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“Is it?”, Rakshita wondered, as the Ophthalmology professor asked them to be empathetic with the patients, as it only then that doctors could really treat those who came to them. As she had grown in the College, it was one thing that was increasingly getting ingrained in Rakshita’s mind that it is only when Doctors treat their patients as inanimate objects, as machines in which something had gone wrong, could they maintain their sanity.
If a doctor tried to empathize with its patients, he grew close to them over a period of time, and more often than not, if something got screwed, the doctor’s head became a blast furnace. Rakshita recalled a story Nidhi had once told her about a senior of theirs. While he, let us call him John Doe (the common parlance in Medicine for an unidentified person), was completing his internship, starting with the surgical department, he was committed to be a feeling, empathetic person while dealing with the patients. In the two months that he spent with surgery, and in a month of Orthopaedics, he saw so much pain and despair around him, that he had gone into a nervous breakdown. He had to be started on Psychiatric treatment and counseling, despite which he had committed suicide by consuming poison in the Doctor’s Duty Room of the Medicine ward.
‘Is the stress simply unbearable for all of us, or is it only the weak that wither?’ wondered Rakshita, as a question from the Professor jolted her out of her thoughts. ‘Tell me the differential diagnosis of a Red Eye?, and the next time you come to my ward, leave your non-medical thoughts behind.’ Wasn’t it ironical, Rakshita thought, that the professor had asked her about Red Eye, something which most commonly manifests after a person has cried his eyes out. She really felt like crying, as it might have relieved her of some of the stress that she had accumulated over the past two weeks.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Sunday, January 18, 2009
The first page...
“Baap kya karta hai aapka?”, the balding professor thundered.
And, suddenly everything went blank.
It was 2003, and a nubile 16 year old Rakshita was having a hard time deciding what stream she wanted to study after her secondary school. Her application to an International School of debatable repute had been accepted, but her family wanted her to stay in India. They had just shown her an advertisement for admission to arguably the country’s best school. Rakshita wondered, was it the case that her parents wanted a trophy for the showcase in their house? A daughter who had been accepted at the Delhi Public School, RK Puram, noted widely as the toughest school to get into in India. But she quickly settled for the fact that no parent ever wants anything for their child unless they feel it is for her own good.
Rakshita had been a model student throughout her life. She had spent her early years at a boarding school, where she was at the top of the academic heap throughout. She had even spent a couple of years studying abroad, when her father had been pursuing advanced education. Financial difficulties had soon forced the family to leave Edinburg, and come back to India, where her Father could bank on a steady income from his job as a history professor, complemented by tuition earnings. But the main earner in her family was her Mother, a doctor. To Rakshita and Nileish, her brother two years older to her, their mother was the alpha male of the family. Dr Meenal Mahajan was a distinguished gynecologist, her two storied nursing home being the cornerstone of the family’s existence. Dr Asok Mahajan, on the other hand was the quintessential historian type. Thick glasses often hid the permanent look of deep thought on his face. He was a frail, troubled man, often wondering aloud as to what the numerous Indus Valley Scriptures he was studying meant.
Nileish was the brat of the family. He was a darling of Meenal, who had made it clear on more than one occasion that he was her favorite child. However, Rakshita did not mind this one bit. Her brother loved her to no ends, and she adored him. Nileish often shielded Rakshita from scoldings from their mother, which were rather too common, given that she was an outstanding student to say the least. Nileish was an average student, and hence was doing “what he was expected to”, Rakshita, instead was expected to perform excellently every time, such was the philosophy of their mother.
Asok, on the other hand, was a subdued man. Partly, because of the overwhelming presence of Meenal, and partly, because he himself had faced a similar situation as a child, of over-expecting parents. He often took Rakshita for long walks on the banks of the nearby lake, and told her how the smaller things in life were important too, and being the best student did not always translate into a great life. He usually gave his example to illustrate the point, which used to baffle Rakshita to no ends. She wondered, Asok was every bit the doting father, and to her, this was sufficient enough to make his life the best in the world. Little did she realize that it was the overbearing, overachieving Meenal which make Asok constantly feel inadequate and overwhelmed.
And, suddenly everything went blank.
It was 2003, and a nubile 16 year old Rakshita was having a hard time deciding what stream she wanted to study after her secondary school. Her application to an International School of debatable repute had been accepted, but her family wanted her to stay in India. They had just shown her an advertisement for admission to arguably the country’s best school. Rakshita wondered, was it the case that her parents wanted a trophy for the showcase in their house? A daughter who had been accepted at the Delhi Public School, RK Puram, noted widely as the toughest school to get into in India. But she quickly settled for the fact that no parent ever wants anything for their child unless they feel it is for her own good.
Rakshita had been a model student throughout her life. She had spent her early years at a boarding school, where she was at the top of the academic heap throughout. She had even spent a couple of years studying abroad, when her father had been pursuing advanced education. Financial difficulties had soon forced the family to leave Edinburg, and come back to India, where her Father could bank on a steady income from his job as a history professor, complemented by tuition earnings. But the main earner in her family was her Mother, a doctor. To Rakshita and Nileish, her brother two years older to her, their mother was the alpha male of the family. Dr Meenal Mahajan was a distinguished gynecologist, her two storied nursing home being the cornerstone of the family’s existence. Dr Asok Mahajan, on the other hand was the quintessential historian type. Thick glasses often hid the permanent look of deep thought on his face. He was a frail, troubled man, often wondering aloud as to what the numerous Indus Valley Scriptures he was studying meant.
Nileish was the brat of the family. He was a darling of Meenal, who had made it clear on more than one occasion that he was her favorite child. However, Rakshita did not mind this one bit. Her brother loved her to no ends, and she adored him. Nileish often shielded Rakshita from scoldings from their mother, which were rather too common, given that she was an outstanding student to say the least. Nileish was an average student, and hence was doing “what he was expected to”, Rakshita, instead was expected to perform excellently every time, such was the philosophy of their mother.
Asok, on the other hand, was a subdued man. Partly, because of the overwhelming presence of Meenal, and partly, because he himself had faced a similar situation as a child, of over-expecting parents. He often took Rakshita for long walks on the banks of the nearby lake, and told her how the smaller things in life were important too, and being the best student did not always translate into a great life. He usually gave his example to illustrate the point, which used to baffle Rakshita to no ends. She wondered, Asok was every bit the doting father, and to her, this was sufficient enough to make his life the best in the world. Little did she realize that it was the overbearing, overachieving Meenal which make Asok constantly feel inadequate and overwhelmed.
Why a fresh blog...
Hi friends,
As someone who constantly seeks creative ways to vent his mind, I have undertaken the arduous task of writing a book. This book is about Rakshita. She is just another one of India's millions of young adults, who, having undergone some of the routine, and some not so routine, tribulations of life, have developed their own perspectives and viewpoints about things. Rakshita is an amalgamation of all the medical students I have known in my life, as well as most of the people who have been fortunate enough not to ever have walked the hallways of a medical college.
My sincere hope is that all those who read my book, see a bit of themselves in Rakshita, and the situations in life she faces.
I have titled this book "Grey Matter- White Matter", tentatively, but I am looking for better names, depending on how Rakshita's story evolves.
The intention of this blog is to get feedback and suggestions from all of you that will help make this book better, and to be able to get this book to you, whether it manages to get published or not...
You can leave your comments on the blog,or e-mail me at abhinavakhilesh@gmail.com
Hope you enjoy reading this as much as I am enjoying writing this book...
Love
Abhinav
As someone who constantly seeks creative ways to vent his mind, I have undertaken the arduous task of writing a book. This book is about Rakshita. She is just another one of India's millions of young adults, who, having undergone some of the routine, and some not so routine, tribulations of life, have developed their own perspectives and viewpoints about things. Rakshita is an amalgamation of all the medical students I have known in my life, as well as most of the people who have been fortunate enough not to ever have walked the hallways of a medical college.
My sincere hope is that all those who read my book, see a bit of themselves in Rakshita, and the situations in life she faces.
I have titled this book "Grey Matter- White Matter", tentatively, but I am looking for better names, depending on how Rakshita's story evolves.
The intention of this blog is to get feedback and suggestions from all of you that will help make this book better, and to be able to get this book to you, whether it manages to get published or not...
You can leave your comments on the blog,or e-mail me at abhinavakhilesh@gmail.com
Hope you enjoy reading this as much as I am enjoying writing this book...
Love
Abhinav
Excerpts from the book I am in the process of writing
Chapter 12- Surgery Rotations
It was January 2, and it was time for the most dreaded clinical rotations for a third year medical student. Cauliflower tumors, fleeting breast Mice, and oozing wounds awaited the nervous bunch of students assembled in the Doctors lounge of the Surgical Ward. They spotted, for a split second, an Intern on his surgical rotation. He looked as if he had just been to a war zone and back. His eyes were bloodshot, and so was his apron, the former due to the lack of sleep, the latter due to an accidently punctured artery while performing a lowly incision and Drainage procedure. He quickly gathered his belongings from the lounge, and pointing to the inviting couch, addressed the students in a voice that was more suited to a prisoner of war, “It’s been a month now in this department, and not once have I had the chance to lie down.” And followed it up with a sadistic “Have fun!!!”, and hurried out of the ward, walking as fast as possible to avoid confronting a senior consultant coming in, and asking for an update on his patients.
'Rat Bastard’, Rakshita thought. As if the horror stories from her seniors had not been enough to make her dread the two months of surgery rotations that loomed before her. They had described for her, in vivid detail, the perverse nature of the surgeons, who, in a startling similarity to Count Dracula, loved to cut open their subjects. She hoped that at-least the motivations were different in the two cases.
Suddenly, the door to the room screeched open, and a nurse announced that the Head of the Unit wanted to see the waiting students. All of her group nervously put their aprons on, put their stethoscopes across their necks and assembled outside the nursing station, waiting for the Head to complete his rounds. A sudden gesture from one of the Senior Residents told them something was not right, and that they should head to the bedside of the patient, the Head of Unit was presently reviewing.As soon as they assembled, a laugh broke out among the consultants. It resembled the maniacal laugh of a vampire about to suck out the life of an innocent maiden, and Rakshita immediately imagined bloodstained fangs behind those paan-stained lips of Dr Roopesh Aggarwal.
He was one of the leading Cardiac Surgeons of India, and was painfully aware of the fact. His arrogance and disrespectful attitude towards his junior staff was legendary, almost as much as his deft surgical skills.“Why are they carrying stethoscopes? Do they intend to examine one of my patients, and tell me that they hear a heart sound that I have not been able to identify?”, said Dr Aggarwal, and broke out into one of his maniacal laughs once again. A couple of his junior doctors smiled nervously, and Rakshita’s classmates, for all of whom this was the first surgical rotation, were white with indignation.
It was January 2, and it was time for the most dreaded clinical rotations for a third year medical student. Cauliflower tumors, fleeting breast Mice, and oozing wounds awaited the nervous bunch of students assembled in the Doctors lounge of the Surgical Ward. They spotted, for a split second, an Intern on his surgical rotation. He looked as if he had just been to a war zone and back. His eyes were bloodshot, and so was his apron, the former due to the lack of sleep, the latter due to an accidently punctured artery while performing a lowly incision and Drainage procedure. He quickly gathered his belongings from the lounge, and pointing to the inviting couch, addressed the students in a voice that was more suited to a prisoner of war, “It’s been a month now in this department, and not once have I had the chance to lie down.” And followed it up with a sadistic “Have fun!!!”, and hurried out of the ward, walking as fast as possible to avoid confronting a senior consultant coming in, and asking for an update on his patients.
'Rat Bastard’, Rakshita thought. As if the horror stories from her seniors had not been enough to make her dread the two months of surgery rotations that loomed before her. They had described for her, in vivid detail, the perverse nature of the surgeons, who, in a startling similarity to Count Dracula, loved to cut open their subjects. She hoped that at-least the motivations were different in the two cases.
Suddenly, the door to the room screeched open, and a nurse announced that the Head of the Unit wanted to see the waiting students. All of her group nervously put their aprons on, put their stethoscopes across their necks and assembled outside the nursing station, waiting for the Head to complete his rounds. A sudden gesture from one of the Senior Residents told them something was not right, and that they should head to the bedside of the patient, the Head of Unit was presently reviewing.As soon as they assembled, a laugh broke out among the consultants. It resembled the maniacal laugh of a vampire about to suck out the life of an innocent maiden, and Rakshita immediately imagined bloodstained fangs behind those paan-stained lips of Dr Roopesh Aggarwal.
He was one of the leading Cardiac Surgeons of India, and was painfully aware of the fact. His arrogance and disrespectful attitude towards his junior staff was legendary, almost as much as his deft surgical skills.“Why are they carrying stethoscopes? Do they intend to examine one of my patients, and tell me that they hear a heart sound that I have not been able to identify?”, said Dr Aggarwal, and broke out into one of his maniacal laughs once again. A couple of his junior doctors smiled nervously, and Rakshita’s classmates, for all of whom this was the first surgical rotation, were white with indignation.
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