The Bright Side of Life

Right now, there is nothing much in life except studies and exams. There’s hardly any time to get distracted. Even then, day-before-yesterday was special, amidst the academic humdrum.

Everyone needs a close confidant. There are ups and downs, and in order to overcome a mental turbulence, help is always welcome. A sounding board is sometimes curative for such a tumult.

There are a few who confide in me; it gives me some fulfilment to see that they feel much better after sharing their thoughts. Generally, only very close friends tend to confide in you, obviously because they trust you. But it’s a pleasant surprise when someone not so close, with whom you haven’t interacted much, who may go far away in the near future never to return back, who probably doesn’t count you in his/her day-to-day friends, about whom you don’t know anything beyond a routine hello, who knows it well that you don’t know much about him/her, comes up to you one fine day. And tells you everything. And confides in you.

It gives you immense amount of confidence. And it gives you a lot of hope. It makes you believe that life can take you anywhere. You feel wanted; you feel that your presence consoles someone. And this establishes your purpose of life, at least for a day.

All I know is that my day was made.

India without ‘K’

With so much happening on the political front, it’s tough to predict what will happen next. Before the nation is able to digest one controversy, a trigger-happy politician is ready with another arm-twister; the frenzy created thereby leaves most of us truly bewildered.

The last few months have undoubtedly witnessed a rather poor statesmanship from all politicians, in all possible areas of international relations. India looks like a battered baby, so to speak, and no one’s interested in any kind of vociferation. For some unknown reason, the folks at the helm are not able to articulate loudly and clearly enough.

Why don’t we give a fitting reply to the damning and illogical statements issued by other countries? Why do we listen to what everyone has to say without expressing disappointment? By ‘fitting reply’, I don’t (necessarily) mean any drastic step such as a military strike, but just a strong message, a statement, a warning or a suitable admonition.

Because of our failure, we had a rather disappointing news item sometime back in the dailies, the protests of so-called separatists of Kashmir have raised beyond the comfort levels. The issue of Kashmir is a long-standing one and it probably needs a separate ministry to handle it. Or soon, we’ll have to part with our crown and face an uncertain future due to the altered geopolitics. Yesterday, I read in the news that around 9 people were killed by protestors opposing the on-going polls. Everyday, we have 5-10 people dying in the valley (or probably much more, you never know). Till when is this going to continue? The most audacious act was when pro-Pak protestors waved their flag on prominent buildings located in downtown Srinagar, and no one could do anything! Appalling!

As if this was not enough, our foolish babus printed certain political maps of India last year. As expected, they goofed up – they printed India without Kashmir! I mean, what do they mean? There is a fundamental problem with us somewhere. Has a certain section of society accepted India without the K-word? The fact that this question arises is very unfortunate. Then we protest when someone has the guts to call us headless chicken.

Most of us have read the history of Kashmir. And we all know that the radaa could have been solved long ago, but the tale continues like a dangerous imbroglio. Although we cannot document the feelings of each and every Kashmiri, we all know (the world intelligence included) that Kashmir cannot survive on its own and it needs to remain with us. It’s a known fact now as to where the terror comes from. I’m sure all Kashmiris know what their best bet is.

What is the future of K? Will the two neighbours agree peacefully and happily on a common solution? Will one of the two forcibly grab the land and the other keeps whining/striking? Will the situation continue as it is, killing millions of people before life on earth finally comes to an end? Will peace ever flow in the valley, or will it be frozen, cold and dangerous from January thru December?

Sometimes, it’s thoroughly disheartening; when a government cannot preserve the original maps of a state like Nagaland, what it can do to bring a smile on the people of K is open to discussion.

Belt from the blue!

There are plenty of reasons why such a weird article appears in this blog. Though I’m sure it will not help me in anyway dealing with people who have inspired this post.

Let’s just take a detour here.

Does anyone know when did people on earth start wearing belts? Well, according to history, belts have existed since the Bronze Age, for men as well as women. However, they were popularised by the military junta of Eastern European countries, including Prussia. These individuals wore belts to emphasize their trim physique and flaunt their wide shoulders. Cartoonists often ridiculed these officers, portraying their waists cinched to uncomfortable extents. Modern belts replaced these military ones in 1920, and it became an accessory that assumed a much lower and a comfortable position (on the waist, that is). Of course, today we have all the possible variants of a belt, including the low waist ones (‘ABCD’ – aga bai chaddi distey), sagging belts; not to mention seat belts, conveyor belts, braces, etc.

The point is very simple.

Many people do not like wearing belts or are rather too lazy to do so. I probably belong to the second category. So does Salil, a batch mate, but since he whiles away most of his time studying in the inner section of the library, he is usually away from the hullabaloo generated by the ‘college public’.

One day, when we all were having lunch at Kalpadroom (a lunch room for students at KEM), Rujul suddenly shrieked and took everyone by surprise. “Hey Ani! You’re not wearing a belt!”

Everyone around dropped their morsels and with open mouths stared at my waist for a few seconds. I guess this is a very unique way of getting embarrassed when one is not wearing a belt. I tried convincing everyone that I was indeed very comfortable. I was better off without the strap of leather tethering my abdomen. There was absolutely no question of my trousers slipping away for good, so there was no need for anyone to be fearful (or watchful). However, this news was enough to cause flutters amongst the paparazzi.

It is now quite a known fact in college that Salil and I hate wearing a belt. Rujul reminds me almost everyday, “Ani, you still don’t have a belt!” or “tune belt kyun nahi pehana hai?” One day, she was kind enough to say, “Hey do you want me to gift you a belt on your birthday?” Soon the news spread from Kalpadroom to katta and we had all kinds of fashion statements from demigods themselves – Rohit, Jaskaran, Nazim, Jasmeen, Sanket, Mahesh, Suyog, Chandan - the list is endless. Once, I chanced upon an interesting line which had the entire katta in splits and the person who blurted this out, rather embarrassed. She said, and I quote, “Ani, why don’t you wear a belt? What are your intentions, haan?!”

I guess the last straw was Mansi’s brother, Manan’s marriage reception. I thought that I had been pestered enough and should oblige others at least once. I don’t recollect exactly, but everyone sure gave me a rousing welcome at Nirali’s place the moment they realised I was wearing a belt. We were invited for lunch after which we had all planned some ‘time-pass’. That was the first and the last time I had gathered enough patience to wear the piece of leather.

After that, a couple of humorous remarks by certain acquaintances:

“You are doing medicine from KEM right? Then you must have a lot of experience under your belt!”

“This rural posting is surely going to hit you guys below the belt…!”

“It’s final year, dude. Better tighten your belt.”

Can the cat and mice, both play?

(This article appears in Gosumag 2008 - the annual college magazine of Seth GS Medical College. Its basically a potrait of an 'ideal teacher' - a rather puerile and sick topic i was told to write on. Obviously, the article is also as pathetic. Why it was printed, is still a mystery.)

An average-intelligent mouse wouldn’t want to take such a risk. No one would – masochism is not in vogue. However, after my medical admission, I felt like a masochist mouse making way into a feline colony. I remember discussing with a friend once in the train, “Imagine, all our teachers would actually be doctors! They would be so strict… we would be walloped in no time!” The rest of the journey was spent thinking about how miserable our lives would be in a medical school. Of course, the twaddle went on to conjure up a new recipe – that of an ideal teacher, whom we rightly named, ‘Prof. Gillette’ – the best a man can get.

A medical-teacher is a different personality if you compare with conventional teachers, so to speak. A school teacher is more like our pitaji/mataji; whereas we share quiet a friendly relationship with most teachers in the campus. Guru Gillette is therefore, an easygoing, down to earth person. He/she is very much astute, sharp, witty, proficient and well-versed.

Since it is the ultimate aim of all Gsites to arrange clinics/lectures, Mr. Gillette should succumb to all such requests instantly. The success rate of getting a clinic arranged should be equal amongst girls and boys – Gillette sir shouldn’t be partial towards the fairer sex. In such clinics/lectures, we don’t like our teachers stammering and searching for words to fill their mouth. We love it when professors snub an occasional Doubting Thomas who is loaded with too many questions and crows over nothing.

Every student reveres someone who is thorough with the subject and communicates well. Jonathan Kozol, in his book Letters to a Young Teacher, says, “The worst possible advice for a teacher is ‘start out tough and stick to the curriculum’”. Better teachers are aware of latest publications in medical journals and make it a point to share it with interested students. Time spent in discussing chokra-chokri lafdas and bhaaji-pala rates are not appreciated by any individual. Clinics should teach us concepts instead of unimportant statistics, numbers and probability equations.

Gilletteji should be smartly dressed and must encourage male/female residents (…wink) to be suave as well. At the same time, it’s annoying when Swami Gillette gives an ‘aati-kya-Khandala’ look to female students. It’s simple; we hate all sorts of competition.

An ideal teacher evaluates all students in an examination without any bias. He/she appreciates good answers and encourages when mistakes are made. He/she recognises deserving students and gives them their due. Gilletteji welcomes every student in his/her cabin for a viva with a lot of warmth – giving airhostesses a run for their money. They strive to make their students comfortably seated. They don’t give that ‘yay! tu fail ho gaya’ look to a particularly dull student.

We would appreciate teachers who allow us in a lecture even if we are ten minutes late – we would make sure to be on time for the next lecture if it’s indeed thought-provoking. They shouldn’t waste too much time in acts of futility such as correcting our journals. Instead, it would be great if Prof. Gillette helps us organise a few literary/sports/music events.

As Adyashantiji puts it, “True teaching leads to the freedom of no teaching, no teacher and no student”. Therefore, teachers can be our guides and help us decide a fruitful career; create better clinicians and individuals from crude students like us; treat us like similar younger humans – Gilletteji has been through all this at some point in time as well.

If the cat so wishes, maybe it can play together with the mice.

(Writing this piece brings back to memory Mrs. Gool, Supervisor for Primary Section, St. Blaise High School – this piece is a humble dedication)

An Unforgettable Journey

Let me tell you a story.

Some orthodox Indian families do not whole-heartedly welcome the birth of a girl-child for reasons best known to them. This sort of tendency exists even today, often to an exaggerated extent in some pockets of our country. However, long time back, a family in Northern part of India did exactly the opposite; they were overjoyed when a girl-child was born to them. She was the youngest amongst three elder brothers and a sister. We are talking about the pre-Independence era, that’s nearly more than half a century ago.

She, as any other kid, enjoyed her schooling days and was extremely pampered as she was the youngest of the lot. Time flew and soon, she was done with her primary and secondary schooling. Many of her batch-mates left studies soon after that – to move onto a completely different chapter in their lives. Most of them were married off and some just helped their mothers in the kitchen back home. Financial crunch was probably responsible for eating away their careers. Maybe it was just a part of the tradition. Obviously, very few girls accompanied her to junior college and fewer to Degree College; probably just two-three of them. They had parents who were willing to sacrifice everything for them, much beyond the capacity of an ‘average’ parent, so to speak.

Soon, the little kid grew up to be a young, smart lady with a degree in arts. She did not stop at that, but completed her post graduation as well. Another two years down the line, she was done with her dissertation and was soon awarded doctorate in Hindi literature by the University – a great achievement by a ‘girl-child’ in peri-Independence India.

It was time for her to start a family as well and was soon married to a brilliant, tall, smart and rather soft-spoken barrister. He was unlike the ‘conventional’ lawyers – he did not take up false cases or fabricated suits. His honesty was well-known amongst locals. Soon, he became the youngest president of the Bar (Association of Lawyers) in a small princely town of Rajasthan. He was respected all over the state, his name and fame grew, but not his wealth. The reason was simple; he used to spend a lot of money in charity, lending it to people, some he didn’t even recognise. When he was at the peak of his career, he developed a chronic disease that affected his kidneys. Slowly, the disease deteriorated his health, and he was bedridden in about a year’s time.

She was widowed at a young age of 30-35.

Imagine a young 30-something woman with two school-going daughters facing the world with just despair to give her company. Resilience is just too little a word to be used here. It must have taken a mammoth amount of courage for her to start afresh. The PhD earned her the post of a lecturer in girls’ degree college. She worked very hard to make both ends meet. Within a span of two years, she was the dean of Binani Girls’ Degree College, Bikaner and also the dean of Maharani Girls’ College, Bikaner. These are two premier institutes imparting education in a small princely town of Rajasthan.

Apart from that, she was one of the founder-member of Arya Samaj, Bikaner – a socio-religious institute propagating good values and striving to bring an end to superstitions. People of this town (Bikaner) regularly tuned into her interviews aired on All India Radio and Vividhbharati. She was the only dean in the state of Rajasthan who was granted permission by the then Maharaj Karni Singh to order elephants from the palace (Lal Garh) for the annual day celebrations in the college. She was invited every year by the Chief Minister of Rajasthan for various governmental felicitation programmes.

Above all, she gave her young daughters the best of education – one became a doctor and the other obtained a PhD. They soon got married and left for their new homes. She was all alone once again.

After her daughters were married off, she began reading hundreds of books and spent most of her time in the college office. College work was her priority and her love for sitar and harmonium took a backseat. She lived alone all these years, struggling day-in and day-out so that students of her college excel in studies as well as sports. She ignored her own health, suffered mild heart attacks twice, but continued working relentlessly, selflessly.

At the age of 78, her body had taken enough and she was diagnosed with a rare tumour of the thyroid (Hurthle Cell Cancer). Like all good stories come to an end, she was soon bedridden. Her muscles became useless and her joints were all worn off. She could hardly get up from the bed and move about. Somehow, her courage and determination drove her along. She used to knit and read books in order to pass time.

One day, she suffered from a massive paroxysmal supraventricular tachycardia (heart damage) and soon the beautiful story came to an end. The world changed within seconds; curtains were drawn on a radiant fable.

If you ask me where I was on the 24th of November, 2008, I won’t be able to hold back my tears. Well, I was with my mom and dad, giving this woman, my grandmother, cardio-pulmonary resuscitation.

We tried our best to keep the fable going, but the author had already put the full stop.

A Dark Introspection

I never wanted to put such things into words, but some unusual compulsive force is driving me into this.

It’s well past midnight, two-thirty to be exact; I have nothing better to do. All I can see is a speck of dust on the keyboard as it meets my eye with queer alacrity. Every time my brain cells repose and drift into a mild slumber, I am awakened by an enigmatic note. It doesn’t stop ringing in my ears, however much I try.

It’s probably something in my subconscious that’s keeping me blighted. I found my guitar while cleaning my room today afternoon. I looked at it for a moment with empty eyes. I had an intense desire to play the same note that’s keeping me awake now; by all means, I know how to play it. Sadly, the guitar went back to its place without a string being plucked. I’ve kept lots of things in hiding from cutting allusions that hover in the world around. There are a few things that’ll go with me; without anyone getting a whiff of their existence.

There was a party for some casual occasion few days back somewhere. I didn’t attend it. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to go alone. She wasn’t there. She wasn’t even there for a music concert last month. I missed that too. My mistake – how can I expect her to know all this when I haven’t told her a thing? I’ll never have the courage. I don’t know why this has come up suddenly in the midst of a discussion on a lifeless musical instrument with out-of-tune strings. Probably there is some vague connection between the two. Or my neurons have just jumbled up.

Things look quite different from my window now. Today morning, there were at least five parrots perched on the grille. They flaunted their bright colours with a tinge of ostentation. Now, things are very dark. The mangroves are harbouring a look that makes them resemble a sinister, murky and a gloomy moor. The only sign of life that can be imagined on it is the slithering of snakes when a cool breeze disturbs their morose torpor. An alcoholic is lying helplessly on the road waiting to be run over by a slapdash vehicle.

Last-to-last week I heard some unbelievable stuff that has been discussed about me. I swear none of it is true. I want to explain everything to the people concerned; but I’m sure none of them want to hear me out. Nobody ever has made an attempt to do so anyway. Meanwhile, I don’t want those people to know anything more, anything less. It’s been more than a year and the discussion has died down. I don’t want it to become buoyant again. The same day, another person comes up to me and tells me that she has done a job that’s much better than what I had managed to do. I felt like slapping the judgemental bitch; but then, how does it matter?

I don’t look forward to a good night’s sleep. That’s because I know I won’t get it. This is the only time when I have to myself; I can be with whatever I’ve hidden from the analytical eyes of friends and foes, without the fear of acidulous mockery. This is not lack of self-esteem or confidence. I know that I am not an under performer. So this is probably an exaggerated kind of introversion. That’s what a friend told me once. I think he is right. This is the only time I get to give undivided attention to otherwise unheeded objects born out of pure id. As I said earlier, the world won’t come to know about them. They’ll go with me.

I promise that never again will such a thing flow into words. In fact, at this very moment, I don’t know why I have written the stuff that you’ve just read. Take it at its face-value. If you ask me now, I won’t be able to recollect in what context a particular thing has been written. This is like a trance; a momentary séance and an ephemeral poignancy. It’ll fade away soon – only to return some other day. Or another night.

(A request: Introspection is probably a good habit. Introspect before you comment, reader. For some reason, comments on this blog will be moderated for a while.)

The Sick Poem Contest

Okay, as the name suggests, this is a contest of writing sick poems. How does this thing exactly work? Read on:

In the section for writing comments, the readers must post a poem according to the rules. Two examples have been given below. The poems must be:

· Four-lined

· In English

· With some rhyme

· Weird, idiotic, asinine, senseless

· Readers can post multiple poems

The best (or worst?) poem will get an ice-cream treat. I think that’s a good enough incentive.

An example:

A mouse went up the ladder,
But he had a full bladder,
So when he reached up,
He urinated in a cup.

Another example:

There was a desperate woman,
Who met a desperate gibbon,
They both jumped about,
Till their desperation was out.

How about it?

I Am Dead

It’s high time I stopped blogging for a while to get back to studies. Prelim timetable is out and I have less than two weeks to go. Quite rightly, there will be no posts till at least the 18th of September, the last day of my exam. I guess that should be okay; meanwhile, life goes on.

The ‘statement of the week’ may not be updated; I may not be there to read any feedback/comments. Sorry Entrecard, I will not visit your website. Those of you who have repeatedly asked me about the comic, it’s impossible for me to put them up before December.

There would be something to read in the third week of September though, here’s what’s there in my brain waiting to be typed:

A Trip to Jaisalmer

An Emotional Story

Ideal Teacher

India and Kashmir

Theory of Life – II

The Babe, Behenji, Bhaisahab and the Hunk

Unfortunately, a day has only 24 hours. Meanwhile, happy Ganesh Chathurthi; I wont reply to any text messages wishing me the same. And don’t wish me good luck.

Ciao.

The Real Treasure

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In school, we tend to take friends for granted. We never realise how difficult it is to make friends with complete strangers – after all, we end up spending so much time with each other. It was for the first time in Ruparel (my junior college) that I suddenly felt how difficult it is to interact with people I don’t recognise.

I was the only one from my school to join Ruparel. This made me a bit apprehensive, but I didn’t pay much attention. Really speaking, I was bored of school life and looking forward to college. Soon, it was time for the first lecture and orientation by the principal. I remember this as if it were yesterday.

I was seated on the second bench on the left side. Harsh gave me company from Andheri station; I had met him in Ruparel earlier that month, at the time of admissions. He promptly sat next to me. We talked little, but didn’t bore each other. I thought he would know more people than I do and so, wouldn’t need my company. Of course, his ‘choke slam’ and ‘aye Haaaarsh, ye building chche, thaaro playground nathi!’ keeps us entertained.

Kunal and Sohail knew each other. They were in the same school. Kunal entered the class before Sohail and asked us if anyone else was occupying the seats beside us. On an average, each bench of Ruparel accommodates around 6-7 average healthy Indians. We had no problems with Kunal sitting next to us. Sohail sat elsewhere, on the right side, third bench I think (you can’t miss out his aristocracy, can you?). He had come later. They exchanged a ‘hello’; this sort of depressed me – am I the only loner out here?

Kunal seemed very talkative and came up with a new topic of discussion every now and then. In fact, he kept Harsh and me very busy with his controversial topics such as ‘ICSE is better than SSC’, ‘Biology sucks’, etc. Discussions turned into heated arguments. We screamed at the top of our voices to get our point across when all of a sudden a smart aleck excused himself.

“Hi, I’m Mohit!”

We didn’t ask him his name. We did not even reply to his gesture. His thick black jacket, gold necklace (!), broad wrist band and a French beard was rather scary (they called him Bappi Lahiri in school, I’m told).

“Can I sit here?”

Most welcome, there was enough place for three more. He was a part of the discussion too, but soon it was time to disperse.

Next day, Kunal, Harsh, Mohit and me, we were on the same bench. Sohail was feeling left out, he joined in. Chetan dropped in too, there was lot of place and a thin guy like him could easily fit. We had more discussions, more random talk. Chetan contributed his viewpoints rather calmly. His biking adventures and two-wheeled knowledge was a good topic of contention.

Gaurav was a rather late entry. Poplai, as we call him, was introduced to us by Chetan. He seemed a very happy-go-lucky guy and has a smile as broad as his stomach (sorry Popu, I gotta admit). It didn’t take long before we officially inducted him in our ‘second bench committee’. We loved his jolly nature and his narration of Bacardi/Kingfisher adventures.

Amit was always a last bencher and it was not before 12^th that we inducted him too. He’s always been a latecomer. Can you beat this, he has just joined Orkut! Soon we were eight of us – Harsh, Kunal, Chetan, Mohit, Gaurav, Amit, Sohail and me. I don’t know why, but Mohit prefers to call us ‘Shooting Stars’.

Then there were others too – Rohit, Sachi, Soumyadri, Neville, Vishaal, Nirali, Rahul, Rashmi, Vini, phew! The list is endless.

It’s been more than 5 years now; the eight of us have always been together (...ahem, without doubt, we’re all straight). We’ve shared each and every problem, crushes, journals, answer papers etc. We laughed on the same jokes, on the same people (low waist jeanswala, body builder), on the same teachers (remember Gawde? Shimpi?) and laughed aloud. We guided each other – in our careers, homework, love life (?), etc. We’ve had innumerable lunches together. None of us will ever forget – Canepy, Xeroxwala, ‘aye Gujarati!’, Toke Ma’am, Tapan and his ‘slapstick’ adventure, Mahajan’s lecture (aunty log, aunty log!), etc.

Today, as some of us are leaving this country for further studies, memories are refreshed. Over these years, Ruparel has given me the best of friends. The aim of this passage is simple – to relive those memories and remind its readers of similar experiences.

Surprising how life comes up with so many treats. Maybe some of you can dedicate a comment to such a similar friend(s). I’m sorry I’m late – Friendship day was nearly a week ago.

Quizzes and more…

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I know quite a few people who have the knack of solving questions correctly in academic quizzes and competitions. Personally, I have never done too well in such quizzes at an individual level; probably because it requires much more than just academic knowledge.

Two weeks ago, our paediatrics department had organised elimination rounds for selecting a team that would represent our college at the Indian Academy of Paediatrics (IAP) Students’ Quiz. The team consists of two members and accordingly, the department wanted the best of the lot to go to the IAP. Elimination rounds were organised in such a way that they judged the students’ individual capability. As expected, I didn’t fair too well.

But this quiz was a learning lesson, thanks to Niranjan. Now, the format of this quiz included negative marking for wrong answers. There were 20 questions, 2 points for a correct answer and minus 1 for a wrong response. I answered very few, selected questions fearing that I’ll miss out on a good score because of the concept of negative marking. This strategy of mine was a failure; had I attempted a few more questions, I would have got a much better score. I was reasonably sure about their answers; I didn’t want to take any chances and therefore, ended up being overcautious.

A talk with Niranjan was very informative (he topped the quiz, by the way). According to him, unless you have no clue about the answer, you should try and solve the question. By not answering a question, you miss out on an opportunity to score. Risk versus benefit ratio here is definitely very low.

Last week, surgery department conducted a quiz, as an elimination before the State-level round. This State-level quiz requires a team of three students. The surgery department made a clever decision – they decided to test students as a team and gave us the choice to form our own team. This was a very good move because eventually, the students have to perform together as a unit. Students who excel as individuals may not necessarily excel as a team. Plus, they should be able to get well along with each other.

Teams were formed – one included Debanjan, Niranjan and me. We had participated together in the radiology quiz too, last year – but didn’t fare too well. It wasn’t a team event anyway. However, this year, surgery was much better. I thoroughly enjoyed participating in the quiz. Both, Debanjan and Niranjan have a very unique way of answering questions – quite different from my conventional methodology. But the most important part was that we jelled together very well. We logically sought answers for each question and agreed to the fact that we would have made at least 2-3 avoidable mistakes had we solved the paper individually.

The results will be out soon and we hope that the department keeps up its promise of selecting a team rather than individuals. If it does the later, we have mutually decided to boycott the State-level round in case only one/two amongst the three of us gets selected. Selecting best individuals would again be self-defeating; it’s always the case with other events such as Bombay Medical Congress, etc. Obviously, we are looking forward to participating in the next round together.

Some people believe that working alone gives them a greater share of the booty, little realising that a team can reap tonnes of reward, wherever eligible/possible. In this place where I have spent 4 years of my life, I have observed that most ‘teams’ perform very inefficiently, be it Aavishkaar (annual college fest), Gymkhana, various Symposia, sports, et al.

Thankfully, I had a very good team as the Chief Editor of Gosumag 2007.

The Road Ahead

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Yesterday, I had a very interesting conversation; this kind of a powwow is commonplace amongst students who are in their final year of a basic graduate degree. The discussion begins with a person asking another his/her future plans, career goals etc. Being undecided myself, I usually do not have much to answer. I test-fired the same question to a friend and got a rather nonchalant reply, “depends.”

Depends! On what? In a rather serious tone, he said, “I’ll decide about my career after the general elections next November.” Elections? How can one’s career depend on elections?

“If Mayawati becomes the Honourable Prime Minister of India, I am leaving this country for good!” he promptly replied.

This brings us to an interesting aspect of career decision-making. Usually, it is not very difficult to decide upon a speciality postgraduate course after a basic university degree, if you are well-informed and aware. Obviously, some homework needs to be done in order to find out your own aptitude and what part of the profession you like. (Here, let us not get confused and lose direction talking about merit and competition.)

Now is the difficult part. Often there are professions that do not have a good scope and a remunerative future in one’s own country/state. This is often looked upon as a hindrance and it drives people away from taking up something they probably would have loved to do. Do such people really think it through before rejecting the idea of permanently leaving one’s country? If they do so, what goes on in their mind? Leaving one’s country forever sure is a big commitment. I respect those courageous individuals who plan to stay back and strive to improve the domestic scenario of the profession of their choice.

Once, a senior told me that a few people decide whether to leave their country or not depending upon their boyfriend/girlfriend’s decision. Another gave me a textbook-ish answer; decide ‘what you want and what you need’ first. Few make decisions based on knowledge obtained from television, films, their far off uncle or their peers. Of course, there are few others who come up with innovative ideas, such as general elections and exit polls.

The other issue is, coming back to one’s own country after spending sometime abroad. This may sound good, but not always feasible. For starters, your degrees must be recognised in both the countries. Often it is extremely difficult to get admission in certain streams abroad. Whether this is a fact or a wrong estimate, we don’t know. As I mentioned earlier, I don’t think this should be the criteria for deciding your line of study. If you love genetics and end up with psychology just because you want to go to the US, you have probably made a bad decision.

I’m in a similar phase in my life – undecided and looking for answers for certain uncertain questions. Here are some of my personal considerations that have haunted me over the last couple of weeks:

1. Do I really want to think about this now?
2. What do I like?
3. Can I imagine myself doing what I like after 10 years?
4. Is it feasible? Costs, duration of the course, et al? Do I have half-knowledge?
5. Can I stay away from my country – temporarily/permanently?
6. Is there a scope of going outside my country/coming back in future?
7. Few personal questions to myself – it varies for every individual
8. Did I consult my head and heart both? Am I being honest and trust my intuition? Do I deserve better?

This questionnaire needs revision, review and re-evaluation. All of us must create our own questionnaire and answer it truthfully, taking our own time. This effort on our part is required so that we don’t have to depend upon Kumari Mayawatiji for our future career decisions.

Eventually, each one of us would be in a position to decide the road ahead; most people on earth have ultimately walked towards some success in life.

(Serious comments on this post would be appreciated)

Solution to a Problem – I

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(Most people on earth are extremely moronic; they cannot solve their own problems. This sequence of blog posts will help eradicate various misfortunes that plague humanity and threaten its very existence.)

Recently, journalists have gone berserk in announcing how our government is ruining education – junior college to doctorate level.

Since the discussion on this issue is endless, I have decided to put an end to all such debates here itself.

For now, that’s one problem solved. You can thank me later.

Garbage Chronicles

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After taking an exam on Monday, extreme boredom and frustration took over me. Later in the evening, with no one around to hang out with, I picked up the Times of India and began reading it in the solitary confines of my room. In a world-weary mood, it was refreshing to read Jug Suraiya’s comments on ‘Second Opinion’ (What rubbish, we’re Indians – 18th June 2008). Apart from Shashi Tharoor, he’s my favourite columnist from the Times; his cynical attitude and sarcasm is unbeatable. The best part is that this article of his highlights something that I wanted to comment upon. He’s made my job easier.

Tory MP Lucy Ivimy has reportedly rubbished Indians and branded us as congenital litterbugs. Many bigwigs have accused her of racism and though she has apologised, the issue does not seem to die down.

Jug emphasizes on an interesting idea in this column – the ‘open window’ concept. According to this concept, modern civilians (like us) believe that it is their birthright to fling household garbage lumps straight out of the window. He goes onto say that we believe everything outside the sacrosanct confines of home, office, etc is alien to us and therefore a natural receptacle to our rubbish.

Each one of us has, at least once in our lifetime, thrown something outside the window. Many of us must have thrown some filth just yesterday, to a place where it rightly belongs – public places and boulevards. A lane which connects me to the main road is always squalid – with dirt thrown from windows lying helplessly on the road. Paper wraps, chewing-gum, rubber slippers, plastic bags, banana peels – not to mention used condoms, sanitary napkins and a whole of other such rot. It’s not only difficult to walk here, but also embarrassing, to say the least. I know civilised, educated, sophisticated and well-bred individuals who throw all sorts of waste outside their window – their nail clippings, peach seeds, bad rotis, wafer packets, old rice, etc. It’ll sound very clichéd if I talk about ubiquitous excreters – practising a peculiar asana with a bucket of water every morning.

When I was half-baked as a child, I have myself thrown filth outside the window. No one complained or scolded me. Probably no one felt the need to do so. Somehow, it did strike me later that the world outside is not really outside and different from the clean, spick-and-span world inside the reverent boundaries of my home.

When my local train reaches Bandra creek, educated people toss bits of waste into it. Some have genuine waste with them; others do it just for fun. Many people spit on roads not because they are eating paan, but just because its fun. It’s fun to spit outside the window too. It’s fun to dirty our neighbour’s backyard and throw trash in our colony garden.

It’s not for the first time that a foreign delegate has pointed our skills at harpooning when it comes to dealing with trash, but still we continue to spit filth back at them. This is not about glorifying foreign habitude; it’s about accepting our faults.

One of these days, such firangs will be forced to say, WTF – since we can’t beat them, lets join them. Aaack thoooo…!

Goner-speak

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The new time-table is out; prelims begin in October. It’s almost mid-June and I haven’t even covered half of surgery, medicine book is brand new; paediatrics is still in infancy and I don’t know a thing in gynaecology.

Meanwhile, as final year is taking its toll, these are some of the documented manifestations/ real-life stories as told by some Gsites themselves. People, medicine is toxic!

Mild Symptoms:

· You think your dog has developed grade IV breathlessness when he pants.

· A passer-by slaps you after you tell him, “Uncle, do you have a hydrocoele or is your pant too tight?

· You apply lacto calamine lotion on your damaged wall.

· You keep condoms next to your bed hoping that the population of bed-bugs will decrease.

· After a hot bath, you exclaim – “Wow! I have been autoclaved!”

· In the morning, you get up and say, “I am conscious, cooperative and well oriented in time, place and person.”

· You think a person with hernia looks ‘cool’.

· Now you know why it is called culex ‘fati’-gans.

· While travelling in the train, you assess nutrition of all your co-passengers.

Major Symptoms: (this one’s dangerous, if you have any of these, here’s wishing you luck!)

· If you are a female, you suddenly get up from your library chair and shout, “Yippee! I just got an LH surge!”

· You ask your milkman whether his cow has developed galactorrhoea and prescribe bromocriptine tablets.

· You stop going to the toilet because it does not conform to the standards laid down by our PSM department.

· You try publishing a paper in New England Journal of Medicine about the usefulness of a pot-hole as an abortifacient.

· You take your pregnant cockroach for an antenatal (ANC) visit.

· You stop standing because you think that you will develop varicose veins, and you stop sitting because that may lead to piles.

· You keep telling people around, “I would like to do a PR (per rectal examination).”

· You feel as if you are a papillary growth/finger-like projection on the surface of the earth and try avulsing yourself.

· Instead of gardening, your latest hobby is culturing bacteria and fungi; you spend time giving them tips on how to infect your competitors.

A tribute

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Err… Ahem. I would like to dedicate this blog post to its readers; especially those of you, who really love this blog but are hesitant/ashamed to admit the same. Of course, currently there is no medical therapy available that can cure either hesitancy or shame. Never mind, you can try doing the following things in order to express your unfathomed love for my blog:

(First step that is common to all the methods given below is opening this webpage, obviously.)

· Ensure that no one is around. Take out the earth wire from your PC (to make sure that there is a current leak), and gently kiss the monitor/ screen. Recommended: Do not wear rubber slippers.

· Call a Pundit, get some flowers, garlands, etc and marry your computer. You may/may not consummate your marriage. It’s up to you. Anyway, congratulations.

· Dismantle the screen from the rest of the computer; put it in a gold frame and hang it in your bedroom. Admire it every morning when you get up.

· If you are desperate for some stimulation, try inserting your finger, etc into your PC’s USB slot, memory card slot and other such areas. Do not look for any changes on the screen. There won’t be any. Let me know your experiences later.

· Embrace your computer and stay in that position for at least half an hour so that your abdominal wall is incinerated by the heat. You may/may not wear rubber slippers this time. Do not try this with your buttocks though.

· Sit on the mouse (use an appropriate sized mouse) and admire this webpage. I don’t know why. Just try. It might work.

· Take your PC out on a coffee date. Pour some coffee on the processor and shout: ‘coffee inside’ instead of ‘Intel inside’. You can try pushing in some chocolates as well; some studies consider it to be an aphrodisiac.

· Dress up as a cheerleader. Refresh this page. As soon as the webpage gets completely loaded, start cheering at the top of your lungs. Never mind if that undergarment is sooty.

· Put on very loud music on your PC. Your fat, menopausal, hag like next-door-neighbour should come and whack you hard. I don’t know how this method will help you express your adoration. Some people are known to be masochists.

Psst: If you are still unsatisfied (shit!), simply scribble a comment.

Ha! Now I know what all you have gone through before commenting!

(Due to certain technical difficulties, this blog post has appeared before the cartoon strip. Apologies!)

I solemnly pity…

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I solemnly pledge to publicly pity certain unfortunate earthlings. Next time when I see them, I’ll make it a point to laugh at their face. Let me enumerate ten of them who undoubtedly top the list:

1. I pity all those people whose knees have been crushed by others, who sit in front of them – and recline the chair completely in an aircraft.

2. I pity all those buttons – on shirts of obese men/women – because they have to sustain extremely high pressures throughout the day.

3. I pity those people, who have broken their buttocks after falling from a staircase.

4. I pity those, who, because of their sheer bad luck, develop vacuum in their stomach after a loud burp.

5. I pity all lavatories; especially the ones whose users have developed diarrhoea.

6. I pity those people whose ribs have been smashed by elbows of other passengers in crowded trains.

7. I pity those people, who have worn extremely tight undergarments for some spooky reason.

8. I pity those people, who unknowingly sit on dried chewing gum/mucus.

9. I pity all MCPs (male chauvinist pigs) and FCSs (female chauvinist swine).

10. I pity those nerds who are very desperate to jot down notes in a lecture; as if they are the most deprived creatures on earth.

Have a nice day.

Unfortunate Events – Part I

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Recently, a few incidents reminded me of some forgettable days in school. It is very unfortunate, because it’s almost after six years that those memories have come back again to haunt me. No doubt, there were better days in school; but somehow they are overshadowed by these malevolent occurrences.

Our batch in school was really lucky, because our seniors did not get the opportunity of learning computers in the fifth standard. They could only do it in the eighth standard, which for us, meant three extra years of computer education. Our syllabus included Dos and Microsoft Paint, which was not considered obsolete then, as it is today.

My school was a government-aided Christian missionary convent school. Obviously, we didn’t have plenty of computers. We had to share one computer between the three of us. This teacher was supposedly very strict and mean. We were comparatively timid school-going kids, unlike the hippies of today. She scolded us often for trivial issues and all of us were terrified of her.

After about six months of learning Dos, we were very eager to switch to Ms Paint. We were bored of that same old black screen full of senseless jargon. The day finally arrived. We rushed to the computer lab, the ‘hag’ followed close behind. We settled quickly in our places and waited for the session to begin. But she stuck to her old dirty ways. The crone shouted at us for not wishing her ‘good morning’. She dampened our enthusiasm; she threw a poor kid out of the class for a filthy reason.

Those of us who use computers at least know some basic physics. We don’t require a genius to tell us how difficult it is for three people to work on a single PC. In those days, flat screens didn’t exist. Obviously, we had two options – either stretch out our necks to get a better view, or simply just adjust the computer screen to suit all three of us best. I did the latter, only to face the unexpected consequences.

The old hag saw me touching the screen panel. Her blood boiled and she started abusing me on top of her voice, “You stupid boy! How dare you touch the computer? Does it belong to your father?” she added a few more sentences, but I didn’t have the guts to hear them. I was dead scared.

I almost cried. Probably, I was too young to understand the real meaning of such a crude remark which she said so easily. As a fifth standard school kid, I was a coward, but I knew I was being shouted at for an extremely foolish reason. Thinking thus, I replied, “I…I couldn’t see…”

She marched towards me with a revengeful look. I froze in my seat. I heard my partners sighing. They knew the consequences too, but I had already put my foot in the quicksand. I looked straight at her, feeling helpless. I couldn’t possibly take back what I had just said. She yelled again, “You can’t see, eh? Who will pay for this computer if you spoil it? Your father is a doctor isn’t he? Can’t he take care of you and your eyes?”

I had taken enough by now. She had exceeded the limit. So what if she is my teacher? She had no right to talk about my father in such a derogatory manner. If students are supposed to respect their teachers, teachers too are supposed to reciprocate with love and respect. If a teacher genuinely wants to teach and make his/her students a better person, the student will automatically respect that person. In the heat of the moment, I felt that I’m justified not to respect her. Immediately, I made a decision. I had to give her shit back to her. I yelled back at her, much to the surprise of my batch-mates, “Ma’am, you have no right to talk about my father like that. I have done nothing wrong. If you think I should be able to see the computer from this position, come, sit here, and show me how.” I got up and offered her my seat.

She fumed with anger and my friends tried to support me by certain obvious encouraging gestures. Probably they too wanted to get back at her at some point in their lives. Few rogues snickered at my fate. That old hag was extremely angry. She literally dragged me to the principal’s office and abused me all the way. The principal was no better. He reprimanded me, scolded me and wrote a remark in my ‘calendar’. He threatened to throw me out of the school and told me how that would bring shame to my family. Finally, he forced me to apologise two-three times and let me go. I was made to sit out of that class, but I had anyway lost all interest in that subject.

Eleven years down the line, I’m still angry, not at her or him, but angry at myself. I shouldn’t have let them take advantage of my cowardice. I should have given them what they deserve. Retrospectively, I think whatever came to my mind in the heat of the moment then is absolutely correct.

However, I do get some mental relief when I realise that they belong to such a category of unlucky teachers who will never get even a speck of respect from their students (sic). I don’t know how many (more) eager students they will traumatise in their goddamned career.

A Beginning…

In order to infuse some life into this lifeless blog, I have come up with a new comic strip. Below is a short description of all the characters that will feature in it. Remember, these are just the lead characters; some new characters might appear at some point in time. Their description will be added accordingly. This comic strip will probably help to enliven the blog; plus, if I’m lucky enough, some newspaper might employ me as its part-time cartoonist. In order to maintain the uniformity of the blog, one comic strip will feature after every two blog posts.

Now, let us meet the characters of Incompetent Os:

1. Pott: (Mr. Pott Belly)
Pott Belly is a poor farmer residing in a small village called Voracity. He tries to make both ends meet by selling ostrich eggs, a rare delicacy. Potty (as he is affectionately called) is constantly troubled by brash and unreasonable people around. He prefers to spend most of his time with Os and encourages it to lay as many eggs as possible.

2. Os: (Incompetent Osus)
Os is Pott’s lovable but moronic ostrich. This harebrained bird fails to lay eggs properly and even if it succeeds in doing so, the egg invariably gets smashed because of its boorish alacrity. It attends numerous seminars on “Laying eggs – Distant dream or a certain possibility?” and takes advice from its sisters time and again. Os sits on its eggs in a very awkward manner.


3. Pus: (Pussy catus)
Pus is an extremely lethargic cat that does nothing throughout the day. It can hardly articulate and says nothing except an occasional “Purr.”

4. In-mate: (No-better-namus)

In-mate is a mute, gawky bird that is occasionally seen flying in the comic strip panel. It ricochets in the panel resulting in serious injuries to the other characters due to its sharp beak.

Now, the first comic strip is just two blog posts away!

Happy Realisation II

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After completing yet another careful research, it gives me immense pleasure to publish the invaluable result:

“There are more desperate people on the surface of the earth than the number of oxygen molecules.”

Obviously, it does become difficult to breath at times.

Mumbai Chindi-ans

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Most rich people do not have brains. They do not have any kind of creativity in them. Yet, I will not get discouraged and will continue my philanthropic activities so that they get some kind of education.

For example, a rich guy has named a cricket team that he procured as ‘Mumbai Indians’. Now, what was going through his feeble mind when he came up with such a foolish name? Anyway, that’s not for us to find out. Since the aim of this blog is to help people overcome their foolery, we’ll suggest some better names for this poor cricket team.

First thing that invariably comes to one’s mind when one thinks about Mumbai is its vada-pavs. Mumbai vada-pavs is a decent name, though it lacks innovation and looks a bit derogatory. If I were to have a team named Mumbai vada-pavs, I would name the captain as chutney. Mumbai Dabheli is another pathetic name, so is Mumbai cutting. However, considering its popularity, Mumbai Bhelpuri is a good name as well, but it suggests a disorganised mix of players who are in a complete mess.

So far we have concentrated only on vegetarian foodstuffs. Since Mumbai is a coastal area, we owe some respect to the fisher folk. Bombay duck is a nice name, though the team would be a laughingstock of the entire cricketing world when a batsman scores a nought. Bombili is another fish available locally, though it’s a very unpleasant name for a cricket team. Mumbai Mutton will be devoured by the opponents. Remember, we shouldn’t encourage too many ‘food items’; you never know, some vendors may start selling ‘mengo jyoos’ and other ‘coldreenks’ on the ‘peetch’ itself.

Another typical Bambaiyya feature is the presence of too many insects at all times and places. So a name like Mumbai Macchars seems apt, but at the same time belittles the talent of the players. Mumbai kidaas suggests a rogue kind of an attitude, but it has the same drawback as ‘Mumbai Macchars’. How about Bombay bed bugs? It’s an innovative name and comes with a power-packed slogan: “khoon choos lenge!”, or maybe “raat ko bachke kidhar jaaoge?!”

With everyone in high spirits, Bombay Batliwala is also a suitable name. So is Bombay Bevada, though the latter suggests a more vulnerable team.

Mumbhai is also a good name if you want to celebrate the typical goondagiri of this city. Mum-bai is also good enough if you love your kaamwaali bai a lot. If you are too obsessed with Mumbai lingo, Mumbai malai marke might sound music to your ears (believe me, its very stale). For those of you who are obsessed with local trains, Mumbai local might sound reasonable; to me it sounds like the name of a public call office. If a player is run-out, crowd is sure to roar, “Maaf kijiye, Ye local deri se chal rahi hai!” Some people might want to call it Chhatrapati Shivaji Mumbai Team; I don’t want to comment on this name for obvious reasons. Bombay ball bearers is an innovative name, but it does sound fiendish.

Coming to some medical terms, a friend of mine suggested Malignant Mumbaikars. It sounded very nerdy. I came up with Mersilk Mumbaikar, it would have a very catchy slogan, “sabke hole suture kar denge!”

Mumbaikar…kar…kar would also be a good name, with the slogan, “Arre mum-bai kar kar kar… arre bai kar na!” Mumbectomy sounded too nerdy and purposeless, I mean, it’s not a tonsil, it’s a cricket team! Mumbaiocoele is very derogatory, and no cricketer with self-respect would want to play under this banner. Mumbaiputation is like a double-edged sword; if the team does well, it can shout, “amputate kar diya!” Similar phrase can be used by the opponents if instead they happen to win. Mumbairrhagia signifies malice, but the team might just bleed a little too much in case they lose. How about Bombay ball bladder?

Heck. I think the way Mumbai Indians have performed so far, Bombay Black-n-blue might just be the right name.

Homo Sapiens

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I don’t believe in any research unless I validate it. There are various research articles on ‘types of personalities’, but I have concluded that all of them are ludicrous. Therefore, as a part of a philanthropic endeavour, I have decided to educate my pea-brained readers through my blog.

So dear pea-brained readers, I have come up with a broad classification that is complete and flawless. In case you still find some flaws or you think that you know better than me, please seek psychiatric help. In all probability, you are suffering from a personality disorder.

1. Scirrhous carcinoma
These are people with rigid ideas and they are as hard as a fibrotic mass. They do not care a damn about others and do as they please. In general, such people are quick at making decisions and do not pay too much attention to ‘crap’. They are sharp, astute, shrewd and mercurial. They don’t waste time in silly issues that plague life. At times these people may be difficult to handle because of their ego.

This is a standard conversation with a scirrhous carcinoma when you ask him/her out for a movie:

“Hey duuuuude! I have seen you after such a long time! I’m sooooo glad I met you here itself. I searched the entire earth but didn’t find you (this is followed by a forceful ‘hahahaha…’)! How are you?”

“Fine.”

Silence. That was a curt reply.

The ‘plaintiff’ tries to hide his/her embarrassment and continues further, “Coming for a movie at 3, Dadar?” He looks at the carcinoma expectantly.

“No,” snaps the carcinoma.

“Why?”

“I don’t want to watch a movie with a moron.”

Full stop.

2. Missed Abortion
These are people who are never present whenever an important decision concerning various aspects of life is to be taken. They never participate in any kind of extracurricular activities, debates, arguments, competitions, etc. They think that they are above everyone else and are not born to do such ‘menial’ jobs. Such people are permanently somnolent.

It’s useless describing a conversation with them, since such an occurrence is very rare.

3. Fluctuating Hydrocoele
I thoroughly enjoy mocking such people who keep fluctuating like a hydrocoele* as they are always undecided and uncertain about their future. They keep contemplating about everything in their life, right from ‘whether they should defecate now or after 10 minutes’ to ‘whether they should buyout Microsoft.’ They seek advice from ten thousand people before treating their toe fungus. They look around twenty-five times before farting (Please laugh. I waited for ten years to use this joke).

Here is a typical conversation with such a character:

“Hey duuuuude! How are you?”

“I was fine sometime back, now I think I’m nauseated.”

“Oh… Coming for a movie at 3, Dadar?” he looks at the hydrocoele expectantly.

“Of course, sure! Just give me a call before you leave. Hey waaait… I forgot I have nausea. So I think I’ll rest at home. By the way, which movie is it? Is it the one with Katrina Kaif? Then I think I’ll come… but it has Shahrukh too! What a waste! But then if the tickets cost only Rs. 60, then it’s worth it…”

The ‘plaintiff’ escapes for good, while the hydrocoele continues to hem and haw.

4. Mouse in breast
These people are exactly like a fibroadenoma#. They make special public appearances as and when they desire. Basically, they make such appearances for their own interest. When such mice see a lucrative opportunity, they rush to grab it. Otherwise, all the time, they remain dormant in their ‘holes’ (pun not intended). They are very shrewd and crafty. These mice can manipulate things well. But when others want their help, they immediately vanish into thin air.

“Hey duuuuude! How are you?”

“Hey I’m doing great. How are you?”

“Coming for a movie at 3, Dadar?” He looks at the mouse expectantly.

Now the mouse comes up with innovative excuses because he/she has some more lucrative plans at the same time.

“Er… Actually, I would have loved to come. But, I have a problem. I have to attend a conference on ‘Effect of Big-Bang on Martian life.’

* - In medical terms, it means collection of fluid in the scrotum.

# - Fibroadenoma is a benign tumour of the breast which tends to disappear on touch.

Happy Realisation

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After a lot of research, I proudly conclude:

"If we are able to use Idiocy as a fuel, we'll never face fuel-shortage ever."

I hereby thank all idiots.

Hair Raising Story

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It was a very comfortable ride to college last Thursday. It’s very rare to find an empty train to Churchgate in the peak rush hours. Before the scheduled departure, I managed to pick up a newspaper from a local vendor on the same platform.

After a long time I had managed to get a window seat. As I sat down to read the newspaper, a pamphlet about A4 size dropped on the floor. I picked it up and decided to put it away, when some bold text on the paper “DHAMAKA OFFER”, caught my eye. I kept the newspaper aside and started reading the pamphlet.

The pamphlet advertised an ‘A/C Salon’ that had come out with this “DHAMAKA OFFER” to grab customers. To emphasize this point, it had fireworks printed on its margins. Right in the centre, there was a sketch of a ‘sutli bomb’. It boasted of famous international brands of cosmetics and other products such as ‘Garner’ and ‘Lorel’.

The best part of the pamphlet was these lines:

“Tired of your hair style?”

“Well, try our colour or highlights them & your face (!) Both will shine!”

“You will get bleach for FREE! Imagine!”

“The new hair & beauty salon for ‘ments’ – you care for your hair, for your looks, for your face!”

Obviously, it was a ‘beauty salon’ for gents (or men; not a remix). But what was not so obvious was a sketch of a female next to this line.

“What are you waiting there? Call now before very late!”

Very rarely rides in a local train to college are this entertaining. (Okay, I know I have a very bad sense of humour – not my fault – it has happened to me since I took up medicine.)

(Unfortunately, the one making the pamphlet is solely responsible for all the mistakes: grammatical, factual or otherwise)