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Not poor enough

I admit it. Nothing gives me more joy than spending a few morning hours in a coffee shop, in the middle of a workweek. Nothing. Not a Marvel movie. Not the best pizza in the city. Not a romantic sunset. Not even Krit finishing his meal. Everywhere else, I usually lack focus and give in to distractions pretty easily. But the fantastic combination of caffeine and cheerful music works wonders.    I have been trying to work on a research paper for a few weeks. I was looking at journals so I could tailor my article according to their specifications. After shortlisting a few, I realized I might need to pay a small fee because the publishing houses are kind enough to provide these articles free of cost for people to read. A way to go around this fee drama is that our institutions can buy memberships in the publishing houses. That way, we do not have to pay the fees individually. Unfortunately, I only know three institutions in the country that have actually bought these expensive subscription
Recent posts

Through the looking glass

As fascinating, frustrating and completely disheveling parenting is proving out to be, today my post is not about my son. My blog’s timeline is proof that I do not write often. When I do, it is the result of a stroke of inspiration combined with an hour or two of time otherwise unoccupied. As much as I would want them to, the two seldom occur simultaneously.   I have been meaning to put pen to paper about this itch at the back of my mind, that has been bothering me for a while. I finished my radiology training five years ago. Since, I have worked in high-volume government medical colleges and expensive private hospitals, gaining some perspective on the matter at hand.     When residents first enter the halls of Radiology, they are brimming with pride, eager to learn. They have earned their place and are here to prove it. And while they see exceptional diagnoses being made and interventions being done, they also watch seniors getting frustrated and reacting to circumstances. And surely

Wired different

During my college days whenever somebody described their journey with a " there was a baby ", I would immediately revert with a sympathetic "Oh no".  Fast forward a few years and I am on the other side of the table. To the people who haven't travelled with a baby, believe me when I say that the only person deserving that sympathy is the one holding that baby. To those whose children have grown up, I am certain you would agree with me. If not, our mechanism of self-preservation often makes us forget things that have caused us significant distress. Maybe this is just one of those things!  My boy is almost a year and a half old and is turning out to be quite an interesting person. He and I flew from New Delhi to Nagpur last Sunday. The last time we had travelled together in August 2021, by the end of our trip, we were both in tears. I distinctly remember standing at the baggage claim taking deep breaths, trying with all my might not to openly weep. I wonder if time

Where dwell the brave at heart

My blogger recently reminded me that my last post was back in 2011. Although its intent was probably to get me going at another write up, all it did was make me feel old.  Back when I thought I was a blogging pro, there wasn't really much to play with online. Over the last couple of years, I have felt quite out of sync with the online world and I often feel overwhelmed with the amount of content thrown at me. Probably for this very reason, I have withdrawn into the offline. So forgive me if my writing is a bit rusty.  I recently had a son. We call him Krit. Although the internet wants it to mean handsome, it is Sanskrit for 'to create'. I was drawn to the name for two reasons. It is crisp. Just the way I like things. And, it isn't an adjective. I do not want to burden my kid with living up to our expectations of him being sweet or kind or loving or successful. So, now that I have introduced my son to you, let us get to the real deal.  When you make a baby, your centre

Vivas & Windows

I was supposed to enumerate the causes of giddiness in a female of 85. I had managed a few, but the expectant look on the examiner's face told me he wanted more. I knew I wouldn't be able to come up with many. Even on thinking hard, the chances of any significant improvement in the number seemed slim. Besides, I was exhausted from the supremely hectic week that had gone by. But he wanted me to think. Argh! I glanced up at the teacher for a split second to detect any signs of a change of mind. But argh again! He seemed determined to extract more causes out of my empty head. If only he could see that nothing was going on in there! I wish I could just tell him that I didn't know more. But over the years I've learnt that teachers in a medical school are exceptionally easy to offend. From bright slippers to unkempt hair, anything can be misconstrued as arrogance. And in the final 10 months of my graduation, I accidentally have managed to offend far too ma

Any questions?

"Sir, what's the prognosis?" We all looked up from our notebooks. Some of us had finished taking notes, some stopped midway in their sentences.  As an intimation that it was time to end the morning clinic, our professor had asked if we had any questions.  Sir looked at the boy who had raised the question, then at the boy whose tummy was our area of concern this morning, at his own hands, and then back at our curious friend. A boy lay in front of us, scanning our faces as we listened, questioned, answered and made notes about him. Thankfully he couldn't understand our jargon. The boy had a tumour supposedly. Most of our surgery patients did. It wasn't a big deal. I was calm. But when Sir answered, my tummy gave an uncomfortable twirl. I hadn't finished writing the radiotherapy details this boy was to get. I shut my notebook. I didn't want to finish. It didn't matter anymore, anyway. "2 months." 60 days! Just 8 Sundays? Only la

17 again

17 ... that's how old I was when you asked me to decide. Back then I really had no clue, in you, I now confide. Architecture seemed fascinating... MBBS, the easier way. So I chose people over skyscrapers... and, with Ma and Pa I got to stay! Life in Sewagram was all I knew, I still went through orientation. Met 64 new kids from far and near, as they struggled with homesickness n starvation. In the class on day one, I sat just scribbling notes, when somebody yelled "Kalantri". I looked up at this new professor wondering, "how the hell does he know me?" And then on I got used to being called out, no matter how much I tried. Any row, any corner, wherever I sat, I simply could not hide! There are many things others mustn't know. So I am told not to gossip. But I am a girl with curious friends. Some things are bound to slip! When I win, it's because I am a daughter. When I don't, it's in spite of it. All others will agree when I sa