Savyasaachi

“The finished man of the world must eat of every apple once.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Most of us come to a stage in life, like in movies, when we question the very purpose of our existence, think back whether our decisions were really the correct ones, weigh over ‘rights’ and ‘wrongs’ and perhaps even question our faith. The only difference, possibly, is the lack of a sad background tune and a flashback replay of ‘Happier times’.

Just like in society at large, we medical students as a presumed homogeneous cross-section are composed of people of all temperaments. Many of us take up medicine since it was the penultimate step in the realization of our dream to serve society, in emulating the childhood hero who saved our lives or those of our loved ones. In becoming all that we had dreamed of since joining school, fulfilling the earnest promises made during a 5th standard essay, ‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’; in the hope of someday filling up the form given to us on the way to heaven with the names of all those who we saved. Some of us took it to please our doting elders. Some of us, because there wasn’t much else we could do: having been misled right through our formative years into believing there is nothing more to life than getting into this professional course. And after coming to a point of no return, at which we are posed a namesake question confirming our choice, we are thrust into a world of formalin and lancets, gingerly accepting the self-wrought decision. Those of us who fall into the last category have no one to blame but our unsuspecting former selves, forced to decide upon a rosy future at an age when maturity had not caught up with us.

The feeling aforementioned might come sooner to few, later to others and to some lucky ones with a firm sense of purpose and priority, not at all. With our ex-classmates, who pursued other careers and who at the time of joining seemed far behind in the percentage race, already making quite a fistful of money – it leaves us feeling a bit sore, looking at a winding and largely unknown lane ahead. Try looking back and you are too far out to even think of returning. The quagmire deepens. We grope on forwards, some of us consoled by the fact that ours is a profession of service and dedication. Some, by the promise of pots of gold at the end of the rainbow. Still others, for no conceivable reason than there is no other recourse and if submission is all it takes, let us be submissive. Yet, the ‘non-healing ulcer’ deep within persists despite all reasoning and self-assurance. There is no true happiness. No element of pride or purpose. Like zombies, we step forward in to the uncertain pool of fate and what it has to offer.

If feeling bad about something will make it go away, let us all hold hands and feel bad about two atomic bombs, two towers and a devastated world, two men and a terror-filled earth. Let us not waste it on an inconsequential personal longing to change past events. Let us, instead, look forward to all the good life as a doctor has to offer. After long debates, we may only end up with more sorrow. Let us convince a friend of a bright future and, in the process try to convince ourselves. Let us think of that form to be filled on our way up and at least now think of becoming better doctors than soothsayers. Those of us who are not convinced, there is still opportunity in other fields with our qualifications. Let us learn from our experience and others’. Maybe that nice feeling when you first took medicine was not an ‘illegitimate ecstasy’ after all.

I dedicate the article to all my friends who have second thoughts about having joined medicine.