Speech for the BOSE

Dear Fiends! We are the lucky ones to still be around for the 45th reunion of our Batch.
Time has literally flown. On 17th July 1978 when we entered the portals of CMC, the five and a half years for our course, seemed like infinity to me. A senior doctor saar of the ’73 batch put it in perspective, “Dei! When I joined in first year you were in 7th standard!”

Those who have read my blog, and for those who haven’t, on the perception of time.
I had postulated that perception of the length of time is inversely proportional to your age!
At 1 year a year represented your entire life, at 5 years it was 1/5th of your life. As you age that fraction shrinks as the denominator increases, now it’s 1/62 for most of us. Our perception of a year has proportionately shortened.
I have driven down to Bangalore from Calcutta with the King of Calcutta Bong Biswas and his beautiful wife Neena.
We broke journey in Horsley Hills trying to recreate the nostalgia of our class retreats.
The place is unrecognizable with tourist and trash but still retains some of the old world charm of a British hillstation.
We could not locate our retreat centre apparently it does not exist anymore. We searched for the iconic rocks on which most of our old pictures are taken but it was futile.

Bangalore also brings back nostalgic memories of 1976, when our family had driven down in our family Ambassador. That was my first trip south and exposure to the language and culture. Road trips then were a different story then. The cars were not air conditioned and there were limited amenities on the highway.
When we reached Bangalore we were surprised with the cool climate. There were no fans in the place where we stayed, it was considered too fancy!

We were quite amused that a ubiquitous road like Mahatma Gandhi road found in every town in India, was given a modern spin and called MG road! It removed the image of and a bent doddering old man with his cane and instead conjured an image of a modern happening place. Appropriate since MG road was the happening place in Bangalore.

At that time all along MG road there were posters advertising the latest hit Kannada movie, starring the superstar of Kannada movies, Dr. Raj Kumar. The story was based on Shakespeare’s ‘Taming of the Shrew’ and had an apt titled,
‘Bahadur Gandu’.

In Hindi, gandu would loosely translate to an asshole and bahadur means brave. It is logical that a man has to be brave and an Asshole to attempt to tame a shrew, invariably his wife.

While on the subject, I remember the old joke about how all the parts of the body fought for the position of the Boss. The brain the ears, eyes, mouth and nose staked their claim. The anal sphincter aka the asshole also threw his hat in the ring. The others laughed at the anal sphincter who sulked and refused to function. The brain became feverish, the ears began ringing, the eyes saw blurred and the mouth could not eat. They all appealed to the brain, “Let the asshole be the Boss!”.
And it came to pass that the asshole became the Boss.
All the parts of the body functioned perfectly and the asshole did nothing at all, except pass out a lot of shit. The moral of the story is “You don’t have to be a brain to be the Boss, being an asshole is sufficient”.
I recollect a quote by Dean Martin “At my age the biggest satisfaction is having a decent crap in the morning”.
I am sure many of us would concur.

In our vast country with various languages one word may be inoccous in one language maybe noxious in another. For example imagine my hard core Malayali mother in law’s indignation when she knock on a door and the occupants told her, “Kundi khole ke andar aa jao”.

After I completed my MS, I forayed into private practice by necessity. My mission hospital paid peanuts and I had a family to support.
Being a bottom feeder at that time, I was left with, what else? The bottom! All the anal fissures, haemorrhoids, fistulas and perianal abscesses not to forget the fecal impactions came to me. This region people higher up in food chain would not touch with a barge pole because they had the thyroids, abdomens, appendices, hernias, hydroceles and of course the breasts.

Like the motto of a gynaecologist is “Always at your cervix!” mine was “Always at your a____e”, you guessed it right.
I went about my job in earnest and became good at it, remembering the famous quote by Bailey and Love, “If you don’t put your finger in, you will put your foot in.” This must have been told to us ad nauseum during our MBBS.
There were anecdotal stories of the great Puli and his penchant for p.r.s.
A Princess from the Royal family of Nepal admitted in M ward with pyrexia of unknown origin. After taking an extensive history and doing a thorough examination, Puli did his famous p.r. and Eureka! He found a perianal abcess, which was the cause of the fever.
When we were in CMC I remember most of the patients with perianal problems were from across the border Andhra Pradesh. It was attributed to the fiery Andhra food.
In Nagpur we have our own very fiery ‘Saoji cusine’, which is supposed to beat Andhra cooking hands down in terms of conflagration. People have devised an informal grading system for the degree of heat.
Grade 1. Mouth on fire.
Grade 2. Stomach on fire.
Grade 3. Morning after rear end is on fire.
A young adventurous Vellaikara white man visited Nagpur and being either bahadur or foolhardy, he decided to experiment with Saoji cusine.
The moment he took a bite his face turned crimson and he opened his mouth and stuck his tongue out and fanned it with his hand. He gulped down at least a gallon of water and gripped his abdomen complaining of burning. Morning after when he sat on the water closet he passed few hard lumps followed by intense burning. By his description the pain was like passing out a barbed wire! He reached for the toilet paper to wipe himself but the rough paper behaved like an abrasive, making matters worse. He then spotted the hygienic shower and aimed it at the afflicted area. That was an epiphany moment, he realized why Indians wash it rather than wipe it!
He visited me the next day still complaining of a persistent burning. I asked him to strip and lie down in the left lateral position with his right leg flexed. First thing I noticed was a realistic lipstick mark tattooed on his right gluteal region, which seemed to imply either “kiss my ass!” or “my ass has already been kissed”.

On digital examination I felt button hole like abrasion in perianal region, diagnostic of a fissure in ano. He was send off with a prescription of smooth muscle dilators, laxatives and soothing sitz baths.

On the subject of wiping there is the story of a senior anaesthetist in CMC being reprimanded by a white theatre nurse for resting his backside against the shelf containing the autoclaved drums.
“Kindly remove your unsterile backside from my sterile equipment” was her reprimand.
The anaesthetist not short on wit retorted, “Sister we wash it and don’t wipe it”.

The Resident who wouldn’t operate

This satirical essay was written by a former resident describing his journey through surgical residency. He describes his trials and travails with sardonic humour. He prefers to remain anonymous.

Sinbad had done his MBBS from a Medical College in Dakshina Kannada. An average student but often marked out by Professors as someone with ‘great potential.’ It was in internship that he had found his inner calling- Surgery. He loved the smell of spirit and the sight of blood and pus. He was quite eager to dress the burns patients and if ever a resident offered him a lacerated scalp to suture, he would gush about it for the next many weeks. The one time he was told his suturing was better than the residents’, he relived the procedure throughout the night. He enjoyed the company of surgery residents- there was something about them which was different, cool, macho.

The Professors had their quirks but were legendary- to see Dr. Thangam Varghese operating was to see an artist paint, Dr. Sri Ram Bhat’s left hand was spoken of among interns as much as his book was appreciated, Dr.Harish Rao’s diction, Dr. Ashfaque Mohammad’s humor, Dr. BM Nayak’s jogs and intra-op high-fives, Dr.SP Rai’s conduct. He certainly wanted to be a surgeon.

It isn’t clear where he spent the next two years. But he was preparing for the post graduate entrances. His seniors had advised him not to take up any clinical jobs, for they had understood that it was difficult to work and study for NEET simultaneously. As he wrote his first set of examinations he realised a cruel fact. They do not ask you what you should know in entrance exams. It is merely an exam of elimination to aid the filling up of post graduate seats. And so he wrote-ten, twenty, thirty, forty exams and more, across India, in two years and failed in almost all of them, qualified a few but was knocked out at the interview stage in a couple of others. Two years of loneliness, failure, rejection, helplessness and the lack of an identity.

This was when the heavens woke up to his pleas and he found himself a seat in Surgery, somewhere in North India. The years of misery were over. The Promised Land, the land of milk and honey awaited him. And unlike many others, who wanted Orthopaedics or Medicine or Radiology but were settling for Surgery owing to their ranks, he had actually found himself in the field he loved the most. This was going to be tiring but rewarding, or so he thought.

This was what he learnt in Residency.

First Year:

  1. Humiliation is a way of life here. Most things you are shouted at for aren’t even your fault. Shouting at you portrays the Boss as a sinless God in front of the patient. Your senior can scream at you in public for his own fault and you shall put your head down and listen.
  2. It’s all Divide and Rule brother. All the powers that be need do is make your passing conditional to their approval.That is enough for colleagues to find every opportunity to put another down through three years.
  3. Do not trust your own brother if he is your colleague or senior. Nobody is here to learn Surgery the way you thought they would be. In an environment of insecurity, do not expect anybody to keep your secrets.
  4. They will be polite to their wives and children for they need to be. They will be polite to their patients, for they are their livelihood. They will never be polite to you. You are the scum of the earth.
  5. They will say do not eat till the job is done, but make sure you eat. Especially breakfast. They will not care whether you slept in days or not, but will disturb your sleep at midnight by taking an additional round, merely to feel senior.
  6. Hydrocele is your cutting. Unless the Boss decides he wants to teach a beautiful intern what a tunica vaginalis looks like. And this will happen often. If your eyes brighten up at the sight of a hydrocele, teach them not to. Don’t blame the intern, put her to good use. If she can chat up the Boss in OPD, that will save you from a lot of pedal lactic acidosis.
  7. Touch feet as often as possible. Even if your back hurts. You touch feet for years and then you get your feet touched for years. It means nothing. Just keep touching. Makes life easier.
  8. If a wound gapes, it’s your fault. Seroma, Haematoma, Surgical site infection. All of it your fault. Even if you were not present inside the operation theatre and did all you could to prevent it.
  9. Take time out to cry. You need to keep your system light. You might struggle from suicidal ideation, but it is documented that 30% surgery residents do too. So you are not alone. You can always jump off the hostel building like many before you have, but that won’t change the way things work around here.
  10. Don’t work hard. Give an impression that you are hard-working. Both are two different things. Work where you can be noticed, when there is maximum possibility of being noticed. Exert yourself completely to the patient who is Boss’ relative/ mechanic/ driver. Your elaborate burn dressings will never be seen, don’t even bother.
  11. Curiosity and Spirit of Enquiry is all bovine faeces(bull). Never ask questions. Be a YES man. It’s good for your health.

Second Year:

  1. Get a car. Boss has his income. But Boss likes to save. Drive him around. Feed him till he chokes. Your father’s hard earned currency notes are actually confetti meant to be showered on Boss.
  2. If he asks you to buy him a brownie, get him ice cream too. If he asks you to buy him a helicopter, buy him a space station. Why? He knows many ways by which he can ruin your life. He is Boss. The medical establishments have no way of assessing and admonishing the dinosaurs in the food chain.
  3. Your senior is exam-going. He needs a good impression. Take the blame for his mistakes in the morning. You can always whip the juniors in the evening. Or tear up their files.
  4. Hernia is your cutting. Unless the Boss decides he needs to teach an undergraduate damsel how a tension-free mesh repair is done. Or, the Lecturer would be in a mood to finish three hernioplasties under 45 minutes by himself, some silly personal record of his . You will be second assistant forever, or so it will feel. Don’t run throughout the night trying to get the patients fit for surgery. You will get peanuts at the end of it.
  5. Lecturers don’t care about you more than they care about their job. And for many reasons they need to be in Boss’ good books. Else he’ll load them with more cumbersome work and stall their promotions. So anything you tell them in good faith shall be duly reported. And if they tell you something personal, they are merely venting. Don’t read too much into it.
  6. Humour in Surgery sucks. It is almost always slapstick. Almost always centred around boobs and balls. Few get sarcasm and almost no one will understand a pun. The older they get, the more funny they try to be, the worse the humour that comes out. Laugh anyway. Else you stand out as a sore thumb.
  7. Start holding the Boss’ suitcase as he walks in and walks out. Go up to the car. It is all a colonial hangover. It makes absolutely no sense, but do it anyway.
  8. Anaesthetists are almost always women. They almost always are in a rush the moment the scalpel or needle-holder is thrust in your hands. She will insinuate your lecturer or boss about how fast things would have gone had he been operating. Your superior is hormonal. He takes her comment as instruction. Walk over to the other side buddy, again.
  9. They’ll say how their residency was far busier, far superior and far fetched things like how they did Whipple’s alone in a dark room under local anaesthesia. You’ll wonder why they don’t teach you how to drape, hold a needle-holder, place a suture. Never vocalise it.
  10. Flatter. Suck up. You’ve never done it? Well, now’s your time. Flattery always works. Remember, your goal is peace of mind. Nothing else.

Third Year:

  1. Do not ask for surgeries. Ever. Somebody in the food-chain above you will wait till you make the smallest of blunders, and then announce it to the whole wide world. This, despite you going out of the way to hide their own errors from them, and others, for 2 years now.
  2. If you are complimented for your work, deflect it to someone senior to you present nearby. Some patients will want to tell the world how much you have helped them, make sure they do not reach Boss’ ears. He sees you as competition, not as a disciple.
  3. Almost all surgeries in the operative list are supposed to be your cutting. Don’t believe it? Check your logbook. But of course, now that you do not know how to do a hernia well, how can they trust you with a mastectomy or a thyroidectomy. You should have worked harder in your residency. For now, you get nothing.
  4. Buy costly stuff for Boss and his wife. Give it to him as a Diwali present. He will refuse. But that is a token refusal. He is an abyss. Coax him till he takes it home. You need your thesis signed.
  5. Stop entering the O.T. Boss doesn’t think you need to learn surgery nor does he think you need time to study. He will remember to make you write his wife’s research article days before your university exam. Stay out of his sight, stay out of his mind.
  6. It’s a tree of monkeys. Your senior will see only monkeys below him. Your junior will see only Hilton-lined holes above him. The cycle continues.
  7. They’ll tell you observation is learning. It is, but it is not. You can observe a hundred perforation closures but still think of it as an insurmountable mountain. It is only when the scalpel and bovie are in your hand do you learn the trade, which you probably won’t till you are here.

Sinbad received a call from his Boss weeks before his University exam that he was going to be failed. Thanks to the insistence of two Senior Examiners who voted against the pre-meditated verdict, he was passed, in his first attempt. The God who saved Peter from drowning had saved him too. He has come to appreciate the few friends that stood by him in residency, the love of his life was a God-sent balm, his parents helped him stay sane with their regular visits and daily prayers. Now he works in the suburbs under a kind mentor- learning to drape, suture, operate. He insists that not all residents are selfish, lazy and lacking in passion. Some lose their passion in residency.

Calcium trouble

Do the past residents of Men’s Hostel, especially Circa 1978-1984 recall the strange malady which befell only the males called ‘calcium trouble’?


The clinical scenario was after vigorous and sweaty physical activity or on a hot sweaty night, the victim goes to the toilet to pass urine but is alarmed that he’s unable to pass urine. Just a few drops emerge with severe burning in the urethra.

The treatment of ‘calcium trouble’ paradoxically was common salt. The victim would rush to the mess, pick up the salt container placed on the dinning table, go to the water cooler, pour a glass of cold water, add a fistful rather than a pinch of salt. After one or two glasses of this mixture he would return to the bogs. A blissful expression could then be seen on the suffer’s face along with the sound of urine flowing freely.

It was said that due to the high calcium content of the drinking water which caused this form of dysuria, hence the dubbed as ‘calcium trouble’. How common salt relieved the suffering was a mystery.

During initiation after our exercise session we were told to drink water with salt. I always thought this was part of the initiation but later discovered the reason.

After any physical activity in the hostel, the ritual was the players would run to the water cooler with salt and drink one or two glasses.

Luckily I only had an attack once during my tenure in CMC. But there were others who told pitiful tales of painful peeing and implored us to take precautions. Hence it was water with salt on a regular basis. I suspect I can blame my early hypertension to this practice.

Now the water drunk I am sure undergoes, reverse osmosis, filtration, ozone treatment and God alone knows what else. Plus bottled water is the norm, so I suspect this malady has become a distant memory or an idiosyncrasy of the Batches of yore. In those simpler times water was straight from the tap.

Initiation titles Circa 1978

Dear Friends,
Though we are united by our common sojourn in CMC we may have different tastes and sensibilities. In Men’s Hostel profane humour was the norm as is in any Male Hostel. All of us are jaded adults who have heard it all and seen it all, so hopefully are not disturbed with profanities. However if you feel your sensibilities will be hurt, please do not read!

Our Batch of 1978 was unique because we were the last to have the traditional 3 day initiation of Men’s Hostel, the last Batch to have premedical subjects and the first to have the massive fee hike (from Rs800 to Rs3000 a princely sum in those days). This is the description of some of the events which took place during ragging. This was already posted for my classmates and I am sharing with you. I request all those who read it and like it to press the like button. Those who dislike it to post their comments and everyone else is also free to post their comments. I would also like to apologize to all my ‘Senior Doctor Sirs’ and ‘Lords and Masters’ for any transgression I may be willingly or unwillingly be committing.

Dear 78ers,
It was on 17th july 1978 that we joined CMC. I will never forget that day when after paying the fees at SBI Carmen block I met Agroo, Datta & Venky who were to be my room mates. We walked down the path to the ‘Mansion of Gods’, on the way we encountered seniors who seemed unusually friendly. The FAQ was anyone you know in the Womens Hostel?
On reaching the hostel we were told that we would have to be interviewed by the Psychiatrist, Hostel Sec & Chaplain. The Psychiatrist was Bhanu Pant, he asked couple of questions which I don’t remember and showed me a drawing. If my memory holds me good then the drawing resembled a ‘Phallus with fluid dripping into a whirlpool’ and ask my opinion on the drawing. I said “it seems like something erotic,” to which he again asked, “what do you define as erotic”. I was sent out with a provisional diagnosis of ‘castration complex’. If Men Hostel lore is to believed then in previous years a machete was suddenly swung by the psychiatrist perilously close to the family jewels and if self preservation instincts kicked in like protecting them with your hands then a definitive diagnosis of castration complex was given.
The interview with the Hostel Secretary was relatively straight forward, we were given a choice of rooms and the choice include attached bathroom and AC. I wisely chose a single room but it is rumoured that those who opted for attached bathroom with AC had to have a chamber pot tied around their waist a shower sprout above their head and an aerosol can inside their shirt for rest of the initiation (Attached bathroom & AC).

The chaplain interview I somehow don’t remember though the chaplain was Raj Dayal Singh possibly nothing out of the ordinary was said which is expected from a man of God.

Next we were all taken to the mess for dinner, all the tables were put together and we sat around with the seniors surrounding us. They were very nice and asked us individually whether we would like an egg an used their own coupon books to pay. Once the dinner was over each of us were told to stand on our chair and introduce ourselves. Each introduction was followed by loud cheering of the crowd. Everything seemed so hunky dory until the bugle blew Tara Taraa (it actually was not a bugle it was a trumpet played by Tricky Dick). Then immediately the mood of the crowd changed, “down on your knees” was what could be heard. We had to crawl up to the upper common room and if we dared look up our heads were pushed down. In the common room were had to assemble around a podium still on our knees and our head still bent while the Hostel Sec Sumant Khanna address us. Our Batch was collectively christened as the ‘Pseudopriapistic catamites’, whatever that mouthful meant! The speech went on and on, some excerpts are “you all have to carry a handkerchief neatly folded in your front pocket at all time so your Lord and Masters can blow their nose on it whenever required”. We all were alloted to Lords and Masters and each given a new name by which we were to answer to. This is a deep dark secret which was to be guarded by the Laws of the Mens Hostel ‘Omerta’. However now having almost reached the half century mark I will reveal the ‘ragging names’ of our batch.

  1. Abraham Muthunayagam – Abhi Mooth Ayega (This was considered a classic name in those days and also prophetic as he is now a Urologist)
  2. Alfred Job Daniel – Jobs daughter gave Alfred Haat Daniel (I think it was a reference to Dr. C.K. Job’s daughter ditching Alfred Edward whether true or false God alone Knows)
  3. Amitava Biswas – Guava up my Arse (most probably referring to his constipated look)
  4. Bipin Chandra Paul – Bitten on my Ball (most probably because of his meek look)
  5. Chrishantha Binojan Vishwalingam – Crusted Rusted Twisted Lingam (beats me why that name was consided appropriate)
  6. David Srinivasagam – David See-My-Arse-and-Cum (possibly due to his voyeuristic tendencies)
  7. John(ny) Christo – Horny Cysto (had to do something with that name)
  8. Murli Krishna – Merrily Kiss my Dongs (We still refer to him affectionately as ‘Dongs’)
  9. Philip John Prakash – Fill-up-my-Arse (I think our seniors were still caught up in the Freudian ‘anal phase’)
  10. Philipose John – Phimosed Horn (I don’t think that was true about him)
  11. Praneeth Peter – Pet my Peter (Unfortunately he was not with us for long enough. R.I.P. )
  12. Premal Das – Anal Mass (You will all agree that sometimes he tended to be a pain in the _)
  13. Sajiv John – F.L.-torn-that’s-why-I-was born (for the uninitiated that stands for French Letters)
  14. Satish Korah Kuruvilla – Satish Lawda Kudiwalla (A true hermphrodite both organ present )
  15. Srideo Jha – Seedhe Jhaat (whenever I called him that he would say, “Seedhe Nahi Hain Dekh Le”. I never took him up to his challenge, may his soul rest in peace)
  16. Sunil Agarwal – Screw-nil-Bugger-all (That is the reason why he is still know as Buggeroo)
  17. Sunil Datta – Screw-nil Dartos (Once in a while we called him Dartos affectionately otherwise he was just Datta)
  18. Sunil Thomas Chandy – Randy Chandy (He is always been known as Candy)
  19. Suresh Daniel – Spaniel Daniel (During ragging he was frequently asked to bark and no his bark is not worse than his bite)
  20. Valsan Philip Varghese – Vulva Well-Greased (No comments)
  21. B. Venkatesh – V.D. Wank-at-ease (Venky, Kusoo, Tiru KKBJL Gopalan and now known in Australia as Bala looking forwards to seeing you)
  22. Jones Kurian – Kudiyana from Pudiyana (referring to his recent visit to Ludhiana)

Will someone help regarding the names of M. Anthony David Swaroop Kumar, Alexander John, Babu George, John Mathew, Neelam Rajendra Charles, Prio Sada, B. Samson, Shashi Varma, Simon Rajaratnam and Tambi Abraham Cherian. Tee Seng Kiong was not given a name as he was already ragged the previous year.
So friends here ends this letter, if someone wants to bump me off that Calcutta is a good opportunity. I will continue this trip down memory lane as and when the spirit moves me. So take care, cheerio and khuda hafiz!
Raju

Unabashedly the BOSE

Our entry into CMC

We are the Batch of 1978 or also known by the acronym ‘BOSE’. Every batch in CMC is unique and we are no less as I will elaborate further in this article.

Our entry into the haloed halls of the Christian Medical College, Vellore was on the 17th of July 1978.
In the centre the Janata government was in power. The first non Congress government to rule India since independence. The Prime Minister was Mr. Morarji Desai an ardent advocate of temperance, vegetarianism and auto urine therapy. His famous treatise to this form of treatment describes his early morning walk in his lawn barefooted, allowing the dew to percolate into his system through the soles of his feet. Then going to the squat toilet and cupping his palms for a perfect ‘mid stream clean catch’ of the first urine of the day and drinking it directly from his palms. This of course spawned many jokes like “No whisky for Morarji, only Pissky!“ and When asked by the American President at a state dinner, what he would like to drink? He replied “No thank you! I carry my own drinks.“
There must be something in this therapy because he lived to the ripe age of 99.
The Health Minister, Mr. Raj Narayan was a former wrestler turned politician who was dubbed as a ‘giant slayer’ because he defeated Mrs. Indira Gandhi in her pocket burrough of Raebareilly. He left his mark on Vellore by donating the famous ‘white elephants’, one which was parked outside CHAD and the other outside RUHSA. Some of you may remember them as large white mobile clinics with the basic facilities installed in them. However they were mostly unsuitable for the rough and narrow rural roads, hence were mostly parked. Because of their size and colour and of course utility or rather lack of it, they got the apt moniker of ‘White Elephant.
The state was ruled by the AIDMK party and the Chief Minister was a former film star, who had many monikers one of them ‘Makkal Thilagam’ or people’s King, Maradurur Gopalan Ramachandran Menon or MGR. He had instituted the mid day meal scheme for school children which was very successful. He again was an advocate of temperance and hence Tamil Nadu was a dry state when we joined. If you wanted to drink you had to go to Chitoor or buy army canteen booze from ‘Devil’.
The Devil incarnate was the friendly neighborhood illegal booze seller who would come knocking on your door with a Hercules XXX army rum bottle inside an army stocking, “Saar Rumm wanum Saar?” (Do you want rum sir? ) and he would pull down the stocking just enough to display the label on the bottle.
There was also an Amma near Otteri who distilled some real vile, vomit green stuff. Stored in a matka and dispensed in old bottles. We had a New Year’s party in first year with that vile brew and needless to say some vomited, some passed out, some became emotional and confessed their undying love for a class girl.
One continued to vomit the next day and was admitted in the hospital with Hepatitis A. Luckily no one was condemned to a life with a white cane!
MGR also declared the year we joined that medical education should be in the Tamil language. When a team of medical teachers approached him and tried to explain the logistic difficulties, especially translating all the text books into Tamil. He retorted by producing an ancient Sidda treatise and said “If in ancient times it could be written in Tamil, why should it be a problem now?”
There was a lot of apprehension especially amongst the non Tamil speakers but luckily enough it remained a politician’s election promise and like all election promises it was never seriously followed through.

Let me elaborate some points of our unique points.

1. We were the first batch to have the fee hike to ₹3000/-. The Batch of ’76 paid ₹800/- and the Batch of ’77 paid ₹1500/- but it was doubled for us. I believe it still remains frozen at that princely sum. Though inflation has eroded its royal sheen and made it a more plebeian figure. Our seniors used to refer to us as the 3000 batch and they protested on our behalf even before we had joined. Nice of them because they were not affected.

2. We were the last Batch at least the men to face the 3 days initiation ritual. After our Batch the administration put their foot down and banned the 3 days initiation. It started with the ‘Last Supper’ and ended with the Ducking in the pond. During those 3 days there were no classes and mornings started with group exercise, roll in the mud and getting ducked after appealing to God for rain. The rest of the day was spent in amusing our fagmasters and in the evening amusing the Hostel.

3. We had the least number of intra class fixtures or fixtures per say. Whatever fixtures intra or inter class took, happened at the very end. Of course with some exceptions.
You knew when someone was fixed when the Watchman came shouting down Edward Gault drive, “So and So Saar! “ and So and So would peek out of his room, “Enna Watchman?” (What is it Watchman?) “Phone call Saar!” And the Hostel will reverberate with shouts of “De! De! Steady So and So.” Then he would begin to spend a large amount of time on the other side of the road. In SA Hall, in the library and of course in the bushes.
We had a Principal who would go for a nightly constitutional along with a 6 battery torch and shine it into the bushes. Took pleasure in being a killjoy.

4. We were the last Batch to write the first year exam. The Batches after us never faced the fear of getting failed on a whim of a teacher and the prevailing ‘3 strikes and you are out’, rule.
All of you may not know that in those days the rule was if you failed 3 times in the first year then you had to leave the course. But after the first year you had the freedom of failing as many times as you wished. There were some who took their time leaving.
Until that time only one person had managed to fail thrice in first year and coincidentally he was from my home town of Nagpur.

5. We were the first Batch to have the women bused back to the safe confines of Women’s Hostel during our COP (Community Orientation Programme) in Mottupalayam rather than stay in the village. Because in the previous Batch 90% got fixed during the COP. The administration thought there’s too much Kaadal (love) in the village air so segregation of the sexes was safer.
The boys spent the nights sleeping on the floor in a thatched hut and had Kullu and Kalli (preparation of horse gram and ragi) for dinner while the girls had the luxury of their Hostel rooms and saapdu (food).
We had a Bridge playing set in our class and JP of Community Medicine was an ardent Bridge player. He used to land up after dinner to play bridge. One of the boys got disturbed by the lights and talking in our hut. He got up to agitate and reached for his spectacles but when he put them on and he saw JP and immediately went back to sleep, with his back turned to the players.
We were supposed to go around the villages sing health education and awareness songs in Tamil composed by Mardmuthu the Tamil communicator in Chad. They were mainly about measles vaccination. We were supposed to bathe the children and apply anti scabies ointment on them in that way educate the villagers on prevention. Then we had to go from house to house interviewing people and collecting data as per a proforma.
The questions included their opinion on the medicinal herbs, ‘Sotkataray and Nochuthorai’.
I recently discovered one of them is Aloe vera. We also made a soakage pit by digging a hole in the ground and filling it with broken pieces of bricks. This overflowed on the first day of use.
We used a cement outline of a squat toilet placed over a pit, surrounded by burlap as toilets. Once our sojourn was over the cement slab removed and the pit was filled up with mud and later it could be used for manure. We tested the purity of well water by a Horrocks apparatus. And when the girls had left swam in the same well in our birthday suits in the dark of the night. In the day time we saw were snakes swimming in the well and that was the end of our swims. All this was to lead by example. Hopefully we were good examples!

6. We were the first Batch to stage a march past during our first term Biostatistics exam.
Biostatistics was not a University subject but since it was considered useful for us in the future, especially if we planned to do research. It was taught as an additional subject.
We were all provided a pink coloured book textbook with ghostly white illustrations on the cover as a course book. My book was disfigured by a class mate by writing the moniker of a class girl on every page and the cover. He presumed I was in love with her. I won’t reveal the name suffice to say we were in that precarious age when we were in love with the idea of being in love.
The lectures were pretty boring and as I remember they were held in the biostatistics department near the library. Dr. P.S.S. Sunderao and his minions would teach us the ‘measures of central tendency’. These were really beyond me and only B. Venkatesh appeared to be comprehending. No wonder he did research on ‘The gateway theory of pain’, during MBBS and now of course has many papers to his name.
The motto of CMC was corrupted by our seniors from “Not to be ministered unto, but to minister”, to “Not to be conned but to con”. And our seniors were very serious about this ministry. Before the terminal exams we were told by our seniors that it is a tradition not to complete the biostatistics exam and to wear fancy dresses, submit your papers early and have a march past in the SA Hall.
Each ace con senior would give his spin to the story of what earlier batches had done. One said “we all chanted biostatistics F.O. as a marching beat!” And of course the term tradition was mentioned a number of times. We by then were used to the fact that tradition played an important part in CMC.
Before the Biochemistry exam during one of the terminal examinations I think it was Chemistry the Second Seniors came marching up the steps of the SA Hall in a single file, they marched along the balcony facing Women’s Hostel, chanting loudly “left-right” and then turned right, again right, then left and out via the staircase to the library.
Everyone was initially in stunned silence but then all burst into laughter.
The biostatistics exam was the last exam after which we were going home for the first time since joining CMC. We prepared ourselves for the exam by wearing lab coats. Many carried alarm clock in their pockets which was set to ring within 15 minutes of the start of the exam and further 15 minutes intervals.
There was a litter of kittens in Men’s Hostel, probably Thomas the mascot of Men’s Hostel had fathered them.
He was called Thomas because he was supposed to belong to a senior of the same name. He proved that cats have 9 lives by surviving a fall from the Supertop with only a mild limp. A Super Senior had thrown him in a fit of frustration.
Another classmate put one of the kittens in his lab coat pocket and also wore his lab coat along with the hanger, so you could see the hook protruding out behind his neck. Another classmate had a pair of stripped knee length stockings which he wore displaying the stripes prominently.
Now the exam started and the silence was punctuated by the shrill sound of an alarm clock. The invigilator, a relatively junior person did not know what to do. He would go up to the person and note down his name. Then the final alarm clock went off and then most of the boys submitted their answer papers and assembled near the staircase. After we had assembled in adequate numbers we marched down the same route as our seniors did, circumambulated the hall, chanting, “Biostatistics F.O.”. The invigilator noted down as many names as possible and chose the tallest and most prominent, as the ‘leader’ and ‘Leader’ was written against his name.
Then we all went back to the Hostel and had a good laugh.
Meanwhile Andrew from the Principal’s office, more popularly known as Vice Chancellor came beaming down the Gault drive. “Dr. Job wants to see all of you Saar.”, he said with a smile. Immediately we all ran helter-skelter, I remembering exiting Men’s Hostel via a gap due to a missing bar in the bogs.
In first year I was thin enough to squeeze through the gap, final year I was too big.
We decided to go to the Katpadi station and wait for our respective trains.
During the holidays a letter arrived addressed to my father from the Principal’s office, stating broadly, “Do you know your ward was involved in an incident of gross indiscipline and the authorities take a very serious view of this.” My father being a principal himself knew boys will be boys and laughed it away. He however penned an appropriate reply stating that I had received the necessary dressing down from him.
On returning to college after holidays we were all summoned to the Principal’s office.
I remember my inquisition with Dr. C.K. Job. He minced no words and came straight to the point, “why did you do it?” I mumbled something vaguely about being told it’s a tradition. “Tradition!” he said almost having an apoplectic fit, “do you know this is the first time such an incident has happened!”

7. We were the last Batch where the administration permitted a large number of us including yours truly to be provisionally admitted despite our mark lists not being available. They gave us 15 days time and I suspect it was more due to sympathy for ‘Terry’ Tee Seng Kiong because he had secured admission in 1977 but had to leave because his Malaysian school certificate was not recognized by Madras University. He went to Trivandrum and appeared for 12th from there but like me his results were not declared when we appeared for interview.
The next year anyone not having their mark list was shown the exit and the next on the waiting list was called.
So you guys narrowly missed not having the BOSE in it’s present composition.

8. We joined at a time when there was a change of Principals. Dr. A.S. Fenn the outgoing principal was easy-going but the incoming principal Dr. C.K. Job was strait laced.
He believed in a strict curfew time of 12 midnight for the girls, because “after 12 passions would rise.”
I wonder whether the word passions was used euphemistically.
He was not in favour of ‘Discos’ which had become a tradition post any party.
The parties also previously were more frequent. After each batch gave the Freshers a welcome party, the Freshers were supposed to give a return party.
He stopped the return parties cutting down on the number of parties.
The parties consisted of activities to get to know each other and also party games like ‘shrinking islands’ designed bring people real close…… in proximity at least. During the last
half an hour of the party, the lights were dimmed and the music played loud and the dancing began, which was frequently interrupted by an emissary from the Principal’s office or the Principal himself.

9. We had 3 Sunils in our class, Sunil Agarwal, Sunil Datta and Sunil Thomas Chandy.
Sunil Agarwal was called Dariwallah Sunil by Dr. Theodore due to his hirsute appearance. Dr. Theodore or Teddy as he was popularly known taught us Zoology. Whenever chick embryo was mentioned he would say “This reminds me of Chickmagalur and the impending bye elections from there. Hopefully Mrs. Gandhi will win.” Mrs. Indira Gandhi was standing from the safe constituency of Chickmagalur. Anthonysamy or popularly known as Botanysamy taught us, what else! Botany. Dr. James Verghese who taught us Chemistry was Jimmy but Dr. Rose who taught us Physics remained Dr. Rose. Mrs. Rose or Ma Rose taught us English. Her favorite words were “as such” because she frequently used it.

10. We had 6 Johns in our Batch, John Mathew, John Christo, John Alexander, Sajiv John and Jones (Johns) Kurian and Philipose John. They inhabited the block John of Men’s Hostel along with the other John’s of Men’s Hostel and the john was just nearby.

11. We must be only Batch who had a Sri Lankan Tamil, who neither sang nor played a musical instrument and what is really sacrilegious, did not play cricket.

12. Maybe this is the reason we never won an interclass music competition.
So in our final year we decided to give the bathroom singers and wannabe singers a chance. Lacking in talent, ‘kaaykoo’ (raucous) songs were chosen like Dr. Freud, the words of the song went like this,

“Oh it happened in Vienna, not so very long ago,
When not too many folks were getting sick
That a starving young physician tried to better his position
By discovering what made his patients tick

Oh, Dr. Freud, oh, Dr. Freud
How I wish that you’d been differently employed
For the set of circumstances sure enhances the finances
Of the followers of Dr. Sigmund Freud

He forgot about sclerosis, but invented the psychosis
And a hundred ways that sex could be enjoyed
He adopted as his credo, “Down repression, up libido”
And that was the start of Dr. Sigmund Freud “

Then for the Gumbal there was Changiz Khan. I am sure you don’t want to know the lyrics because it went like” Ohhhf! Aaah!…. Chang! Chang! Changiz Khan” and in the rest in gibberish.

Government of India Candidate

During the interviews I met some seniors who took me to the College Canteen. They were being friendly or a mite over friendly.
On the way we met another group of seniors returning from the canteen with another candidate.
The candidate was wearing a very loud full sleeves shirt with vivid floral prints, a tie, contrasting pants with the cuffs flaring to a full 32″. Bell bottoms as they were called in those days, a fading fashion of the 70s. His hair was heavily greased, moustache and aviator shades.
“Myself Madhuraj Singh, Government of India Candidate from Damoh, Madhya Pradesh. Unlike you who are still to be selected I am already selected and don’t need to be bothered by the interview.”
The seniors accompanying him began pulling his leg, asking him for a treat to celebrate his effortless entry.
I was encouraged by the seniors to join in the leg pulling but I desisted.
During the interviews Madhuraj Singh could be spotted boarding the bus meant for the candidates and even landing up for the physical check ups.
There were two other persons who stood out when we assembled in the Carmen Block. Mainly due to their incongruous dress. One was a small diminutive appearing girl wearing a pleated skirt, tee shirt and two tight plaits, school girl madari (akin). The other was tall thin with a single plait and wearing a top and skirt. These girls I was told were the female Government of India Candidate. The small one was appropriately named ‘Chunmun Jhunjhunwala and the tall one was ‘Evangeline Benedict’.
We didn’t have any interaction with these female candidates but Madhuraj Singh made it a point to be seen heard and be an irritant.
The final selection list was put up in Carmen Block on the 17th of July, 1978 and after completing the admission formalities and saying, good bye to my father. I walked down the path to Men’s Hostel. I met my future roommates down this path.
That evening was a Grand Dinner in Men’s Hostel or as we didn’t know then, the Last Supper. All the tables were joined together in the Mess and our entire class was seated around the table. We had to introduce ourselves to the hostel followed by cheering.
The seniors were very friendly and paid for any extras we wanted like eggs etc.
Then at the appointed hour the trumpet sounded like a bugle, ‘Taatara, Tattara!’
“Down on your knees” screamed all the seniors in unison. We were supposed to crawl up the steps to the common room. Our gazes had to be lowered at all times. During this climb I felt a stick placed under my chin forcing me to look up. “Do you remember me?” I looked carefully at the person dressed in white shorts, white tee shirt and slippers. When I hesitated with a reply he said “I am Madhuraj Singh or actually a final year student. Now you have to pay for all the insults you showered on me!”
Later after ragging was over I discovered another CMC tradition, fake Government of India Candidate. They were supposed be as irritating as possible so that you would either tease them or insult them. Then during ragging they would extract their revenge.
The Females must have also faced a similar fate. I believe one of the female faux Government of India Candidate feigned a panic attack. To which a well meaning class girl told her to take deep breathes and demonstrated how. Then during initiation she had to demonstrate the ‘orgasmic’ deep breathing to the hostel.

The Impact

During the impact in first year we spoofed on the fact that superheroes wear their underwears over their tights. This looks cool in comics but in real life it looks, to put it politely comic!
The men’s hostel had a co-operative store where you could buy the essentials and one of them were, underwears/jocks/jattis/chaddis! The ones popular in our times were manufactured by the TTK conglomerate under the brand name of Tantex. Keeping in mind the taste of the people who liked to add colour, even to their inner wear which were not normally displayed. It came in a rainbow choice of colours, a veritable VIBGYOR!
Since these unmentionables could not be washed by the dhobi. The risk of contacting the ‘Dhobi’s itch’ and having an irresistible desire to scratch down there was high. Hence they were washed in the sink of the bogs and strung out to dry in front of the room.
Seven different colours for seven days of the week. Some however extracted extra mileage from the them by wearing them inside out.
Getting back to the Impact, one of our classmates noticed an indigo jock strung outside a class mate’s room in the slums. By frequent washing the indigo had faded to a purple. Architang (Eureka)! The idea of the Ghost who walks in purple Tantex jocks was born. He borrowed the jocks from the owner who lent it without even giving a thought as to why would anyone want to borrow jocks!
The Impact began with a darkened stage and a prop on stage, then suddenly out jumped a figure from behind the prop. He was a masked man, wearing purple tights and over the tights he wore ‘purple Tantex Jocks’ and he was none other than the ‘Ghost who Walks’ Phantom. He danced a jig singing “Devil O’ my Devil, where the Hell are you my Devil” (Devil is Phantom’s Dog sorry wolf, by the way, not to be mistaken for the other Devil). He really made an impact.

The Treva Marshal Award

The prestigious Treva Marshal Award, for the best incoming student was purportedly to be awarded on Graduation Day. This award was named after a former warden of Women’s Hostel.
The awardees names, a boy and a girl where put up in the Carmen Block. This created some discontent amongst some of our classmates who felt they were deserving. One was even going to meet the principal to ask him on what criteria the awardees were selected.
The seniors swarmed around the awardees like flies for treats. Celebrating such a prestigious award.
But when one of the awardees was going to call her parents to be present during the ceremony, a senior took pity on her and told her it’s a big con.
This was another traditional con of CMC. Normally alleged smart alecks are chosen by the seniors for this honour.
In previous years the con was played to the hilt, seats were reserved for the awardees in the Scudder Auditorium and they were also included in the rehearsals. And on the day of the awards they waited and waited but their names were never called. They went and enquired only to discover they were conned!

Practical use of knowledge

During our second year when we were exposed to anatomy.
We tried to find some practical relevance of this otherwise dry subject. Cunningham’s dissection manual interspersed some vignettes in it’s otherwise dry directions. During dissection of the lower limb, more specifically the gluteal region it mentioned, “weakness in the gluteus medius muscle results in a waddling gait.” This knowledge made one of my classmates awake from his slumber and open his eyes. He scanned the dissection hall till he zeroed on an attractive petite girl with a not so petite derriere.
Her gait was poetry in motion like a ship rolling on the ocean and I was reminded of the Mitch Miller song, “She’s got a pair of hips just like two battleships……….”. A bulb light up in his mind and immediately he went up to her and stuttered “you got a waddling gait, you must be having weakness in the gluteus medius”. As you can imagine the girl was totally flabbergasted and didn’t know how to react. She turned to his companion who was looking sheepish and said “Scold him!”

Sexy Podimas

Men’s Hostel had a very dull menu in those days (I don’t know what the situation is now). You go to the table you could be assured that there would be three vessels full of Sambar, Rasam and Saadam. We had to stand in line and were dished out a plate with vegetables and beef or just vegetables. The only variations in the week were some days when we got Chola Bhaturas or some days the Kerala Barotas and other days Chappatis.
The Barotas (I suspect this is a corruption of Parothas) were unique in the sense they seem to have been made by pulling the Maida into a rope then laying it in a spiral fashion and rolling it into a circle and then roasting it on a Tawa with oil. When you tore the Barota it would unravel in a corkscrew pattern.
The Chappatis were as someone rightly described ‘bullet-proof’ because the cooks did not know how to place them on the fire and inflate them (phulkas). So in order to make them chewable a generous dose of oil was added to it.
However Sundays were a treat for the carnivores, chicken with the mandatory ‘chips’, substituting for the appalams (pappad).
The residents used to line up in advance to get the best pieces, the most popular where the leg and the breast. Some of the residents were more graphic when they requested for breast piece, “Thambi nalla breast piece” (Thambi good breast piece) and they would squeeze their own breast to emphasize the point.
In our routine dull cuisine there was a single silver lining of a ‘muttai’ or egg which we could order as an extra by paying with coupons.
The muttais available were:-
1. Kanadi muttai=Plain old fried egg because of it glass like quality was called Kanadi.
2. Omlette
3. Podimas=Scrambled egg
The variety in Podimas was legendary and had names:-
Some were named after famous personalities like ‘Ninan Chacko Podima’.
Others were patriotic like ‘All India Podima’ (This sometimes was corrupted by our classmates to sound like ‘Olinda Podima’, after a classmate of ours.)
Then there was the name which call a spade a spade, ‘The All Shit Podima’ (apt description of the cooking in Men’s Hostel).
The there was the graphic name of ‘Sexy Podimas.”
These Podimas had one thing in common all of them contained thakkali, kothamalli, vengaayam and pachai milagaai (tomatoes, cilantro, onions, green chillies) in varying proportions. Which one contained how much of what was known to no one!
Sometimes if an aggressive resident was served a Ninan Chacko Podima rather then the Sexy Podima that he had ordered it could land on the face of the Thambi.
Some residents tried to win immortality by attempting to devise and popularize a podima named after themselves. However after Ninan Chacko no other personality managed to garner that amount of fame and no two podimas were ever the same.

Nomenclature of the Thambis

Thambi as you all must be knowing means ‘younger brother’ in Tamil however it is used euphemistically for the servers in the mess. The Thambis of course had names but sobriquets were given to most. So for example if there was a Selvaraj then he would be known as Silverass.
During the time of the Los Angeles Olympics there was a Thambi who some felt resembled the famous American Sprinter so he was christened as Carl Lewis.
The senior of the Thambis who now had a cushy desk job in the mess of collecting money and handing out coupons was Pichamuthu who was affectionately know as ‘Pichu’ (perhaps influenced by the P.T.C.H.W. s of CHAD).
The most famous and perhaps the oldest Moniker was of a certain T.G.S Kuppusamy Reddy a very senior Thambi. He was rumoured to have suffered from congenital syphyllis and had the stigma of saddle nose, opthalmic signs and syhilitic arteritis. He was sometimes kept as a case in Opthal exams.
Our seniors thought he looked like a ‘Creep’, so he was popularly known as ‘Creep’.
I don’t know about the other Thambis but Creep quite like his new name whether he understood the meaning or reason behind it. Maybe the name Creep gave him a unique identity just like the filmstar, Sivaji Ganesan, Gemini Ganesan and Malayasia Ganesan. Everybody remembers Creep but nobody would remember Kuppusamy.
I had the good fortune of meeting Creep whenever I visit Vellore. He looks exactly the same (Creep-like).
He underwent corrective heart surgery perhaps for an Aortic Regurgitation some years ago . He needed monetary support and a lot of ex Men’s Hostelites contributed.
Creep now works as a Watchman in a Government Guest House, but during reunions he is spotted in the campus and Alumni tip him generously because he evokes nostalgia of a bye gone era.

Shopping for Sex

Two ladies of our class went shopping for dress material. They went to a clothes store and asked the shopkeeper to show them ‘checks’. They were horrified when the shopkeeper shouted to his assistant, “thambi sex kunduva” (Thambi get sex). They were further aghast when the shopkeeper asked them, “Enna madari sex vanom, chinna? Persaa?” (What type of sex do you want, small? Big?). Well our classmates did not know whether to be indignant or to laugh out loud.
Checks and sex could be confused by a native Tamil speaker for the same reason Charles would be pronounced ‘Sarless’.
Our native tongues influences the way we speak English to a large extent and I have made some observations in Tamil speakers.
They normally have difficulty in differentiating from ‘ka’ (क) (as in crow), ‘kh’ (ख) (as in Khan), ‘ga’ (ग) (as in grow). I remember trying to teach a Tamil classmate the difference between ‘Khana’ (खाना) (food) and ‘Kana’ (काना). Similarly the name Padma is also pronounced by some people as Badma or even Fadma, because again ‘pa’ (प) (as in party), ‘ba’ (ब) (as in bakery), ‘fa’ (फ) (as in food) are all represented by one alphabet. I remember a classmate telling me that the letter for ‘ha’ (ह) (as in Hare Ram) was adopted from Sanskrit so you find a lot of people don’t use it and Mahalakshmi will be pronounced as ‘Maggalakshmi’ and Bahadur Singh will be ‘Baggadur Singh’. Then we have the example of ‘t’ (त) (as in total), ‘th’ (थ) (as in thought), ‘d’ (द) (as in dumb). We all know that a Sangeeta will becomes a Sangeetha in the South and Anita will become an Anitha and so on. But the ‘th’ (थ) at the end will be pronounced more like ‘d’ (द) so it will sound like Sangeeda. Similarly is it Murlitharan as the cricketer likes to spell it or Murlidharan or Sendhilkumar or Senthilkumar and is it Kaadal or Kaathal?
As a result of this incident ‘checks’ is used commonly in our batch lingo. For example as an adjective to describe how someone is looking, if he or she is looking good then it’s ‘checks’. If someone posts a picture on social media, comments like checks are common.

Challenge a senior

Annually as Batches passed out better rooms became available for the residents in Men’s Hostel. Priorities for choosing these rooms are picked by lots.
The trend was to pick rooms near your friends and as you became senior you chose rooms higher in the Hostel.
One of our classmate was allotted a coveted room and was eagerly awaiting to occupying it. However the senior who was the former resident, despite having moved his stuff had not removed his lock from the room. Perhaps because of his busy schedule and studying late in Dodd Library.
Our classmate was unable to meet him, so finally frustrated he put up a notice on the Hostel Notice Board which read “Could the person occupying Room No.— kindly remove his lock otherwise I will be forced to break the lock”.
Now you can imagine the fury of the senior, a ‘pisser’ albeit now a 2nd Junior daring to even consider breaking his lock and forcibly occupy his room!
He threw down the symbolic gauntlet by writing below the notice, “If you break my lock then watch out for your cock!”

Climb every mountain

We followed tradition to the hilt by climbing every mountain surrounding CMC.
First was the pimple called college hill, then Toad Hill and finally Kailash. Mind you these hills were given these names by the CMC residents, their actual names are different. A climb up Kailash was planned by our Batch and since it involved a long walk to the base we had to set out early.
One of our classmate though most enthusiastic about the trip, did not wake up in time to join the gang. When he got up late, he hired a bicycle from Bagayam and cycled to the base of Kailash hoping to catch up with the gang. Then he began his solo ascent up Kailash and got completely lost. He had not carried any supplies with him not even water, confident of catching up with the gang.
After climbing for some time in the hot sun he became dehydrated and hungry. He spotted a grazing cow and was so desperate that he attempted unsuccessfully to drink milk directly from the udders. He also drank from any puddles he could find.
He was really in a desperate shape when a good Samaritan in the form of a Cattle Herder picked him up and carried him on his shoulders to his hut and lay him down on a cot. Our friend had limited knowledge of Tamil and could only mumble to the herder, “Passi! Passi!” (hungry), miming the act of eating with his left palm and right hand. The good Samaritan shared with him their humble repast and helped him get back on the road to the base of Kailash.

Picnic in Pondy

Legend has it that a Frenchman was in love with a local girl called Ponda. He lovingly called her ‘Ponda ma cherie’ or Ponda my dear and from that came the name of the French colony, Pondicherry.
Though now the name has been changed to Puducherry or New Town.
It was a former French colony but came under Indian rule in 1954. Being a union territory and under indirect control of the centre it has very low taxes on commodities like liquor. Hence liquor is very cheap in Pondy making it an attractive destination for trippers.
The men had superior numbers and hence voting powers and since there were no fixtures we were not influenced by the residents of the other side of the road. This voting power came in handy when the venue of class picnics had to be decided. Pondy was a very popular choice with the men for obvious reasons and unpopular with the women for the same reasons. The men prevailed due to superior numbers.
It was during a picnic in Pondy the choice of which the girls opposed vehemently but lost in the hand count. The day was spent on the beach wetting our toes and we split in the evening going to various restaurants for dinner. Two of our classmates went to a Vietnamese restaurant for dinner and consumed 250 ml of Old Monk Rum between the them. They returned to the parked Silver and Blue bus early and waited for the rest of the crowd to return.
One felt nauseous and suffocated inside the Silver and Blue and the other had dozed off. Waking up his sleeping friend he told him that he was going to the roof of the bus to get some fresh air. The drowsy friend mumbled incoherently his consent. So he climbed onto the roof and lay down taking in the fresh sea air and fell asleep. Next thing he remembers is being woken up by a classmate and being “We have to go, everyone was searching for you.” On climbing down he discovered what had transpired, when everyone had returned they found him missing and no one knew where he was. There was a desperate manhunt until his friend woke just long enough to tell them that he was sleeping on the roof.

Obituary to our departed classmates

I could go on and on about our days in CMC but I have to end it at some point. My account would not be complete without remembering the classmates who are no longer with us. We lost Praneeth Peter to an unfortunate swimming accident in our first year. In our second year Shantilata Devi also succumbed to head injuries following a motorcycle accident. Zita Shobharani left us after she finished her PG. Srideo Jha was next, died due to massive cerebral haemorrhage. B. Samson left us last year due to a massive heart attack. I’m sure they are in a happier place and to quote Billy Joel “Only the good die young.” May the souls of the departed Rest in Peace.
This has been a sample of our sojourn in CMC. Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Getting lifted!

Tradition is considered important in Vellore and the seniors take on the responsibility of educating the gullible juniors about the traditions. The graduating interns during graduation day entertainment, gave their own spin to the CMC Motto “Not to be ministered unto, but to minister”, modified to “Not to be conned but to con”. And ‘Ace Cons’ abounded in the corridors of Men’s Hostel. ‘Getting lifted’ was supposed to be one such tradition and the intricacies of this tradition were taught to the juniors.
One day while returning from SA Hall I saw a large gathering of my classmates in a slum room. Curious to know what was going on I entered the room. Two of my classmates were sitting on the floor facing each other with their knees flexed in front and a group trying to persuade a classmate to be part of this challenge. “What challenge?” I asked. “Well” said a spokesperson for the group “_____ says he can lift 3 people together.” Pointing to a not particularly muscular or bodybuilder type person in the room, who nodded in acknowledgement when I looked at him. “And we are trying to persuade _____to take up the challenge.”
Well their powers of persuasion seemed to work especially when one member of the group vouched that he had been lifted and it was an amazing experience. So now to take the challenge _____ was supposed to recline on the folded knees of one of the people sitting on the ground while the person at the foot end sat between his folded knees facing him. The person on whose folded knees _____ was reclining then passed his hands under his armpits, around his shoulders and clasped his fingers behind his neck in a ‘full Nelson’ wrestling grip. The person at the foot end put his arms around his thighs and clasped his hands. Then the lifter stood over him and with all theatrics of a weight lifter about to lift a heavy barbell he bent down and unbuttoned his trousers. The lifted went into spasms akin to tonic, clonic contractions in a grand mal seizure but was pinned down at the shoulders and the thigh, only movement possible was arching his pelvis upwards making the job of the lifter easier. The lifter with more theatrics pulled down his underwear to expose his now shriveled frightened member and it’s two crouching sidekicks. Now the lifted tried spitting unsuccessfully in the direction of the lifter and followed it up with some bleepable expletives. The lifter produce a wooden foot ruler and measured the size of the already shriveled member, loudly announcing the figure, there was booing and someone said “he’s brought down the class average.” Then the lifter using the ruler lifted the member along with it’s sidekicks till it pointed skywards to a cheering audience. “See! I’ve lifted 3 people.” he said though the comparison left a lot to imagination.

Now the lifted was released and as you can imagine, he was furious. After quickly regaining his modesty he could not decide on whom in the gathering to vent his fury. He spotted the person who had vouched that being lifted was an amazing experience. He slapped him and said “I’ve got nothing private left!”
This quote has gone down in posterity and is forever remembered by our batch.

Torments of Toilet Paper

Readers are warned that this is a scatological piece.
While travelling abroad the Desis is exposed to the use of toilet paper. Not that they are ignorant about the use, but it is considered ‘Angrezon ki chochlebaazi’ (Idiosyncrasies of the white man).
In one of the medical schools I trained in, there was a British operation theatre nurse. She was the ‘propah’ Britisher and one day she happened to spot a senior Anaesthetist resting his behind on one of the shelfs in the operation theatre where the autoclaved material is kept. She immediately reprimanded him him “Doctor____ could you kindly remove your unsterile posterior from the vicinity of the sterile material.” The Anaesthetist was famous for his wit and immediately reparted, “Sister we wash them, we don’t wipe them.” Needless to say ‘Sister’ was speechless and the onlookers could barely suppress their smiles.
Every region of India has their version of fiery food. The state of Assam is famous for it’s ‘Bhoot Jhalokha’ green chilli which earlier held the record of being the hottest in the world. In South, Andhra cooking is very fiery, with every morsel a sip of water is mandatory and inspite of which your buccal mucosa still feels like it’s on fire.
My home town of Nagpur has it’s own unique ‘Saoji Cusine’, which is very famous for being fiery. Many people who come from out of town want to taste this cooking. If you ask a local he will say it’s ‘g__d faar’ cooking (literally means ‘Ass tearing’). The reason you will soon be apparent.
Saoji cooking is classified into 3 grades depending on it’s fire:-

  1. After eating your mouth is on fire.
  2. After eating in the morning there is a burning pain in the epigastrium indicating your stomach is on fire.
  3. When you go to the toilet in the morning your Ass is on fire. To this a wag added two additional grades for what emerges.

4. The pig’s mouth is on fire.
5. The pig’s Ass is on fire.

Legend has it’s that the white man visited Nagpur. He was puzzled when he saw the use of water for cleaning as opposed to the more civilised toilet paper.
He also was brave enough to experiment with grade 3. Saoji food. Next morning his Ass was on fire. Wiping only made it worse as the rough paper abraded the sensitive skin aggravating the burning sensation. Relief finally came when he took a mug of water and poured it on his posterior. This was a moment of relief and enlightenment, for now he knew why Indians preferred to wash than to wipe.
I had the opportunity of treating one such patient. He had lived in Pakistan and spoke some Urdu. He kept on telling me about about the burning there “jal raha hai”. When I examined the said area, there was a realistic lipstick mark tattoo on the right cheek of his buttock. Literally conveying ‘kiss my Ass’. He was suffering from acute fissure-in-ano.
The earliest mention of the use of toilet paper was by the Chinese. They also specified that paper with writing on it should not be used. Various other objects from pebbles by the Hebrews, sticks by the Turks and sponges by the Romans were used. The Americans before the availability of commercial toilet paper used pages from Sears Roebuck catalogue before it began printing on glossy paper then it became unsuitable for wiping. The Farmer’s Almanac, even had a hole at one corner so it could be hung from a nail on the wall of the toilet and pages could be conveniently torn. They knew their predictions were crap! However with the advent of modern sewage lines these had to be abandoned for the use of modern toilet paper, made with short filaments and degraded easily avoiding clogging of the sewage line.
The European have the bidet and bidet showers. The Indian subcontinent has the ubiquitous ‘lota’. Incidentally the slang for sycophants in Pakistan is lota.
In the National Cadet Corp camps, where they instill military training on school children they have a lota parade in the morning at the break of dawn.
But for the unaccustomed wiping leaves an itchy, unclean feeling. Medically this is known as pruritis ani. The person surreptitiously reaching for their behind when the itch becomes unbearable.
A NRI has fully integrated with his adopted country when ceases washing and commences wiping.

My first motorcycle ride!

When I was growing up owning a bicycle was a big thing let alone a motorcycle. Now that was a pipe dream! Those were simpler times and a plain vanilla bicycle was an object of envy.There was a wide variety of bicycles brands to choose from, Raleigh, Atlas, Humber, Norton, Avon, Hercules, BSA and of course Hero. Most of these brands have gone the dinosaur way or consumed by their competitor. Though there was not a lot to choose from one bicycle or the other. They were all solidly built and came in varying shades of black! A few were in olive green and all had the solid hand brakes dating back to th British Raj. Only BSA manufactured what they called a ‘sport’s bike’, which had caliper brakes, some variations in colour and a more sporty look. Boy’s would ‘pimp up’ their ride by adding additional reflectors, some tassles to the handle grip. One of my friends made his seat higher by extending the rod which connects the seat and cycle. He also had to raise the handle bar by not only increasing the length of the bar but by giving the handle an inverted Omega shape’ a la chopper like handles made popular by the 1969 movie ‘Easy Rider’. He also changed the colour and got it painted a shimmering orange. There was a unique problem those days associated with the fashion of the times. Those were the days of bell bottom trousers. No self respecting boy would be caught without a 32“ bells. Yes the cuff of the pant measured a whopping 32″ and worn along with 3″ block heels. The problem is that the cuff would get caught in the sprocket of the pedal shaft while pedalling, resulting in tears in the cuff. Bicycle clips, also called trouser clips, which were small C-shaped pieces of thin flexible metal worn around the ankle when cycling in trousers. They were designed to prevent the bottom of the trousers from becoming caught in the chain or crank mechanism, and from being covered in oil and dirt.
Motorcycles were another thing altogether, in those days the reigning king was the Bullet 350cc manufactured by Royal Enfield. the company originally British started out as a weapons manufacturer.The legacy of weapons manufactureris reflected in the logo, a cannon, and their motto “Made like a gun, goes like a bullet”. It is still available in varying avatars now and hold the all time record of the oldest motorcycle brand in the world still in production.The engine gave a deep throated dhug! dhug! Of a four stroke engine. Very heavy so handling it required a certain amount of skill, otherwise you tilt it to one side and unless you had strong legs, it ended up falling on one side and the entire weight of the bike on your leg. Anticipating such mishaps the motorcycle was fitted with an engine guard in front and an optional leg guards in the middle. In case the bike did fall those two tubular projections prevented the entire weight of the bike falling on your legs. A good insurance policy especially for a spindly legged teenager like me. Then there was the Jawa or it’s later avatar the Yedzi. This was made with Czechoslovakian collaboration by the Ideal Jawa company in Mysore.The catchphrase for the bikes sold by the firm was “Forever bike forever value”.It was a 250cc motorcycle and much lighter than the Bullet and the engine gave a puny phut! phut! sound. In a Royal Enfield the gears were on the right side and the brakes on the left whereas in a Yedzi the gears on the left and the brakes on the right. This could cause confusion if you are used to one bike and by chance drove the other. You would be reflexively be pressing the gear thinking it’s the brakes and land up in a catastrophe.
After finishing my 12th examination and writing competitive examinations I had been called for the interview for Christian Medical College, Vellore. I had gone to celebrate in the evening at C.P. Club and there met my friend Bobby. He had borrowed a Bullet from one of his friends and driven it down to the Club. We both went down to the parking lot and admired the motorcycle and after which followed the most natural thing. I asked him whether I could drive it, to which he readily agreed. I drove it out of the Club Compound, the feeling was great with the wind raking through my body and the power of the motorcycle under me. A slight raise of acceleration and you could feel the motorcycle surge forwards. Sharp turns could be negotiated by shifting the body weight to one side and the motorcycle would bank to that side. By the time we were returning to the Club it had become dark. I had turned on the headlights only to discover that the headlights were not working and we were going on a lonely stretch at a fairly brisk speed. In the middle of the road there were sitting and ruminating a white cow and a black cow or maybe a buffalo, now I am not sure. Because of the fading lights the white Cow was visible but the black one was invisible. I shifted my weight to one side to avoid the white cow, then suddenly the handle bar along with the speedometer rose to become almost parallel to my nose and next equally suddenly it dropped to below my waist level. I was catapulted off my seat over the handle and face first to the ground, luckily self preservation instincts kicked in and my hands came forwards in front of my face preventing me from landing flat on it. I looked up and saw my friend sailing above me and landing unceremoniously on his bum just a little ahead of me. Then I looked behind and saw the cow casually get up and walk away. We had driven right over the cow which explained the suddenly rise and fall of the motorcycle. Both of us not seriously injured we examined the damage to the motorcycle. The front fork was bent so badly that the wheel of the motorcycle was perpetually turned to the left. We somehow managed to get it back to C.P. Club and left it in the parking lot. The next day we got a mechanic and managed to get it fixed. The fork had to be straightened by a hydraulic press and we had to pool our resources to pay for the damages. The motorcycle was returned to it’s rightful owner who I am not sure was the wiser and both of us laughed it off as another episode of our lives.

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Initiation entertainment

Our 35 year class reunion was a refreshing affair, met many old friends from 35 years ago. The batch who were celebrating their 40th year reunion was also there. We have a special affiliation for this batch because these were our ‘Lords and Masters, Senior Doctor Sirs, Fagmasters’. It was great to see them still sprightly and spirited. I spotted My Lord and Master doing a Salsa on the stage with his beautiful wife. Then there was another Senior Doctor Sir doing an energetic belly dance. This took me 30 years back to Men’s Hostel, 17th of July 1978 to be precise when we took our first tentative steps into the ‘Mansion of the Gods’ and the resident ‘Gods’ took it upon themselves to convert us into Godlike material through acts of initiation which were anything but Godly.
Evening entertainment provided by the ‘Pseudo Priapistic Catmites’ was a well awaited affair and preparation and planning were of the essence. The planning went on in the Lords and Masters rooms with us sitting on the floor as mute spectators, listening to our seniors planning our fate. There were of course immediate seniors who would also join in the machinations and contribute their mite. I was along with another class mate of mine, our Lords and Masters were neighbours hence we were initiated together. No ideas for anything entertaining was forthcoming, one of the immediate seniors asked my classmate which school he studied? He proudly replied “St. Peters, Panchgani, Senior Doctor Sir!” What was your school song? Was the next question. He sang it out for them,
“Bells are ringing!
Bells are ringing!
We must hasten to their call….”
Somewhere in the song the word ‘penetrate’ came, and that was like a Eureka moment for the seniors. The song was then rewritten and now went like this,
“Balls are clanging!
Balls are clanging!
Right upto the bogs and shagging,
We must hasten to their call,
render arses when in need,
penetrate the art of laying……. ”
The choreography was also planned, my classmate had to wear a tie and school blazer, hold two cricket balls tied with a string. And before beginning the song allow the balls to clang together accompanied by his own Tanndd! Tanndd!
Then it was my turn. The night before was the interclass music competition and a certain girl from the batch of 73 had sung the Hindi number “Aaj ki raat, yeh kaise raat, ki humko neend nahin aati….”. The girl was very attractive and had a characteristic way of swaying her hips while singing, I spotted her in the reunion this and she looks the same. This became the basis for my entertainment. I had to fashion a saree with two of my bed sheets pinned together length wise, for lipstick red marker pen was used! Yuck! Those were simpler times and who thought about toxicity. I was supposed to go on the stage sing the song while swaying my hips ‘___ madari’. Then at end of the song I am to announce, “I am ___ with a difference” and then dramatically lift the saree. Under the saree would be a bamboo and two cricket balls suspended from the waist.
So with the preparations completed we gathered outside the lower common room where a make shift stage had been made awaiting our turn. Our other class mates were also assembled there with varying attire varying from bra and panties, trophies from the raids of Women’s Hostel to a pink bow tied on the hair.
While awaiting our turn we could witness some of the other entertainment.
In those days there used to be a popular animated ad for red ‘lal’ eveready battery. It featured an animated radio walking and singing “kabhi kabhi mere dil aata…” then suddenly his voice would stop. Another radio would come and advice him to use ‘lal eveready’. Inspired on that theme one of my classmates enters the stage singing the same song and he stops. Then enters another classmate and says “Sir your voice is a eff up!” to which the first one replies, “yes I think I got the wrong thing stuck up.” To which the second one reaches to his back orifice and produces a ‘lal eveready’ and says “use lal eveready.” The first one takes it from him and pretends to use it as a suppository also giving a satisfied aaah exclamation. Then both of them leave the stage singing with arms around each other.
Next came three, one stood tall and thin covered by a sheet and wearing a helmet. The other two crouched on either side also covered by sheets. “I am ___ ‘s dick and this is my right ball and this is my left ball” declared the tall and thin one. “And we are going to show you how it’s done” declared the dick. Then all three of them began jumping in unison. “How is the weather up there?” asked the right ball. “Hot and humid replied the dick.”
As you can imagine there was a riot of laughter making our acts insipid in comparison.

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The empty shoebox!

Anatomy dissections got over at 1 pm. We left the hall frustrated and dejected because we had been ‘muddied’ (Tamlish word for ‘bajaoed’) by Madhavi or Marja (they were the iconic lecturer and professor of anatomy) or some other sadistic soul doing his or her bond as an anatomy tutor. We were also extremely hungry and rushed towards Mens Hostel. The sweltering heat and the sun which did not help in elevating our moods. When we reached the mess we would check the pockets of our lab-coats before divesting them. This inspection would invariably reveal whole lot of body parts surreptitiously slipped into our pockets by our ‘so called’ friends. This would normally consist of skin, fat and fascia. The discarded bye products of dissection however once in a while the entire penis sans the scrotum and the testis was also found (these ‘choice cuts’ were normally reserved for the girls however when a ‘friend’ could not find a convenient female pocket he disposed it in the most easily available pocket). Those were simpler times when we never thought twice about the reverence or more specifically lack of it in our pranks. Then you enter the mess and wash your hands in the sink. It’s almost impossible to get rid of smell of the cadavers from your hand especially since you have just disposed of a ‘pickled phallus’. Then we stand in line for a Thambi to dish out a plate of limited vegetables and unlimited serving of rice, rasam, sambar and mor (buttermilk) on your table. After an unsatisfying meal we relax for sometime in our rooms and maybe smoke a cigarette (statutory warning :cigarette smoking is injurious to health. I no longer indulge in this unhealthy activity). The ash of the cigarette is flicked into a cranium turned over to form an ashtray. This had an amazing capacity and could hold more ash than any conventional ash trays (a smaller version consisting only of the frontal bone and the orbits was also available). Then maybe mug up for the physiology practical in the afternoon, to avoid getting ‘Zapped by Zach’ (our Physiology professor) followed by a snooze and then get up cursing and walk along the corridors of Men’s Hostel (to avoid the sweltering sun) towards the Physiology department. Along the way in the Appendix (we had a block in the hostel called that) lies an old discarded shoe box right on your path. By this time frustration has built up. How dare someone discard a shoebox on your path. You bring up all the force you can muster backed by all the pent up frustrations and kick it out of the way with your foot most probably shod with ubequitious ‘MCR Slippers’ or plain old bathroom slippers. The moment your foot makes contact with the shoebox an excruciating pain rushes up your foot from the point of contact and the box hardly moves an inch! You scream in pain and hold your toe and meanwhile the door of the appendix room in front burst open and your seniors having a good laugh at your predicament emerge. You realize that the shoebox was not discarded but deliberately planted and it was not empty but contained two bricks. Just another typical day in the life of a resident of MHU!