The God (is) Complex

On 27^th of October, 2015, at the Government hospital morgue, I witnessed my first autopsy – a full-term pregnant lady, and thus by extension, her unborn baby. On 4^th of February, 2016, at the Government hospital operating theatre, I witnessed my first emergency C-section – the birth of a baby, and thus by extension his new-born mum. Here at Kasturba Medical College, Mangalore, in my own way, I have seen it all.

Slight exaggeration there! This is merely the beginning. If there is one stereotype that is not false of the medico community – it is that we never stop learning. Be it proper bedside manners (rub your hands together before examining the patient, so that they are warm), or proper dressing sense (are you Really wearing jeans to the ward!) to the easiest way to score… in the popular board game “Operation” (well, there is no one right answer to that) MBBS is a nerd’s game. Think sharp, be punctual, get used to caffeine driven all-nighters. And carry a hand sanitizer, please.

So, you put on your once-a-novelty white coat (not that white anymore), and your still-a-novelty stethoscope (still quite pink), and march right into the warzone. TB on beds 6 and 7. Diabetic Neuropathy far right. Chronic Obstructive Lung Disease somewhere, auscultate him! Rub your hands, rub your hands! One look at that steth, and suddenly you’re God – all-seeing, all-powerful, the hopeful look on their faces undeterred by your gaze of utter confusion as the only procedure you can competently perform is checking for pulse. The smarter ones can Even take Blood Pressure readings! 2 hours of that, the dawning realization that you know nothing, another promise to study harder tonight, and you can finally go home for the day.

Gruelling, demanding, gut-wrenching Med School. Thou art a heartless bitch.

Another popular stereotype is that the med students are heartless bitches too.

After all, where is the room for emotion in this bizarre tangle of IV tubes and catheters? This maze of OPDs and OTs and ERs and other assorted acronyms? This cacophony of codes red, blue, yellow, black, bubblegum pink? This… you get the point. There is no room. Your hands tend to shake when you care about the person you’ll be slicing into. Your mind tends to be less than objective when diagnosing a near or dear one. We all know about the dilated pupils, elevated heart rate, changed breathing patterns of a person falling in love. But it would do well for us doctors to remember that those are merely signs of our sympathetic system kicking in – signalling our choice between Flight or Fight. Sometimes, it’s better to just take the choice away from us, and just Do.

As such, we have a given protocol for everything. When we take case histories – we ask the patient what his chief complaints are, the history of said complaints, any past history of illness, family history of illnesses, illness, illness, illness – the 1^st thing that we must ask them though is their Name. Their full name. Their given name. “Your name is your identity”, the professor says matter-of-factly, because it was a matter of fact “ and addressing the patient with his name, which he’s familiar with, has responded to all his life, forms a bond, a relationship with him, one of trust, helping him open up to you. You need him to open up to you.”

You see enough cadavers being chopped up, enough autopsies filed away in dusty cabinets, enough scalpels carving into bodies as if it’s just flesh – you may forget that people are, in fact, people, and not just “Cases”. Or, well, so goes the popular stereotype. The stereotype of the sterile Operation Theatre, where the actors leave germs and feelings outside before scrubbing in, squeaky clean, to play out their part of God.

Well, I’m still human.

The day of the 1^st C-section, I got to see two more. Each carried out with the unwavering precision that comes from years of practice, dedication, and a slight caffeine addiction. A nip here, a cut there, baby’s head, neck, torso and limbs pulled out in quick succession, on to the baby tray, off to nurse’s station, Look ma’am, it’s your baby, looks just like you, mother faints. Every single time. To the untrained eye, it is an assembly line, unlaboured by this woman’s labour, just cuts and bruises that can be explained away by 2^nd year obstetrics textbooks. But, underneath my faded green scrubs mask, there was etched an invisible smile. Look closely, with a doctor’s keen eyes, and you might just see it.

The Creative Process

Of all the people qualified to write about the process of creation, the two most competent candidates seem, to me, to be God, from the much-loved children’s fiction The Bible, and Chuck Lorre, from Chuck Lorre Productions, creator of The Big Bang Theory. Since I could get neither of them on the line, it now falls on my shoulders to enlighten the masses on how to spend a lazy Sunday night of insomnia without a bottle of Xanax on stand-by.

Truth be told, half the time I don’t even know what I’m doing. Not just when it comes to my “creative” endeavours, but, well, in general. For the moment, let’s say I don’t really know much about the creative process. So, you might as well stop reading this article, like, 5 sentences ago. In no way is this article going to be educational, inspirational, practically applicable, or otherwise remotely helpful. The following lines, and the lines preceding, are nothing more than the verbal cartographical attempts of a lost explorer in the world of words, trying to map out concrete signposts for her abstract thoughts, so she has a way to go back to sanity in case she ever gets lost.

So, without further ado, here is the Creative Process;

1. Perfectionist’s Block.

A long walk. Listening to a particular song. Talking to someone special. In the wee hours of the morning while still in bed, contemplating what’s for breakfast – when suddenly! An Idea Strikes!

It’s a brilliant idea. Paradigm-shifting. Humorous. Uplifting. Intriguing.

You should write about it! Right!

Wrong.

It’s the same reason Sheldon keeps his mint-condition in-packaging action figures in their packaging.

It’s the same reason Penny wasn’t sure if she should date Leonard or not. (ok, last TBBT reference, I promise, Chuck).

It’s the same reason why Schrödinger never opened the box! (ok, that was science!)

Once you open the box, you might not like what you find there.

See, it’s like this – the idea, as such, just the Idea, is perfect in your head. It makes sense to you. You like it. Why bother changing it, and potentially ruining it, by extracting more out of it, digging deeper into it, trying to stretch it out into More than an Idea?

This is a rookie perfectionist’s problem. Once you set out to do something, it’s got to be perfect. And that daunting task, of meeting your own expectations, is more than you can handle.

So, you sit back, relax, and just let the Idea take over your mind and turn it into its playroom.

2. Writer’s Block:

Okay, this madness has to stop!

Here you are, on the verge of a breakthrough, and the only thing holding you back is – your self.

Looking out at all these innocent faces, unaware that right now, looking down upon them is the possessor of a paradigm-shifting, humorous, uplifting, intriguing conception that would affect them in no way, whatsoever – but, you gotta get it out of your system, nonetheless!

This sudden surge of ideas, playing round in your head, forming words, sentences, whole paragraphs and kingdoms, while you sit back and do nothing?

Nope. The people have a right to know.

So, you open the word processor.

You write down the title.

After the initial adrenaline rush, you calm your quivering fingers down enough to even brainstorm a bit, arrange your thoughts, put down some bullet points.

---

*crickets chirping*

---

So, season 6 of The Big Bang Theory ain’t gonna watch itself!

*Our whole universe was in a hot, dense state…*

3. Free flow:

Stop it with the TBBT references! (Said no one, ever).

So, here’s something I like about Chuck Lorre Productions : Their vanity cards.

They’re basically little quips, humorous, uplifting, intriguing (but not paradigm-shifting, not always) written by Chuck himself (or so he’d like us to believe) that appear at the end of each TBBT episode. They air only for a few seconds, so you gotta pause the screen to read them. That’s probably why you never noticed them. Sneaky little guy, that Chuck.

The vanity card at the end of episode 8, of season 6 read [SPOILER ALERT!]:

“I got nothin’ “

That does it! I’m not gonna elevate myself to the likes of Chuck Lorre, no sir!

So, I open the word processor again, turn on my Workout playlist (it’s a mental exercise), and start typing.

And keep typing.

And type some more.

This is definitely my favourite part of the process. My fingers move of their own accord, I find myself using words I didn’t even know existed, I articulate thoughts which I had no idea I had. It’s like I’m some Ouija board, channelling some distraught spirit of the invisible world, writing through me its untold story. A paradigm-shifting, humorous, uplifting, intriguing story.

Now, excuse me, while I go call an exorcist.

4. Hubris:

As the priest shakes his head at me, telling me for the 8^th time that, no, I’m not poseesed, and, yes, these words are, in fact, my own, and goddamnit, not to disturb him on Sundays, God intended Sundays for rest, read The Bible!, I am awash with relief. And Pride.

So, it is Me, who has come up with these witticisms, these anecdotes, these wonderful words of insight, these crazy TBBT references! Not some crazy undead spirit, but a crazy Me!

I read through my words of wisdom, obsessively, compulsively, disorderly, feeling nothing but smugness. Kinda like Dr. Frankenstein with his monster. Before it started rampaging through the town, of course.

I’m glad I decided to pen this down. All those minutes of incessant typing really paid off. Write a vanity card on that, Chuckie boy!

All my past doubts seem ridiculous now, all a veil meant to keep me away from the truth, and the truth is – I’m awesome at writing!

5. Aftershocks:

*a considerable amount of time later*

The truth is – I suck at writing.

I go through the first line and find 1…2…3 grammatical errors.

I’m too afraid to go on.

I can’t believe it is me who came up with these lame jokes, these silly stories, these prosaic points of view on meaningless banality, these crazy TBBT references!

I read through my words of idiocy, obsessively, compulsively, disorderly, and I feel nothing but unease. Kinda like Dr. Frankenstein, with his monster. After he started rampaging through the town, of course.

Why did I pen this down? All those minutes of incessant typing, for what!
Sorry, Mr.Lorre, sir.

All my past doubts resurface, the veil is lifted, as I finally see the truth.

6. Acceptance:

At some point, you stop in the middle of spell-checking your work for the 8^th time, and realise, you have, in fact, Created something.

Before you decided to do the right thing, and write your haphazard thoughts down in a not-so-haphazard manner, these exact words in this exact order had never existed in this world.

You thought it up, conceived of it, nurtured it, brought it up to be the fixer-upper that it is.

These words are unique. Special. Imperfect. But to be cherished.

Just like you.

That’s when you sit back, relax, scroll back up, and read it once again.

And then, hopefully, you don’t delete it, in a moment of madness.

Congratulations. You are now just the same as you were when you started.

But a paradigm has been shifted. Someone has been humoured. Uplifted. Intrigued.

All because you put some words in a particular, meaningful order, out of the chaos in your thoughts.

As stated earlier, this was merely the mapping of a personal journey. This needn’t be applicable to all or any (oh god, for your own sake I hope it doesn’t!). But, I felt writing about this helped me gain some clarity into my tumultuous thoughts, enforcing my faith in my own abilities, and giving me new hope, which will hopefully last through my future creative endeavors.
Frankly, I don’t know whether any of this actually happened. I’m writing this concluding paragraph before having written the body!
That’s creativity for ya.

Made Up

Made Up.

A common complaint from female friends and close family (read : My mother) is that I’m really letting myself go, when it comes to the looks department. I was not born with perfect almond shaped eyes. Full, French lips. A raven coloured ominous mane of hair. Caramel coloured skin that sparkles in the sun – these are not weapons I carry in my feminine arsenal.

As horrible as the implications may be, it can’t be denied, the way you look and the way you are perceived by the world are close friends, who get together every evening to bitch about you over a couple drinks. The pimple scar on your nose can pop a prospective romantic relationship. The frizz in your hair can undermine your credibility for that post you’ve been forever hoping, dreaming, conspiring to land. That smart-mouth attitude you got can mean your boyfriend’s mother will never approve of you stealing her only son away from her, and your complexion is something she will hold against you, when trying to coax him to date Mrs. Kumar’s much sweeter, more even-toned daughter.

As such, can I really afford to forego the sweet gift of the Gods that is Make-Up?

This is a question that I have long pondered, stayed awake many a nights grappling with, given much careful consideration to – or so I will pretend for half an hour to feel more qualified in writing this article. Truth be told, my conclusions on this topic have almost always arisen from the more primal part of my brain – the one that requires no complex thought processes, the one which merely feels, doesn’t articulate. Simply put – I’m just too lazy to paint a new face when I’ve got a fully functional one right here.

But, maybe it’s not quite that simple. As most things in life, this is another facet which I feel the need to dissect and mindlessly banter about.

So, here’s My Make-Up story.

It was the year 2010. Life was good as a 9^th grader in a wonderful school, with great friends, supportive teachers, tolerable family, and an ass that wouldn’t quit. Being 14 was tough and tremulous but fun and frolicsome. Eye-shadow and foundation were new discoveries. Nail polish and kajal were old friends. I had plans for the future, few regrets from the past, and a new found liking for oration, which I had every intention of exploiting, in the present.

Right until I got Cancer. Plot twist!

Nah, it was nothing too glamorous. No sense of impending doom. No staying up at night discussing what dress I’ll be cremated in. No picking out a funeral playlist. Heck, the doctors apparently said they were glad it was Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, and not some other unpronounceable form of cancer because a) Hodgkin’s lymphoma is pretty easy to pronounce and b)it’s also really, really, really easy to cure. Just 6 months of chemotherapy and a nearly lifelong aversion to the smell of disinfectant later – I was Completely Cured.

Except for a few things.

For those of you who are familiar with the words “cancer” and “chemotherapy” and “My Sister’s Keeper” and “TFIOS”, it will come as no surprise that even though all the malignancy had left, it had left quite a mark on me, too. A very noticeable change was the beanie I had to wear over my head because I was as bald as the clichéd American eagle. Another change difficult to hide was my whole entire body, which was now pretty noticeable, thank you steroidal drugs and no physical exercise, making me a fat as the clichéd beer-guzzling American. The overall effect was that of No, I don’t want to go out, I’m quite happy here under my rock, thank you very much.

At that point, no amount of concealer could hide the scars on my body or my self-esteem. No amount of bronzer could highlight my features, because there weren’t any to highlight. Lip gloss couldn’t make me smile. Eye liner couldn’t make my eyes shine again. And frankly, I was too tired in my body, in my mind, and in general, to even try.

But of course I had to come out and play every now and then. And when I finally crawled back up, what I saw left me amazed.

My friends continued to be great.

My teachers continued to be supportive.

My future plans stayed intact.

My past was done, and what did I have to regret?

And my present! 10^th grade was probably one of the most productive years of my entire life!
My public speaking improved and I took part in several elocution and debate competitions, representing my school, winning laurels for myself and my school. Went to Mumbai to the Harvard MUN-India – such a learning experience, made so many friends, had a hell lotta fun. Came back and chaired a MUN. Did a lot of writing, winning prizes there too. Did some acting and directing on stage. Got selected in the BBC School Reporter project. Finally, my parents actually had to sit me down and ask me to slow down, or I’d bust a nerve. Or worse, fail my finals. Ended up getting a perfect 10-point CGPA.

I got my first boyfriend that year. And, shortly after, my second (no, there was no overlap!).

All this, with no make-up on.

I am no one to condemn anyone for wanting to accentuate their features with cosmetics and accessories. We all know, make-up can’t really make you any prettier than you already are, but merely highlight your inherent beauty. It is, after all, a form of self-expression – projecting the version of you that you want to project instead of the one you are born with and grow into. And that is your right.
It just so happens that, for me, these two versions coincide.

Or maybe it’s the laziness. Definitely the laziness.