it still make a noise?

I seriously considered ending this essay with that. Simple and to the point, much like Victoria’s Secret’s barely there yet annoyingly everywhere lingerie. Because no matter how much we carnivores rave about meat, those damn Herbivores will always berate us; and no matter how much we men and lesbians drool over the Victoria’s Secret fashion show, ugly women and homosexuals will always reprimand us. See the resemblance?

This one is about something very close to my heart. My stomach. My stomach craves non-vegetarian food like a crack addict in withdrawal and I simply fail to understand why so many people are dead against it. Vegetarians and their mutant offspring, the Eggetarians, Fruitarians and Vegans.  Let’s add my 7^th standard school teacher too because this one time in school she asked me what my favourite animal was and I replied,” Tandoori chicken.” To this day I don’t understand why I deserved the visit to the Principal’s office that followed.

A lot of people don’t understand the pleasure of eating meat. That’s OK. It’s their personal, religious or cultural choice. But that doesn’t give them the right to bombard their thoughts and views upon us. Everyday I see, hear and feel the protests, discourses and disgusting faces that Vegs (I’ve spelt it like that because for me, it’s a four letter word) make when I rip off the succulent and marinated meat off the bones of some blessed animal. But has anyone noticed how there is a severe paucity of champions for the non-vegetarian cause? No one protested when they made vegetarian hamburgers. Not even a whisper when they marketed vegetarian eggs. Not a soul mutinied when the vegetarian version of Chinese dishes were brought out. For God’s sake, the Chinese themselves don’t have vegetarian versions. But I have found one such defender, The Champion of Chicken if you will, in the form of a server at a KFC and he shall always remain my idol. This one time I was in line, at the mentioned KFC, behind a guy who ordered a paneer burger. The server, my idol, gave the guy a resounding slap and said,” Look at the board outside. It says KFC, not KFP.”

I’ve really had it with Vegetarianism, even the word itself. I propose a new system of nomenclature. The Meat-eaters and the Non Meat-eaters. Why must we be viewed as anomalies? I know this piece is going to draw a lot of flak from the Vegs about how animals have feelings too and about how it’s inhumane to kill them and so on, ad nauseam. In my defense, as is my way, I‘ll let someone else’s words do the work.

“If we weren’t supposed to eat animals, then why are they made of meat?” – Jo Brand

It’s a privilege to be up here and doubly special for me. My personal connection with this college goes back to 1972 when my parents first stepped into this college and sat where you sit now.  I am one of the lucky few second generation Nairites and I am reminded of this every day. And the reason for this is, KEM is a (boring) campus, JJ is a (boring) campus, Sion is a (boring) campus, but Nair is a compound. There is a mysterious and unique cohesive force that binds us all and it only surfaces when we meet another Nairite, wherever or whenever it may be.

I thought very hard about what I was going to say today. I’ll admit that some of my classmates expected a stand –up comedy routine. I’m going to disappoint them. So, instead of the whole ‘’We’ve had some good times now let’s go forth and be successful’’ speech, I thought we’d do something different today.  Some of you, probably very few of you, know of my obsession with the lessons I’ve learnt and boring others with them. But I’ve realized there are some things that we’ve all learnt in common, about Medicine and life.

• First and foremost, have fun. If you aren’t having fun, you aren’t doing it right.
• Respect the staff members. They have much to teach you. We’re all part of a system, from the operating surgeon to the intern collecting blood to the staff member refilling the box of empty syringes.
• Be nice to the paramedical branches. They have the best looking women.
• Be kind to your juniors. Your seniority is simply a matter of time.
• Learn to laugh at your mistakes for there will be many.
• Do not think of any job as unbecoming of a doctor. The patient is at the top of the pyramid and we must do everything we can to be the blocks at the base.
• Do a few things well.
• People will surprise you. Again and again. With their abilities and their actions. So keep your judgments flexible.
• Know ledge is knowing a tomato is a fruit. Wisdom is not putting it in a fruit salad.
• Don’t ever make noise in a library. (Whispering)
• Work hard but don’t overdo it.
• And finally, for God’s sake, whatever you do, don’t order the Mysore Sada dosa with the red chutney in the canteen. The green chutney is better.

Time is not kind. Years later we may forget the exact words of our lessons but let us not forget their essence. Let them soak into us so that we need not remind ourselves to be good doctors, but simply to be good doctors and good human beings. Like Kipling, fill that unforgiving minute with sixty seconds worth of distance run. As you enter the professional world, remember that what you find in there is only what you take with you.

Thank you to the professors, residents, seniors for helping us and juniors for tolerating us. Thank you to everyone who helped through the past five years.

In conclusion I would like to quote one of my favorite musicians, Fergie, of the BEP who said Tonight’s going to be a good night, Tonight’s going to be a good night.

Thank you.

While into the initial chapters I went to Ganeshpuri for my rural posting for three weeks and thought it an excellent oppportunity formy own personal exile, because in every great religion or school of thought, some of the integral characters have gone into exile, some voluntarily and some by force, to seek answers to their questions and importantly, have usually come back successful. Though narrow thinking has convoluted the essence of this profound concept. Exiles are often confused with isolating yourself. While it is true that you cannot go within if you do not go without,  this is a very severe type of exile.If you study famous exiles, you’ll find that exiles are from the world you come from, not the world in general. It is imperative that you meet new people, experience new points of view and leave behind,albeit temporarily, those with whom you have an emotional bond and who can bias your thinking. Everyone, without exception, requires a break to get their thoughts in order from time to time, to confront what they have been running away from in their minds and to seek answers to their questions. And yes Axl, you’re right, everybody does need some time on their own.

While in exile, I met an American, Tom, who forced me to delve deeper into the nature of the profession I’m in and who also taught me the real meaning of the word adventurous. While in exile, I met Prasad who worked as a cook in the Health Centre by day, ran a vada pav stall in the evenings and in the process taught me what respect there is in an honest day’s work. While in exile, I met a Government doctor who while genuinely helping the villagers also accepted bribes and stole government supplies for personal gain, showing me that good and evil really can exist in the same person and does in us all but also that enough good can balance out all misdemeanours.

And even though my personal exile was a resounding failure because I ended up coming back four times due unavoidable circumstances and I didn’t find answers to even half the questions I had, I’m glad I did it. It was my first step alongside the footprints laid down in the sands of time. And I urge you to take your own first step.

I’ll start off by admitting I’m a complete South Indian misfit because I hate coconuts and it’s a well known fact that South Indians have discovered 5713 uses for the humble coconut, most of which even God had no idea about.

I can’t be sure whether being half South Indian is batter or worse than being fully South Indian. The word batter not used to imply that South Indians bakers but was used simply because that’s how they say it (Remember Sridevi in Laadla? “You wunderstand? You batter wunderstand!”). This brings me to my first grouse. The South Indian accent is, as it is, ridiculously funny and when compounded with my half Gujju accent makes me sound like some alien extra on the sets of Star Wars, slightly better than Chewbacca. Cross that. Wooky sound better then the garbled sounds I make. I would also make a clarification. ALL SOUTH INDIAN LANGUAGES AREN’T THE SAME! I’ve gone hoarse explaining this to everyone. Just because I can speak very little of a dialect of Kannada does not mean I speak Malayalam, Telegu and Tamil. And it also does not mean I watch South Indian movies without subtitles.

My friends are nice enough forgive my mispronunciations but even they can’t overlook or condone the innate South Indian eating habits, which I occasionally exhibit, especially with rice based items. It’s a given that all South Indians love rice, in their food and on their weddings, and that they bury themselves up to their elbows  in the semisolid concoction called rasam rice; then proceed to lick their entire upper arm clean once they’re done. In fact, the sight is considered to be so gross and nauseating that there were talks of introducing it as a finishing move in the new Mortal Kombat video game. True story.

The best place to experience the South Indian rice massacre is a South Indian wedding, which incidentally is also the 4^th most depressing place in the world. I dread anyone in my family getting married because it means 8 hours of Vogon poetry accompanied by a shehnai. Add to that vegetarian food without booze and you’ve got a regular genocide on your hands. The damn things go on and on and everyone sits still, lest they crumple their precious kanchivaram saris and crisp white safari suits, adorned in every piece of gold jewellery that they own, looking more a mannequin and less a happy guest.

I’ll end with a confession. Technically speaking I’m neither half Gujarati nor half South Indian because I do not have a native place in either of the communities. My Gujarati mom comes from a patriarchal system and my South Indian dad comes from a matriarchal system and since I don’t have a Gujarati father or a South Indian mother I do not have an inheritance or a native place. But the really freaky part is that I’ve been born and brought up in Bombay, which is roughly midway between my mom’s native place in Gujarat and my dad’s native place near Mangalore; which kind of explains why I’m so much in love with this city. And it also explains why all of us who’ve grown up in this multicultural mish mashed town of ours have a little bit of everyone in us.