11th-12th August 1993
I enter Jipmer, straight into a crowd of people rushing in different directions. I know my class is supposed to be at the end of a long corridor towards the left where all the Lecture Theatres are located. The academic section of the College is all along this corridor to the left and the Wards lie straight ahead, also on 4 floors, the "L" thus formed enclosing empty space and some trees and shrubs.
In a College that has 70-75 people per batch, it is obvious that I am new to anyone watching, but although I am very self-conscious, the walk is mercifully short and uninterrupted. I arrive in front of a set of wooden doors, with an old wooden sign confirming that I have arrived at "Hunter Theatre", the Lecture Theatre on this floor. The other floors are similar in layout but Sonu and Vikrant, in their brief briefing, have told me the first 2 years will be largely confined to the first two floors.
I enter Hunter. I am already a late joiner-all the All India candidates are. Classes started on the 26th of July and I feel even more lonely now. It's 755 AM, 5 minutes to go before the first class-Anatomy. I am greeted by 60 unfamilar faces, all eyes on me. The theatre slopes up and there are long wooden benches divided by 2 aisles. A brief moment of terror arrives when a tall, bespectaled person leaps up from his seat and with an expression of complete seriousness, says
"Bastard, who the fu** are you"? followed quickly by "What the fu** are you doing here"?
And at this point, I'm ready to cry.
Deepak, however, is my classmate and I am in the right class. He has been here since the start and by now, has been ragged enough to be a senior among the juniors. He does this to everyone new who joins.
A fair, shortish man arrives. Someone whispers he is an "EP" though I have no idea what an EP is. Attendance is taken and everyone finds out who I am. "Brachial Plexus" is scrawled on the blackboard and I spend the next 45 minutes in a daze. Nothing makes sense. Every word is new. And everyone else seems to know what he's talking about. If this is trial by fire, the fire is pretty hot.
The heat gets a bit better in the next class, one floor up in Bernard Theatre. Physiology makes a little more sense because it atleast has terms I've heard before but I can't control a sudden apprehension that's come over me now. A feeling that I don't belong here, that I'm completely out of my depth and perhaps this wasn't the reward for the last 2 years I had been looking for.
Biochemistry, the third subject this semester is next and just serves to compound my growing anxiety.
At 11, the class breaks. Some come up to me and we introduce ourselves. Deepak apologizes with a grin and we shake hands. No harm done. Ashley has also joined today and he is as clueless as me.
This is now the moment made famous in all the Doctor based novels I've read so far. The rite of passage for greenhorns-Dissection Hall. The Hall is just down the corridor, where a small opening leads into a pretty looking grassy area and I am told that is called "Vesalius Square". The Histology Lab is on one side and above it lie the other Labs. A statue of someone I presume is Vesalius watches us from one side.
This is is the first time I have smelt formalin this close and this strongly. The smell is overpowering. The Hall has some steel tables on which lie 8 pristine, naked, shrivelled corpses. We have been divided into groups and I find my table on which lies my "body". There is no vomiting or retching or fainting. Maybe we're all just putting up a brave face.
Cunningham's-the manual for dissection is opened. Disscetion kits-scalpels, forceps, scissors-appear. Some demonstrators walk about, explaining what is to be done. I try not to imagine a real person lying down on a steel table.
I soon discover that Dissection Hall is part dissection and part deception. Not everyone is gung-ho about cutting and reading Cunningham's but when a demonstrator walks by, everyone huddles around, more to find out what's happening from the 2 people actually doing the dissection. The rest of the time is spent fruitfully discussing ragging-the only topic that is of any interest to me.
Lunch:
I walk into Lister Mess. This is the first time anyone apart from class has seen me and as I walk in, the initial curious silence erupts into pandemonium within seconds.
"Bas****" , "Hey Fu****", "Who the fu** are you man"?, and variations on the theme. Long tables are arranged along the walls of the Mess and the shouts come from both directions. I walk, head low, feet shuffling, knowing that this is my first moment of terror. At the end of the Mess, someone is loading plates with rice and a meagre ration of some unknown vege.
"Get your plate and come here bast***", a voice behind me, with some stress on the last word. I turn and find the only vacant space, a space that has no doubt been created for me-the lunch time entertainment. The shouts continue, questions about me surface and although it is a done-to-death cliche, I do feel like a lamb in the lion's den, with many lions all competing for the grand prize. The food is just about edible but my hunger has vanished. In between the interrogation, I am continually told to keep eating and everyone watches while I force some food down my throat.
My room is a 30 second walk away but I have no time. I have hardly eaten and it's already 2 PM-time to get back to College.
The afternoon session is a blur of some Lab work and lectures. I sit, numbed and homesick, dreading the time the day will be over and I will get back to the room. Lunch was one thing-now I will be faced with 2 entire hostels filled with people just waiting to get their hands on me.
I get back to the room I had last seen the day before when it was still being set up and Dad was still in Pondy. I see the books arranged, still untouched-everything as we had left it. I know that at this very moment, Dad is on a plane back to Delhi and suddenly it's all too much.
A traumatic day, a sense of utter loneliness, an academic mountain in the distance, seniors baying at the door, my family 2000 km away.
I've never thought of myself as a sissy but I sit down, lock the door and cry.
And then the shouting begins. And there is still no sign of Ashley. Its 5 PM.
I enter Jipmer, straight into a crowd of people rushing in different directions. I know my class is supposed to be at the end of a long corridor towards the left where all the Lecture Theatres are located. The academic section of the College is all along this corridor to the left and the Wards lie straight ahead, also on 4 floors, the "L" thus formed enclosing empty space and some trees and shrubs.
In a College that has 70-75 people per batch, it is obvious that I am new to anyone watching, but although I am very self-conscious, the walk is mercifully short and uninterrupted. I arrive in front of a set of wooden doors, with an old wooden sign confirming that I have arrived at "Hunter Theatre", the Lecture Theatre on this floor. The other floors are similar in layout but Sonu and Vikrant, in their brief briefing, have told me the first 2 years will be largely confined to the first two floors.
I enter Hunter. I am already a late joiner-all the All India candidates are. Classes started on the 26th of July and I feel even more lonely now. It's 755 AM, 5 minutes to go before the first class-Anatomy. I am greeted by 60 unfamilar faces, all eyes on me. The theatre slopes up and there are long wooden benches divided by 2 aisles. A brief moment of terror arrives when a tall, bespectaled person leaps up from his seat and with an expression of complete seriousness, says
"Bastard, who the fu** are you"? followed quickly by "What the fu** are you doing here"?
And at this point, I'm ready to cry.
Deepak, however, is my classmate and I am in the right class. He has been here since the start and by now, has been ragged enough to be a senior among the juniors. He does this to everyone new who joins.
A fair, shortish man arrives. Someone whispers he is an "EP" though I have no idea what an EP is. Attendance is taken and everyone finds out who I am. "Brachial Plexus" is scrawled on the blackboard and I spend the next 45 minutes in a daze. Nothing makes sense. Every word is new. And everyone else seems to know what he's talking about. If this is trial by fire, the fire is pretty hot.
The heat gets a bit better in the next class, one floor up in Bernard Theatre. Physiology makes a little more sense because it atleast has terms I've heard before but I can't control a sudden apprehension that's come over me now. A feeling that I don't belong here, that I'm completely out of my depth and perhaps this wasn't the reward for the last 2 years I had been looking for.
Biochemistry, the third subject this semester is next and just serves to compound my growing anxiety.
At 11, the class breaks. Some come up to me and we introduce ourselves. Deepak apologizes with a grin and we shake hands. No harm done. Ashley has also joined today and he is as clueless as me.
This is now the moment made famous in all the Doctor based novels I've read so far. The rite of passage for greenhorns-Dissection Hall. The Hall is just down the corridor, where a small opening leads into a pretty looking grassy area and I am told that is called "Vesalius Square". The Histology Lab is on one side and above it lie the other Labs. A statue of someone I presume is Vesalius watches us from one side.
This is is the first time I have smelt formalin this close and this strongly. The smell is overpowering. The Hall has some steel tables on which lie 8 pristine, naked, shrivelled corpses. We have been divided into groups and I find my table on which lies my "body". There is no vomiting or retching or fainting. Maybe we're all just putting up a brave face.
Cunningham's-the manual for dissection is opened. Disscetion kits-scalpels, forceps, scissors-appear. Some demonstrators walk about, explaining what is to be done. I try not to imagine a real person lying down on a steel table.
I soon discover that Dissection Hall is part dissection and part deception. Not everyone is gung-ho about cutting and reading Cunningham's but when a demonstrator walks by, everyone huddles around, more to find out what's happening from the 2 people actually doing the dissection. The rest of the time is spent fruitfully discussing ragging-the only topic that is of any interest to me.
Lunch:
I walk into Lister Mess. This is the first time anyone apart from class has seen me and as I walk in, the initial curious silence erupts into pandemonium within seconds.
"Bas****" , "Hey Fu****", "Who the fu** are you man"?, and variations on the theme. Long tables are arranged along the walls of the Mess and the shouts come from both directions. I walk, head low, feet shuffling, knowing that this is my first moment of terror. At the end of the Mess, someone is loading plates with rice and a meagre ration of some unknown vege.
"Get your plate and come here bast***", a voice behind me, with some stress on the last word. I turn and find the only vacant space, a space that has no doubt been created for me-the lunch time entertainment. The shouts continue, questions about me surface and although it is a done-to-death cliche, I do feel like a lamb in the lion's den, with many lions all competing for the grand prize. The food is just about edible but my hunger has vanished. In between the interrogation, I am continually told to keep eating and everyone watches while I force some food down my throat.
My room is a 30 second walk away but I have no time. I have hardly eaten and it's already 2 PM-time to get back to College.
The afternoon session is a blur of some Lab work and lectures. I sit, numbed and homesick, dreading the time the day will be over and I will get back to the room. Lunch was one thing-now I will be faced with 2 entire hostels filled with people just waiting to get their hands on me.
I get back to the room I had last seen the day before when it was still being set up and Dad was still in Pondy. I see the books arranged, still untouched-everything as we had left it. I know that at this very moment, Dad is on a plane back to Delhi and suddenly it's all too much.
A traumatic day, a sense of utter loneliness, an academic mountain in the distance, seniors baying at the door, my family 2000 km away.
I've never thought of myself as a sissy but I sit down, lock the door and cry.
And then the shouting begins. And there is still no sign of Ashley. Its 5 PM.
The banging is incessant and accompanied by wild, excited shouts.
"Open the fuc**** door, bas****", ben**** open up" and similar threats in a mix of Hindi and English. Rahul has shifted in next door, in 230 and a few doors down, past the staircase and the dingy bathrooms is 225, Vikrant's room. I haven't seen them today and any fleeting thoughts of a rescue attempt have long since vanished. Rahul, a newcomer to the hostel but now in the 2nd year, is probably deeply busy in his own ragging agenda. Of course.
"Open the fuc**** door, bas****", ben**** open up" and similar threats in a mix of Hindi and English. Rahul has shifted in next door, in 230 and a few doors down, past the staircase and the dingy bathrooms is 225, Vikrant's room. I haven't seen them today and any fleeting thoughts of a rescue attempt have long since vanished. Rahul, a newcomer to the hostel but now in the 2nd year, is probably deeply busy in his own ragging agenda. Of course.
There is no time for a change of clothes, a change of shoes or a quick dash to the balcony behind. I have to go or else the door will be broken down.
I open the door.
There are atleast 15 people waiting outside.
There are atleast 15 people waiting outside.
Aug 12 1993
5 AM
I stagger into the room. It is pristine and undisturbed, exactly as it had been when I had finished unpacking just the day before. The same cannot be said about me. I am wearing the same clothes and shoes I had worn to my first day to College. My bones are aching, I am sleep depived and I am too tired to be homesick. I am also very relieved. I am also officially a "Baby Junior". I am not, however, hungry.
The trauma of the last few hours has been punctuated by trips to the "shacks" outside. And, in between squats on the roadside while being interrogated at leisure, my tormentors have managed to make sure I have been well fed. This, I will discover repeatedly over the next few nights, is a Jipmer ragging tradition.
In Jipmer the seniors screw you over, over and over. Then they feed you.
The trauma of the last few hours has been punctuated by trips to the "shacks" outside. And, in between squats on the roadside while being interrogated at leisure, my tormentors have managed to make sure I have been well fed. This, I will discover repeatedly over the next few nights, is a Jipmer ragging tradition.
In Jipmer the seniors screw you over, over and over. Then they feed you.
Between 5 PM and 5 AM
The cardinal rule of ragging is silence. I stand mute, head down, while abuses are hurled from all directions. In a few minutes, the crowd scatters as some of my classmates are elsewhere in the hostel and are equally sought after prey. What follows then is a complete blur.
I am "escorted" from one room to the other, with each senior wanting a piece of me in their own fiefdoms. Each room has about 4-5 seniors and often, a fellow raggee. The whole atmosphere is that of a national security risk caught by an angry mob. Everyone is a stranger. To make matters worse, some of the raggees are my classmates who had joined a few days back, like Deepak, and they are now on less violent terms with everyone. This leaves me as the juniormost in the room by far and when the "fun" starts, I am the only victim, people like Deepak just being a Supporting act.
Over the course of this night, a number of lessons are learnt. Inspite of being mortally scared shitless, I realize that there is little or no physical ragging here. An unwritten code for ragging exists and is self administered. When it is deemed to get excessive, someone intervenes. Silence is also golden here, under almost any circumstances. Taking names of seniors one might know, like Vikrant or Rahul can be interpreted as arrogance and will not meet with pleasant consequences. I found that out the hard way.
The pre-dinner session lasts till 730 when the Mess opens for dinner and we troop down. The dinner is much like lunch-plenty of shouting and excitement, some squats on a bench, some barely edible food. Random people walk by, shout an abuse or two and walk away with a contented smile. I look up from my plate and I am told "Eat up , bugger", a word that I will hear many, many times and will become a standard part of my vocabulary.
As I finish and walk to the rows of washbasins, Vikrant appears. He asks if I am alright and then tells me he won't stop what is happening but if things get out of hand, I should tell him. I am grateful for that.
I run into another senior who is being addressed as "Bong", from which I presume he is from Bengal. Bong takes me to his room, a few doors down from Vikrant's and as we pass Vikrant's room, he looks up from his studying and says "Bong, zyaada mat karna".(Bong, don't do too much). While this is reassuring, I don't know who Bong is or what he normally does.
Bong and I get to the room. I sit on a bed facing him while he takes out a novel and starts reading. Nothing else happens for the next few minutes and then Bong looks up and says " Zyaada kya mat karna"? (What should I not do too much of). My first reaction is to say "ragging" but survival instincts take over and I stay silent. To say the R word would have invited immediate repercussions, because ragging, after all, does not happen here. Bong is not satisfied and the question is repeated many times and I give in. And then Bong goes out, gets a few more people and proceeds to shout in my face "Bas****, am I ragging you"? And this time, I am silent throughout, staring at my shoes. A new set of fun and games begin. I am asked:
"Where am I from"?. "Give me 5 reasons". Silence is not an option here and I mutter some random guesses. Hair colour, skin colour, oil on hair, anything I can think of is a "reason" and obviously, the guesses are all wrong and the reasons are all offensive. Bong, despite being Bong, refuses to acknowledge he is from Bengal and this goes on for an hour. When we finish, I have heard more abuses than I have in my entire life thus far.
Eventually, Bong and the gang give up-he has to study for a test. I am called a disgusting bas**** and I exit the room and re-enter the arena.
Opposite Lister House, across the road naturally labelled as the Inter-Hostel Road, lies it's counterpart-Osler House. That is my next destination.
There is no refuge here. Osler is the real deal. Each of the staircase landings on the 4 floors of Osler House is occupied by a gang of seniors with a few juniors hidden somewhere in the crowd. One of the guys escorting me wants to take me to his room on the top floor. I never end up getting there, getting caught at each landing for so long that he just gave up and went to catch fresh fish.
One guy stares at my eyeballs and tells me to call someone else a "mot****fuc***" or equivalent. 3 guys join him in support. 4 other guys dare to me to "just say it as*****", "and you'll get killed." I'll also get killed if I don't say it and so I continue to just look completely witless, my head turning in whatever direction the next set of instructions are coming from. This, I soon realize is a game played by virtually everyone but played with a lot of seriousness. Eventually, someone whom I assume is senior to this bunch comes along and we are made to stand in a line.
The Jipmer Anthem and Song are introduced, which have a few normal words but mostly more abuses. Someone wants to know how "exactly" I know Vikrant and I just tell the bare truth-I barely do and he is not a protector, which satisfies them. The parade around Osler continues till well into the night. No one is very interested in sleeping or studying when Baby Juniors roll around.
At the core of all this ragging lies all the "wishing". Every senior is a "Sir" and everyone must be wished, with head bowed. The safe thing is to simply wish everyone I see and I have ended up wishing the Mess Boys, a Safaiwala and a random stranger, much to everyone's amusement.
I almost lick a shoe (before I am stopped), almost start undressing (again, I am stopped) but I do end up partly cleaning a cement corridor with a toothbrush. The idea of ragging, I gather, is to check arrogance and hesitation. The actual execution of the ordered task is besides the point. By this point, the ugly, irregular moustache that had refused to grow properly has also been taken care of. In Jipmer terms, the "fungus" has been gotten rid of.
Intermittent trips to the shacks happen because everyone wants tea and I have to as well. The main shack is called "Casino" and is run by a portly man everyone calls "Johny". I am fed some buns, biscuits, an omlette (or mutta parota) and a cold, much needed drink. Some people drop by in white coats and stethoscopes and express a mild, passing interest in me. They seem quite senior and perhaps have other things on their minds.
The pre-dinner session lasts till 730 when the Mess opens for dinner and we troop down. The dinner is much like lunch-plenty of shouting and excitement, some squats on a bench, some barely edible food. Random people walk by, shout an abuse or two and walk away with a contented smile. I look up from my plate and I am told "Eat up , bugger", a word that I will hear many, many times and will become a standard part of my vocabulary.
As I finish and walk to the rows of washbasins, Vikrant appears. He asks if I am alright and then tells me he won't stop what is happening but if things get out of hand, I should tell him. I am grateful for that.
I run into another senior who is being addressed as "Bong", from which I presume he is from Bengal. Bong takes me to his room, a few doors down from Vikrant's and as we pass Vikrant's room, he looks up from his studying and says "Bong, zyaada mat karna".(Bong, don't do too much). While this is reassuring, I don't know who Bong is or what he normally does.
Bong and I get to the room. I sit on a bed facing him while he takes out a novel and starts reading. Nothing else happens for the next few minutes and then Bong looks up and says " Zyaada kya mat karna"? (What should I not do too much of). My first reaction is to say "ragging" but survival instincts take over and I stay silent. To say the R word would have invited immediate repercussions, because ragging, after all, does not happen here. Bong is not satisfied and the question is repeated many times and I give in. And then Bong goes out, gets a few more people and proceeds to shout in my face "Bas****, am I ragging you"? And this time, I am silent throughout, staring at my shoes. A new set of fun and games begin. I am asked:
"Where am I from"?. "Give me 5 reasons". Silence is not an option here and I mutter some random guesses. Hair colour, skin colour, oil on hair, anything I can think of is a "reason" and obviously, the guesses are all wrong and the reasons are all offensive. Bong, despite being Bong, refuses to acknowledge he is from Bengal and this goes on for an hour. When we finish, I have heard more abuses than I have in my entire life thus far.
Eventually, Bong and the gang give up-he has to study for a test. I am called a disgusting bas**** and I exit the room and re-enter the arena.
Opposite Lister House, across the road naturally labelled as the Inter-Hostel Road, lies it's counterpart-Osler House. That is my next destination.
There is no refuge here. Osler is the real deal. Each of the staircase landings on the 4 floors of Osler House is occupied by a gang of seniors with a few juniors hidden somewhere in the crowd. One of the guys escorting me wants to take me to his room on the top floor. I never end up getting there, getting caught at each landing for so long that he just gave up and went to catch fresh fish.
One guy stares at my eyeballs and tells me to call someone else a "mot****fuc***" or equivalent. 3 guys join him in support. 4 other guys dare to me to "just say it as*****", "and you'll get killed." I'll also get killed if I don't say it and so I continue to just look completely witless, my head turning in whatever direction the next set of instructions are coming from. This, I soon realize is a game played by virtually everyone but played with a lot of seriousness. Eventually, someone whom I assume is senior to this bunch comes along and we are made to stand in a line.
The Jipmer Anthem and Song are introduced, which have a few normal words but mostly more abuses. Someone wants to know how "exactly" I know Vikrant and I just tell the bare truth-I barely do and he is not a protector, which satisfies them. The parade around Osler continues till well into the night. No one is very interested in sleeping or studying when Baby Juniors roll around.
At the core of all this ragging lies all the "wishing". Every senior is a "Sir" and everyone must be wished, with head bowed. The safe thing is to simply wish everyone I see and I have ended up wishing the Mess Boys, a Safaiwala and a random stranger, much to everyone's amusement.
I almost lick a shoe (before I am stopped), almost start undressing (again, I am stopped) but I do end up partly cleaning a cement corridor with a toothbrush. The idea of ragging, I gather, is to check arrogance and hesitation. The actual execution of the ordered task is besides the point. By this point, the ugly, irregular moustache that had refused to grow properly has also been taken care of. In Jipmer terms, the "fungus" has been gotten rid of.
Intermittent trips to the shacks happen because everyone wants tea and I have to as well. The main shack is called "Casino" and is run by a portly man everyone calls "Johny". I am fed some buns, biscuits, an omlette (or mutta parota) and a cold, much needed drink. Some people drop by in white coats and stethoscopes and express a mild, passing interest in me. They seem quite senior and perhaps have other things on their minds.
Still in a gang, but not hungry anymore, we troop back. Some scatter to study, some to catch fresh meat. New roving gangs turn up.
I relearn the "Jipmer anthem" and the "Song". Heads tucked into our asses, a bunch of us sing till the pitch is perfect. It takes a long time. It's now 4 AM.
4 AM Aug 12 1993
A tall, fair, muscular man turns up. He takes one look at me, all in formals and black shoes.
A tall, fair, muscular man turns up. He takes one look at me, all in formals and black shoes.
First question: "What are you doing with black shoes at 4 in the morning"?
My stupid, reflex answer? "I'm wearing them".
The reaction is swift and no fun. I attribute this lapse to profound fatigue.
I am released from the mobile labour camp. I stumble back to my room where I find my roomate, Ashley, fast asleep. I wonder how his day went.
It's been less than 24 hours since I joined. It sure doesn't feel that way. I stagger into my bed and collapse.
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