We who were always overachievers. Who missed the dusk of our adolescence solving multiple-choice questions.
We who began our adult lives spending alternate days with corpses. Who carry bones in our bags and books that break our backs. Who spend the prime of our youth in the grime of wards. Who have already witnessed a lifetime’s share of deaths. Who learn about depression but fail to recognise it in ourselves.
We who have no definite college hours. Who don white coats even in the heat of May. Who are accustomed to the deadweight of stethoscopes around our necks. Who will pursue likely teachers for a lesson even into the night.
We who also study law, sociology, psychology, entomology, nutrition, sanitation and statistics. Who are always between exams. Who neglect the pursuit of our other passions. Who sometimes cancel our own vacations. Who covet amphetamines.
We who touch people slathered with stools, slime and psoriasis. Who have been sprayed by every infective fluid. Who are protected from a life with HIV by the flimsy rubber of gloves. Who tempt its prolonged death every time we draw blood. Who laugh off our chances of contracting tuberculosis. Who know batchmates who have.
We who study for four-and-a-half years but intern as peons. Who graduate after our peers have finished postgraduation. Who are the last to earn first salaries. Whose parents must support us well into our twenties. Whose futures are thwarted by the government every step of the way.
We who sacrifice weekends to classes that propel us towards specialisation. Who must compete with each other for expertise you desperately need. Who will slog for years to earn the letters you look for suffixing our names.
We whose friends have designated us perpetually busy. Whose presence at family functions is always greeted with surprise. Who are sick of the question, ‘what are you going to specialise in?’
We who have befriended no non-medical person since our course began. Who are no longer with our loves from before it did. Who date each other and discuss medicine. Who will advise you to procreate before thirty but who marry after it.
We who trawl PlayStore for medical apps. Who have spent more on medical manuals than meals and movies combined. Who believe that the real problem is unregulated fertility. Who associate the first rains with malaria. Who are disillusioned by the fact that there is no health without wealth.
We who are hunted and haunted by questions that have no answers. Who feel guilty when we know less than we should. Who fear that we will never be good enough.
We who cannot round off numbers. Who are forbidden shortcuts. Who are not allowed to be judgemental. Who must help even the dregs of society.
We who cannot ever abandon logic. Who are rational but must allow for prejudices. Who have no choice but to listen.
We who will never tell you any of this.
We who really need to step back and appreciate ourselves.
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