I have been feeling the Sunday Blues lately. So I have framed my result cards of matriculation and intermediate on the entrance wall. Each glance at those beauties by others earns me a compliment making me feel chipper. I fish for praises only. Everybody is praising me for such a boastful move. After all, I am going to be a future doctor, I must learn how to take risks.
My cousin Shiza is envious of me. She couldn’t make into medical school with her measly 910 scores in matriculation and 859 in Intermediate. I didn’t even ask about her result. It was a friend of the daughter of my great-maternal aunt who told me. Why should I even bother about her marks? She must have come to know about my 94.6789 percentile through the family since everyone is so proud of me whereas she only disgraced our family with such low marks! And on top of that, she started mouthing off about those who pursue medicine are just obnoxious, narcissistic nerds who have no life or friends. Such an unfathomable theory. I concluded her words to be just a source of envy. I stand as the perfect example of a humble doctor-to-be.
What’s in hangouts and friends anyways. I’ve never had friends. Who even need friends? Psht. All friends do is back stab you. I was naïve back then when I committed this rookie mistake of letting a friend copy once but never again. I have learnt my lesson. Friends only ask for notes, which, by the way, I made from my blood and sweat. I’ve written everything on them aesthetically. What is their hidden agenda behind borrowing my notes? To score better than me? Nuh-uh. Don’t they know the rule? Never ask for notes! After all, life is survival of the fittest. Not to forget they have the audacity to ask for my time which I can most certainly not spare. Rather, the time I spend with them, I can most patently use it more efficiently by rote learning every single definition or disease.
Unquestionably, I have no time to quench any ‘wanderlust. It’s better to go to a library, no expenses at all. Better save the money for my own wedding. See I am not a nerd, I am a Dr.bahu-in-demand-to-be. Furthermore, I have even started taking online courses for cooking and makeup. One picture of me in my pristine white lab coat garners more likes on Facebook than any picture of post hang out posted by those world-travellers-wanna-be-free-loaders. Let’s not forget the thousands of private messages from rishta-aunties. At least I know once I’m done grinding my teeth these five years of med school, I can be happily married and have the life I always dreamt of, which is cooking and cleaning for my lovely husband. A true fairytale coming true.
I see other people reading and enjoying books other than the course books, preposterous! How dare they read anything other than the course books? Have they forgotten their ultimate goal? What would they even do with reading so much? What other information do they need to propel into their vivid brains? Absurd. They shouldn’t stoop so low as those art students who have ample time to waste on reading silly novels and creating so-called masterpieces which my two-year-old niece can draw better. They obviously weren’t smart enough to get into a medical college. What on earth can anything be better than becoming a doctor? I hope I can talk to these humanities kids sometimes, the so-called poets and thinkers, with no penny in pockets, to give them a reality check if only they would have listened to their parents’ advice, and became a doctor but too late, it would be a waste of time now.
I didn’t choose this career, my parents did it for me. My very desi parents have decided how I’ll spend the rest of my life. And am I so glad? What’s the issue of individuality? That’s just another word for rebellion. Just follow my lead. I get to wear the designer clothes that all those girls-with-no-money-making-careers wished they could. I also recently had a fashion transition. My unibrow was precariously done with such aptness that even I couldn’t recognise myself. My bizarre hair with the help of keratin and L’Oréal’s hair dye, have been so perfectly transformed that they could leave Aishwariya Rai’s glossy hair behind. The thousands being spent on myself is just a future investment for getting my tentacles into a rich, young, handsome lad i can marry. After all, looks matter more than the personality and with my brain absorbing all medical terms, I am the ultimate package for every single bachelor around. What does a girl need more than to be a perfect candidate which a chapatti-making household requires?