28 March 2012
First things first. Before starting at a new institution of learning, one requires items like books, writing utensils, a mini-tape recorder, and in the case of P.S.G., a set of uniforms. That's right, U-N-I-F-O-R-M-S. Ours was the only medical school in the entire subcontinent of India that required it's slaves.....er....students to wear uniforms. Now, normally, uniforms could be a blessing in disguise. Think "catholic school girl" and we're on the same wavelength. Unfortunately, our uniforms were a curse. The boys were required to wear a white collared shirt, white pants, white labcoat, and black shoes. The girls, on the other hand, were required to wear a cream and brown sari, matching blouse (optional in some cases), white labcoat, and slippers. The only other people who wore outfits similar to the boys were men who were hired to drive the bourgeoisie around town. Aunty Dorothy scheduled an appointment with the tailor so I could get my very own set of rags. At the time, I weighed around 220 pounds and heard many a snide comment, in Tamil, about my weight from said coutourier. Luckily, he had enough white fabric to make me 4 sets of matching shirts and pants, as well as three labcoats. I think Tommy Hilfiger missed a grand opportunity here. Next up were the shoes. I had my Nike basketball shoes ready to go, but my dad thought I should get some regular black loafers. I found a pair I could tolerate at the local cobbler. I was all ready to pay for them when my dad refused to get them. His reason? The shoes had laces and he didn't think I would ever tie them if the knot came loose. The man also said I should buy briefs instead of boxers because my balls needed protection. I couldn't believe his logic but just to shut him up, I went with the loafers. The man criticized me quite often and I've been told that it's out of love so who was I to argue?
The next stop on our mini-journey was the bookstore. The place was in a little hole in the wall in the center of Coimbatore called Town Hall. They had many medical texts from which to choose. My first year curriculum included anatomy, physiology, and biochemistry with a dash of histology. Once I selected the books, the clerk covered each one of them with black faux-vinyl. They do that to all there books over there. Now the only way to tell them apart was by size. The smallest books were anatomy, medium size was biochemistry, and largest was physiology. With my arsenal in hand, I was ready to commence being a medical student. But there was still one minor detail to hash out. I still hadn't gotten admission.
In order to do that, we needed to meet with the Chief Exectutive of P.S.G. and Sons Charities in order to make our "donation". I always thought that was a great name for their front. Kinda like the mob. That's where they filtered the money and funneled it through whatever endeavors they saw fit and when the money came back, it was clean. Oh I'm sorry. That's what happens in America. In India, there's no need for such shenanigans because the money you give people usually goes straight into their pockets. The $75k was going to buy the CEO, Mr. Some Initial Swaminathan, a brand-spankin new Mercedes along with a bunch of McNuggets. You see, he was a rather rotund gentleman who once made a plastic chair collapse by merely sitting down in it. I read once that in Victorian times, a sure sign of wealth was being fat because it meant you could afford to eat a lot. In that case, consider Mr. Swaminathan the Bill Gates of Coimbatore.
Now that the fat man had sung, it was time for my dad to depart. He left India about a week before classes started. At the airport, he gave me a hug and told me I'd be alright. It was comforting to think that he must know something I didn't. I wasn't exactly sad to see him go. I was still numb about being here in the first place. It didn't hit me until several weeks later that I wouldn't be seeing my family again for quite some time. Homesickness was just a word. Reality was much worse. If you're in college in America, you can just call home and talk to someone. In India, if you wanted to call America, you had to "book a call". That meant you had to call the operator, tell them the phone number, and hang up. Sometimes, you'd get a call back and it would be the party you were trying to reach. Other times, you wouldn't get a call and you just assumed that the call didn't go through. And since I was only going to be seeing Aunty Dorothy and Uncle Rufus on the weekends, I'd only be able to call once a week, if that. Plus, this was in the days before the internet. Some places in India didn't even have indoor plumbing so to yearn for cyberspace was a bit much at the time. Before my dad left, he made sure to see that Aunty Dorothy would have as much control over me as possible. He opened a bank account for me and would send me a monthly stipend of $50. At that time, that was about 2000 rupees. Not bad to live by to start with. The only thing was he told Aunty Dorothy to keep my bank book, without which I couldn't access my money. Every weekend during my first semester, Aunty D would give me 100 rupees for the week. Sometimes, she would give me 200 if she was feeling generous.
The day before classes were to start, I prepared myself mentally. It was just like when I was 12 years old and going to a new school after we had moved. I was nervous that I wouldn't meet anyone or I wouldn't get along with anyone. I really hoped Abi was going to be there. I really hoped they taught in English. I hoped I wouldn't be forced to play hockey. I hoped there would be some cute, interesting girls in my class. I hoped.......
The night went by so slowly and I hadn't slept a wink. I was that nervous. I woke up, did the usual morning business, and got dressed. I packed all my books into my bag along with paper, pens, and my mini-tape recorder. Hey, I was in college now and college students taped their lectures right? Uncle Rufus said a prayer for me before I left. Suresh drove me to school and had some encouraging words.
"If anyone tries to rag you, don't fight it. They'll end up beating you and you don't want that."
Thanks, Suresh. I got out of the car and entered the academic block. I had no idea where to go so I went up to the front desk and asked the secretary where classes were being held. She didn't speak English so was of no help to me. Then I figured since it was the first day, I'd see my other classmates come walking in too. I waited at the bottom of the stairs for people with that "deer-in-the-headlights" look about them. Those were a good bet to be the "freshers". Several minutes passed by and no one who looked like a first-year student passed by. A big group of people in regular clothes passed by and went upstairs, but I figured they were just teachers or something. I was looking for kids like me in the hideous white uniform. Suddenly, it was 8:15 am and classes were supposed to start at 8. I figured I had nothing to lose so I walked up the stairs and looked around on each floor for a classroom or lecture hall or SOMETHING. It wasn't until I reached the precipice of the 4th floor that I saw a classroom. But this one was filled with those rather young-looking people that I thought were teachers. I peered into the barred window (all windows at P.S.G. had bars on them) and scanned the populace. There was Abi! This was the place I was looking for. But something was very wrong. Everyone was wearing regular clothes except for me. I was the only person out of 120 students who wore the required garments! And one of the last things Suresh told me was to try and blend in, try not to stick out. Mission: Unaccomplished. I got a seat next to Abi and we said our greetings. I looked around the room and saw a bunch of dark, skinny, local Indian kids that comprised the majority of our class. I started looking for the female contingent and couldn't find any.
"Hey Abi, where are the girls? This is a co-ed school right?" "Look to your right, man." "Hey, how come those guys are dressed in salwaar-kameez? (traditional outfit usually worn by women)" "Those aren't guys man." "Those aren't.........BLECH!"
And suddenly, the tune to the movie "The Crying Game" started playing in my head. It was true. The girls were there but my hopes of finding a cutie to kick what little game I had were dashed. They ranged from short to tall, skinny to portly, and ugly to heinous. Several of them even had facial hair, confirming my suspicions that bearded women weren't just confined to Madras. Only these girls didn't have spider-monkeys crawling on their backs......just tufts of hair. Just when I thought it couldn't get worse, our first lecturer entered the room.
May I introduce Professor R. Kalluri, head of anatomy. I was excited in a way to be having class after the monotony of my first month in Coimbatore. I got my pen and paper ready and turned on my mini-tape recorder. Surely, since he was the head of the department, he must have known his shit. Then Dr. Kalluri spoke. Actually, spoke isn't the right word. He warbled. Not one syllable coming out of his mouth was intelligible. If you've ever seen the Charlie Brown cartoons, when adults speak to them, they have that "Wah Wah Wah" voice. That's the exact same voice Dr. Kalluri had. I was at a loss for what to do. I had no idea what he was saying so I didn't have anything to write down. I looked over at Abi.
"Dude, is he speaking English or Tamil?" "I think it's English, but I've been wrong before."
Then I took a gander at what the other students were doing. I was flabbergasted! They were writing notes at 100 mph! How could they be doing that? Was this some sort of language they understood? Did they have some sort of earpiece that translated his garbled words into something coherent? What the hell was going on? The remainder of the hour went like this. I tried to make headway into understanding the intricacies and nuances of his "speech patterns
The Lamentations Of A Retarded Moose • Opuss № I