From the Frying pan into the Fire

Imagine how a blob of butter (me) fresh out the cosy cool fridge (Kodaikanal) feels when it’s dumped onto the hot pan (Med school) and then mixed with coconut from Kerala, mustard from Punjab, curry leaves from Tamilnadu and other random ingredients from the gulf, metropolitan Indian cities and Mizoram, which by the way, are all originally from Kerala (Sanadors – Batch of ’11). The ingredients are tossed and sautéed together for a while (five and half years, no less), with the heat varying from a slight simmer in summer (college fests and class trips) to high flame (profs) till finally you are presented with a dish so delectable, where the ingredients have blended and infused so well together that you couldn’t tell them apart (except for a few exceptions, like the clove or tez patta which is always going to taste terrible if you bite into just that!) Then, of course the heat is turned off and the dish is left to cool (internship) and then transferred to a serving bowl. Well, this is where the simile ends, because in my version the entire dish falls bang into the fire (bond). And this isn’t a tame home kitchen burner, it’s the road side burning furnace which rises with tongues of heat to devour and blacken the bottom of the kadai.

Whether you’re from a family full of doctors or a first generation medico, nothing, let me repeat, NOTHING prepares you for what medical school has in store for you. Swimming through the sea of syllabus we triumphantly arrived at the shores of MBBS only to find ourselves marooned on an island full of unforeseen monsters which, Physics, Chemistry and Biology never prepared you tackle, namely – Anatomy et al. But one must never lose hope, as my good friend once said, ‘God got us in and He will definitely get us out!’ They say time flies when you’re having fun, and sure enough, these years have flown by in a blur. I wouldn’t be exaggerating if I said that these were some of the best days of our lives! Finishing college and leaving my safe bubble in CMC Ludhiana was one of the saddest things I’ve gone through.

After five and a half years of studying with the same people and living within the protected confines of a teaching hospital one is not prepared or willing to voluntarily ‘jump from the frying pan into the fire’ so to speak.

It was like learning how to swim, being unceremoniously pushed into the deep end, except instead of a swimming pool this was a vast swirling whirlpool of real life, with its troubled deep blue waters, complete with rollicking crests, humbling troughs and spaces of inexplicably calming, still, beautiful waters reflecting the brilliant fire in the sunsets above. In one word this is called – Adulting. Suddenly I was using words like independent and earning in sentences to describe myself. While such glamourous words do describe my new life the stark reality is that now I have to wash my own bathroom (no hostel), manage my money, treat patients, manage the emergency, do on call duties, talk to Biharis, keep my ID cards and certificates safely and think about whether I need a maid (this is my mother’s job, I tell you!). I also have a PF, I mean come on, that is the stuff of LIC ads!

Another thing about being a completed dish is that soon it is not good enough on it’s own, you need to garnish it (PG seat) and serve it with an accompaniment (husband). My facebook newsfeed is now filled with either pre wedding photo shoots or stories of which PG course my friends are getting into. You know when you start a blog, you have to select a template, and all your articles, pictures and links are laid out according to that template. Many tutorials on how to have an amazing blog say that it should be thematic, which is disappointing because everything I have to say is random and scattered. But sometimes, I feel like I’m stuck in a thematic template.
I feel like a food blog.

Cooking time: 24 years.

Ingredients: Versatile genes, Years of study, lovely people, beautiful places and mostly God’s grace.

Recipe: Refer to the rant above!

Serves: I guess this part makes the difference. The serving part. How many will I serve? And who will those people be? And how will that experience be? No one cooks without a reason, and the same goes for us. We weren’t created without a reason.

Maybe I will be the curry leaves which reminds someone of home.

Or maybe, I’ll be the clove which soothes someone’s aching tooth.

Maybe I will be the butter which fattens a malnourished child.

Maybe I will be a tava roti which when thrown onto the fire, becomes light and fluffy, soft and cooked to perfection. Ready and willing. To serve. Of course in the process you might get eaten up, but who would want to be a rotting chapatti?