Chapter 04

Like most good things, the Sunday did not last very long. The mess served special meals

for lunch on Sundays, which were appropriately called ‘feasts’. We over-fed ourselves

with the gulab jamuns and batata vadas and had an extended siesta that lasted till almost

six in the evening. The evening was spent lazing around and as the mess remained closed

for the evening after the feast, we went out for dinner. Cosmopolitan, in Fatehgunj, not

only served good food, it was quite inexpensive too. For this reason, perhaps, it was the

most popular joint among the university students.

Preventive and social medicine, or PSM in short, was a subject notorious for the

wide range of topics it covered, most of them futile, and for the preposterous fact that it

was taught from the first, through the third MBBS. Consider the topics covered in the first

MBBS alone - bio-statistics (the reasons for my preference of medicine to engineering

courses included freedom from grueling math, but…), entomology (study of insects - like

knowing why some mosquitoes don’t have anything better to do than transmit malaria),

environment and sanitation (for understanding how to build latrines so that things you

shit out do not find their way back into your bodies) and nutrition.

Dr. RN Dave, the head of the department, taught us the nutrition part and when he

stepped into the lecture hall for the introductory lecture on Monday morning, his paunchy

figure showed that he took his subject quite seriously. (At the risk of sounding repetitive,

I describe most of our teachers as overweight. I can’t help it; maybe their jobs were far

too sedentary)

Despite his girth, Dr. Dave was quick on his feet. He had nicely groomed hair, a

freshly trimmed moustache and a set of sparkling teeth. His clothes, however, had been

atrociously chosen. He wore an oversized blazer that had large brown checks in a white

background. He wore a gaudy green tie over a maroon shirt and his trousers were ill

fitting, cream corduroys. His left cheek produced a cute dimple when he smiled and

hence he made sure he was smiling all the time. He, however, was infamous for his long,

grilling vivas that made many of our seniors name him ‘the smiling assassin’. He broke

into his broadest smile on entering the lecture hall and, perhaps, from fear of having to

break the grin, he ignored our customary collective greeting. He simply picked up a piece

of chalk and wrote on the black-board LLB, MBBS, MD, FICSD, FRIPPH, FRSH, FIAPSM as

meticulously as he could. I wondered if these were the possible courses that one could

pursue in the field of medicine. He then turned to face us. “I am Dr. RN Dave, Prof and

Head of the PSM dept.,” he spoke in accented English to emphasize the fact that he had spent

several years in the USA. He had this habit of scratching his head ever so lightly while

speaking, followed by rearrangement of the disturbed strands of hair with a gentle stroke.

“And these are my qualifications.” He said pointing his thumb to his writing on the

board behind. The class gave out a collective ‘ooh’, which was probably taken as a

compliment by Dave, because his smile broadened more than ever. Then he went on to

elaborate, in distressing detail, the need of studying PSM before delivering his maiden

lecture on nutrition.

Thankfully, his discourse was littered with antics and one-liners that prevented the lecture

from becoming utterly boring.

Physiology practicals were divided into human physiology and experimental physiology.

Human physiology had to do with experiments conducted directly on human subjects.

Experimental physiology involved experiments using frogs and various gadgets to

understand the response of similar experiments on corresponding human organs. For

unknown reasons, the experimental physiology practicals were scrapped from the first

MBBS curriculum a few years later. Perhaps the animal rights activists

bayed for the hapless amphibians or, it dawned upon the authorities that experimenting

on frogs, after all, did not make us rookies any better doctors. Whatever the reason, the

end result was that some of the frogs got to live a little longer and most of the students

got to live a lot easier.

Priya and I sat next to each other for our first experimental physiology practicals.

The physiology laboratory was huge, with five rows of working tables with an array of

equipments on each of them. Each row could easily accommodate ten students, leaving

comfortable working space. These government colleges were built soon after

independence and so there was liberal use of space, unlike the newer ‘self-financed’

colleges that have started cropping up all over the country like wild grass. The furniture

was stout, mostly made of teak wood with auburn polish that had thickened from

repeated varnishing. The plumbing was all-brass and the old-fashioned taps still shone

from frequent use. The electrical fittings were antique, too, with circular, black PVC

switches that needed a lot of force to push up or down, and external, insulated wires that

ran across the ceiling and walls on narrow, wooden strips. In all, the ambience was that of

a historical building and it seemed majestic to be there, performing physiology

experiments, on the way to becoming a doctor. I suddenly felt proud once more to be a

medical student.

“Hi.” I heard the sweet, feminine voice and I came out of my trance. It was Priya, smiling

at me.

“Hi, Priya,” I smiled back.

“You’re Ajay, right?” she asked.

“That’s right, I continued to smile. “Ajay Kumar, from Basil school. You’re Priya

Makhija, Experimental School, right?”

“Right.” She said without caring to know the source of my info on her. Maybe she

thought that guys’ keeping a tab on good-looking girls was the usual practice. Well, it

was.

“How much did you score in twelfth?” she asked, as we still waited for our practicals

teacher to arrive.

“I scored 80% in science subjects. You?”

“85.” She said coolly. A case of beauty with brains, I thought.

I fell silent for a moment before asking, “Are you from Baroda?”

No, we’re from Hoshiarpur, in Punjab, but my dad settled here years ago with his

business. Since I was born and brought up here, I’m practically a Gujarati - a Barodian at

that.” There was a dash of pride in her voice.

I talked about myself, without her asking as much. The conversation then drifted to

assorted topics from education, hobbies and birthdays. She liked to read, listen to

classical music and watch good movies.

“10th October? So, you’re a Libran?” she asked with a facial expression that was half

frown and half smile. I knew that one topic girls loved discussing was birth-dates and

Zodiac signs. A girls’ bookshelf would always remain incomplete without a Linda Goodman. Other hot topic with girls was astrology. I can’t forget my first love-guru who told me that the

fastest way to hold a girl’s hand was to pretend to read her palm.

“Why? What’s about being a Libran?” I asked with a mock frown.

“Librans are flirts.” She said in a matter-of-fact voice. “They have this natural charm and

a way with words. They’ll go to any extent to woo a girl but once they have her, they

won’t know what to do with her.” It was as if she quoted Linda Goodman. Was I

charming? My chronicle of experiences with girls said otherwise.

“What’s your birth date?” I asked.

“16th December. Sagittarian girls are supposed to be mildly flirtatious too but I’m not a

flirt.” She declared, as if to send out a message.

I looked away.

At that moment our physiology tutor, Mrs. Punjwani, arrived. She was middle-aged,

slender, and had very fair, but mildly wrinkled skin. Her hair, short and wavy, had mostly

grayed out. She proceeded to sit on a chair by a large, metal-topped central table and

gestured for all of us to gather around her. As we did so, I managed to stand by Priya’s

side. Mrs. Punjwani cut short the niceties of the first meeting and immediately got to

business.

“Today we’ll be experimenting on the frog’s muscle.” Her voice was very high-pitched

and crackled as she spoke, perhaps from years of addressing gatherings like ours now.

“We’ll be stimulating it repeatedly with mild electric current and observe how the muscle

fatigues over a period of time due to accumulation of lactic acid in its cells.” Without

even caring to lift her head up to observe if we comprehended what she said, she picked

up a live frog from a bucket that was half-full with frogs of all shapes, colors and sizes.

Some girls took a step backwards in anticipation of the sordid exercise. Without any

qualms, Mrs. Punjwani selected a large needle-like instrument from a range of similar,

ominous looking hardware arranged neatly on the table and pierced the poor creature

through the neck. The frog quivered violently and sprayed a jet of urine on the lab coat of

an unsuspecting student. The gathering scattered away a few feet and the girls let off

squeals from covered mouths. Mrs. Punjwani, without reacting to the students’ fright, laid

the frog down and, with another set of instruments, deftly dissected out a thigh-muscle.

With the help of a peon, she then fitted two electrodes to the muscle, which were, in turn,

connected to an electrical gadget. At the other end of the gizmo was an eight-inch

diameter drum with soot-covered paper on the surface that rotated at a gentle speed. Mrs.

Punjwani switched on a button and the muscle started twitching at quick, regular

intervals. As the muscle twitched, a needle abutting the surface of the rotating drum made

a graph on it. A fresh twitch created a fresh graph on the drum. With time, the strength of

the spasms started abating and the mound on the graph began flattening. Mrs. Punjwani

smiled at her minor triumph and pointed out to the gadgetry.

“Notice how the muscle has weakened after a series of stimuli. This is what happens to us

when we exercise. After a few push-ups or sit-ups, we feel tired and at one point we are

not able to continue at all. This is called fatigue and it’s caused by accumulation of lactic

acid and depletion of oxygen in muscle cells.” She said authoritatively. Some smart-ass

student applauded in the back. Mrs. Punjwani frowned. “Now all of you collect your

frogs from Kantibhai here and carry them to your respective tables and start performing

the experiment. If you have any trouble, you can ask me or Kantibhai; he’ll help you set

up your gadgets.” She said. Kantibhai, the peon, had been with the department for as long

as anyone could remember; and therefore, was as adept with the lab paraphernalia as Mrs.

Punjwani herself.

I was too happy to play Kantibhai for Priya who was amused at my dexterity with

gadgets and, er.., frogs. The fact that I had botched up my own experiment out of

indifference, and that Mrs. Punjwani was not exactly amused with my ‘insincerity’ hardly

mattered to me. I was appropriately rewarded by Priya after the practicals with an offer to

spend some time with me in the canteen. It’s a different matter that the spoilsport Achal

joined us on the way. At least, she had her intentions right.

While we were busy tickling frogs’ muscles in the physiology lab, Brij’s batch was

mixing potions in the biochemistry one. I found him in the college porch.

“How were your bio-chem pracs?” I asked him.

“We did fine,” he said with a grin, “except that I almost burned my hand with some

hydrochloric acid.”

“Acid?” I asked with genuine concern, “what’s acid got to do with medicine? I thought

we left acid behind in the chemistry labs of class twelve.”

“What do you think helps digest food in our stomachs?” Brij raised his eyebrows.

“It’s hydrochloric acid,” he said without waiting for me to answer. “Though in minute

quantities and in mild concentration. As such, our body is full of various chemicals and

all of them need to be in just the right amounts.”

“Heck, I thought I had left all boring stuff behind in class twelve - this bio-stats and

Bio-chemistry. When will we be studying real medical stuff, about real diseases on real

patients?” I asked impatiently.

“Hey take it easy, Ajay, there’s no way one can rush. Unless we know the structure and

functioning of a normal body, how’ll we know what’s wrong with a diseased one? Brij

suddenly sounded like a professor.

I wondered if he was considering a career in medical education.

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