In the labyrinthine corridors of G.B. Pant Hostel at S.N. Medical College, Agra, where dreams of stethoscopes and sleepless nights collided, Dr. Rakesh Mishra stood out like a character from a storybook. Tall and frail, he was a lanky serpent of a man, his small face framed by curly, short hair and those iconic round Mahatma Gandhi glasses perched precariously on his round nose. But what truly defined Rakesh was his voice—a booming, resonant baritone that seemed to belong to a man twice his size, laced with impeccable English honed at St. Mary’s, Allahabad. “Gentlemen,” he’d announce, striding into our common room, “knowledge is power, but a good cuppa chai is divine!” His words carried the weight of a seasoned orator, making even the sleepiest hosteller sit up and listen.

Rakesh and I were co-hostellers, slogging through our MBBS together, poring over Gray’s Anatomy and Guyton’s Physiology with a methodical zeal that bordered on obsession. While I chased my MD in Psychological Medicine, he pursued Internal Medicine, his sharp mind slicing through complex diagnoses like a scalpel. But for all his studiousness, Rakesh had a wild streak. He took to vices like a moth to a flame—cigarettes and the occasional bottle of yellow liquor hidden under his bed became his late-night companions. I wasn’t one to judge, but one evening, I couldn’t resist a jab. Sampling his stash, I grimaced and said, “Rakesh, this stuff tastes like regret! Even Mogli Ghutti 555—that kiddie tonic—would be better. Suits your baby face, too!” He roared with laughter, but Sanjeev Sharma, our resident jokester, overheard and pounced. “Mogli Ghutti 555, eh? That’s you now, mate!” he teased, slapping my back. The nickname stuck, much to my chagrin, and Rakesh never let me live it down. “Ghutti, my friend,” he’d say with a mock-serious nod, “stick to psychiatry and leave the liquor critiques to me.”

His wit was as sharp as his study habits. One night, Karanveer Singh from Andaman, a proud but prickly fellow, bristled when someone called our wing the “foreign wing.” “You UP boys wouldn’t even know where Andaman is!” he snapped. Before anyone could escalate, Rakesh leaned back in his chair, exhaling a plume of cigarette smoke, and said coolly, “Oh, Karanveer, you mean Port Blair? Home to the Sentinelese tribes, untouched by civilization? Fascinating place, really.” The room fell silent, Karanveer’s jaw dropped, and we all burst into laughter. “Point to Mishra!” someone shouted, and Rakesh just smirked, adjusting his glasses like a professor who’d won a debate.

He reminded me of Rip Van Winkle from our kindergarten books—not for laziness, but for that frail, almost mythical look, like he’d wandered out of a folktale. While I jogged to Bhagwan Talkies each morning, dreaming of becoming a fast bowler (and earning the nickname “Dennis Lillee” after accidentally beaning a couple of mates with bouncers), Rakesh was up until 3 a.m., chain-smoking, sipping endless cups of tea, and wrestling with medical texts. “Sleep is for the weak,” he’d declare, though his bloodshot eyes told a different story. Bahukhandi, our wing’s resident critic, called him obsessive, but Rakesh just shrugged. “Obsession builds doctors, my friend,” he’d retort, lighting another cigarette.

Rip Van Winkle, the fictional character from Washington Irving’s 1819 short story, is depicted as a quintessential figure of early American folklore, inspired by Dutch colonial life along the Hudson River. His appearance is vividly described to reflect his laid-back, somewhat disheveled nature, which aligns with his tale of sleeping for 20 years. Here’s a detailed breakdown of his looks based on Irving’s narrative:

• Build and Posture: Rip is portrayed as a “simple, good-natured man” with a lean, somewhat stooped frame. His physical demeanor suggests a man worn down by life’s demands, particularly his nagging wife, Dame Van Winkle. He’s not robust or muscular but rather wiry and unassuming, with a slouch that hints at his reluctance to engage in hard labor.
• Facial Features: His face is marked by a kindly, weathered expression, being a standout feature after his long slumber. Before the sleep, he likely had a modest, unremarkable face—perhaps with a hint of a mischievous grin, reflecting his love for idle chatter and avoiding work. His eyes are described as gentle, with a twinkle that suggests a playful spirit.
• Hair: Initially, Rip has dark hair, typical of a man in his prime during the story’s colonial setting. After waking from his 20-year nap, his hair has turned white and grown long and unkempt, adding to his aged, almost ghostly appearance. The transformation emphasizes the passage of time and his disconnection from the world.
• Clothing: He wears rustic, outdated clothing that mirrors his simple lifestyle and the colonial era. Irving describes him in “a loose coat, broad belt, a pair of hose, and a cocked hat,” typical of a Dutch settler in the late 18th century. After his sleep, his clothes are tattered and faded, hanging loosely on his now-gaunt frame, with the cocked hat looking particularly worn and out of place in the changed world of post-Revolutionary America.
• Overall Impression: Post-sleep, Rip looks like a relic of the past—frail, bearded, and disoriented, with an air of bewilderment that matches his story. His appearance evokes sympathy and curiosity, as he’s mistaken for a ghost by the villagers due to his aged look and the outdated attire. The long beard and white hair give him a patriarchal, almost mythical quality, akin to a figure from a fairy tale.

This description aligns with how Dr. P.K. Gupta likened Dr. Rakesh Mishra to Rip Van Winkle—not for laziness, but for that frail, almost mythical look that seemed to wander out of a folktale, with his round nose and Gandhi glasses adding a quirky, timeless charm to his lanky frame.

In the sweltering haze of a late summer evening in 1976, the hallowed halls of G.B. Pant Hostel at S.N. Medical College, Agra, buzzed with the electric tension that only freshers could ignite. We were the wide-eyed ’76 batch—me, Dr. P.K. Gupta, a gangly kid from Dehradun’s misty hills, fresh off a rickety train ride with dreams of dissecting cadavers and decoding the human mind; and my roommate, Rakesh Mishra, the lanky serpent from Allahabad’s elite St. Mary’s, his Gandhi specs fogged from the humidity, curly hair frizzing like a halo around his frail frame. We’d barely unpacked our trunks—mine stuffed with dog-eared copies of Gray’s Anatomy and a half-read Perry Mason—when the storm hit. Ragging season had arrived, courtesy of the ’75 batch overlords: the formidable Veer Bahadur (we whispered he was a descendant of some ancient Rajput warrior, all broad shoulders and unyielding glare) and his sidekick, Anil Agarwal, a wiry schemer with a grin that promised mischief and a voice like gravel under boots.

It started innocently enough, or so we told ourselves. We’d been warned in hushed tones during orientation: “Survive the first week, and you’re golden.” But Veer and Anil didn’t play by whispers. They burst into our room like monsoon thunder, Veer filling the doorway with his bulk, Anil slinking behind like a shadow with a switchblade wit. “Fresh meat!” Veer bellowed, his voice echoing off the peeling whitewash walls. Rakesh, ever the quick one, shot up from his bed, adjusting his glasses with a theatrical flourish. “Gentlemen, to what do we owe this royal intrusion? Tea? Biscuits? Or shall we discuss the finer points of Guyton’s cardiac output?”

Anil snorted, circling us like a hawk eyeing field mice. “Oh, we’ve got philosophy for you two bookworms. But first—welcome ritual.” Before we could blink, they had us cornered. Veer, with his tree-trunk arms, hoisted me onto the rickety wooden desk—my feet dangling like a puppet’s—while Anil pinned Rakesh against the wall, forcing him into that age-old indignity: the “murgi pose.” Cluck like a hen, flap those elbows, and spin in circles till your head swam. “Come on, Dehradun boy,” Veer growled at me, his breath reeking of beedis and bravado. “You’re the tough one, eh? Gupta the Great? Let’s hear you crow!” I felt my face burn hotter than Agra’s summer tandoor, my tomboyish spirit from back home—racing rickshaws and climbing Ashok trees—clashing with this absurd humiliation. But resistance? Futile. “Bawk-bawk, sir,” I muttered through gritted teeth, flapping awkwardly as Rakesh, beside me, let out a booming chuckle that filled the room like a cannon shot. “If I’m the rooster, Mishra, you’re the sly fox—plotting escape already?”

They weren’t done. Anil, spotting Rakesh’s hidden stash of “yellow liquor” (that foul bootleg stuff we’d smuggled for “medicinal” purposes), snatched a bottle and thrust it at me. “Drink up, specs! To the ’75 batch—superior in every way!” Rakesh, frail as he looked, twisted free for a split second, his round nose wrinkling in mock horror. “Anil bhai, that’s not chai—it’s dragon’s piss! Save it for the dissection hall; it’ll preserve the rats better.” Veer roared with laughter, clapping Rakesh on the back hard enough to rattle his bones. “Smart mouth, eh? Alright, fox—your turn. Recite the entire brachial plexus, or it’s push-ups till dawn.” We complied, of course—Rakesh rattling off nerves like poetry, me fumbling through anatomy I’d crammed just that morning—our voices a chorus of defiance wrapped in submission. The ’75 boys lapped it up, their ragging a bizarre blend of bullying and bonding, the kind that forged grudging respect in those pre-anti-ragging days.

By midnight, they relented, leaving us sprawled on the floor amid scattered notes and empty promises of “no more—for tonight.” Rakesh lit a cigarette—his first vice of many—exhaling a plume that curled like question marks. “PK, my friend,” he said, his booming voice now a conspiratorial whisper, “that was our baptism. Veer’s got the brawn of a bison, Anil the cunning of a jackal, but us? We’re the survivors. Next time, we rag them back—with logic.” I laughed, rubbing my sore arms, the absurdity sinking in. “Logic? Rakesh, they nearly turned us into poultry. But yeah—survivors. Pass the Mogli Ghutti; this calls for something less hideous.”

That night in ’76 wasn’t just ragging; it was the raw forge of our medical brotherhood. Veer Bahadur and Anil Agarwal, those ’75 titans, some some left studies midway, some were expelled from college for lengthy periods eventually completing MBBS later on, some went on to carve paths in surgery and pediatrics, their rough edges softened by years, but in our memories, they’re forever the gatekeepers who tested our mettle. Rakesh and I? We pored over those same books they mocked, emerging as MDs—he in Internal Medicine, me in Psychological Medicine—our bond unbreakable, laced with inside jokes about clucking hens and bootleg bravery. In the end, ragging scarred but didn’t break us; it reminded us that even in the chaos of Agra’s dusty corridors, a shared laugh (and a shared spin) could heal anything.

Ragging, that age-old ritual of initiation in educational institutions, especially in places like S.N. Medical College, Agra, where I, Dr. P.K. Gupta, and my mate Rakesh Mishra endured it in the ’76 batch, is a double-edged sword. It’s a tradition steeped in camaraderie and cruelty, forging bonds as often as it leaves scars. Below, I’ll unpack its good and bad effects, weaving in a touch of our hostel days for context, with dialogue to humanize the experience and keep it engaging.

Good Effects of Ragging

1. Building Camaraderie and Bonds
   Ragging, when light-hearted, can break the ice among freshers and seniors, creating a sense of belonging in the chaotic world of college life. In our G.B. Pant Hostel, the ragging sessions led by Veer Bahadur and Anil Agarwal—think bellowing commands to cluck like hens or recite the brachial plexus—were absurd but unifying. After surviving a night of their antics, Rakesh and I felt like we’d earned our place in the ‘CIA wing.’
   Scene: Post-ragging, sprawled on the hostel floor, Rakesh lit a cigarette and grinned at me. “PK, we’re family now, aren’t we? Those brutes made us brothers!” I chuckled, wiping sweat off my brow. “Yeah, but next time Veer calls me a rooster, I’m hiding his beedis!” These moments, though humiliating, wove us into the hostel’s tapestry, giving us stories to laugh over at Brajwasi Hotel’s Sunday dinners.
2. Instilling Resilience and Adaptability
   Ragging tests your mettle, forcing you to navigate embarrassment and pressure with quick thinking. For Rakesh, his sharp wit—shutting down Karanveer Singh’s Andaman jibe with facts about Port Blair—blossomed under ragging’s spotlight. It taught us to stand our ground, even if it meant flapping elbows like idiots first. This resilience carried us through the grueling MBBS years, from sleepless nights with Gray’s Anatomy to high-stakes exams.
   Dialogue: As Anil made us sing a Bollywood tune off-key, Rakesh whispered, “PK, this is just practice for ward rounds—smile through the chaos.” I groaned, “If I survive this, no professor’s grilling will faze me.” And it didn’t.
3. Breaking Hierarchy Barriers
   In its milder forms, ragging can humanize seniors, turning them from intimidating figures into approachable mentors. Veer, despite his warrior-like aura, shared chai with us post-ragging, regaling us with tales of his own fresher days. These interactions bridged the gap, making the hostel less a battleground and more a community. By second year, Rakesh and I were swapping notes with Anil, who’d once made us mimic frogs.
   Moment: “You lot aren’t half bad,” Veer admitted one night, tossing us a Parle-G packet. “Survive us, and you’ll survive any patient’s tantrum.” Rakesh smirked, “Challenge accepted, boss.”

Bad Effects of Ragging

1. Psychological Trauma and Humiliation
   When ragging crosses into cruelty, it leaves lasting wounds. For every laugh we shared, there were moments of dread—like when Anil forced me to drink a sip of that vile yellow liquor, dubbing me “Mogli Ghutti 555.” The nickname stuck, and though I laughed it off, the public shaming stung, especially for a kid like me, fresh from Dehradun’s quieter streets. For some batchmates, harsher ragging—think physical tasks or verbal abuse—led to anxiety, even withdrawal. Studies, like one from the Indian Journal of Psychological Medicine (2016), note that severe ragging can trigger depression or PTSD in vulnerable students.
   Scene: After a particularly grueling session, I found Rakesh staring at his reflection, glasses fogged. “PK, why do they need to break us to build us?” he muttered. I shrugged, hiding my own unease. “Beats me, but I’m not letting Anil see me crack.”
2. Encouraging Toxic Behaviors
   Ragging often normalizes vices or aggression. Rakesh, frail and studious, picked up smoking during those late-night ragging sessions, egged on by seniors who saw it as “manly.” By second year, he was chain-smoking till 3 a.m., a habit that shadowed him to his early death in his fifties. The culture of “toughening up” also bred a pack mentality—some seniors, like a few in our ’75 batch, took ragging too far, using it to assert dominance rather than bond. This can perpetuate bullying cycles, as noted in a 2009 UGC report on ragging’s prevalence in Indian colleges.
   Dialogue: As R samo-day, Rakesh exhaled smoke and sighed, “Veer says it’s tradition, but this cigarette’s gonna haunt me longer than his roars.” I nudged him, “Then quit, you snake! Don’t let their nonsense own you.”
3. Academic and Personal Disruption
   Ragging can derail focus, especially for freshers already overwhelmed by medical school’s demands. I’d run to Bhagwan Talkies each morning, chasing my fast-bowler dreams, but some nights, post-ragging exhaustion left me too drained to study. For Rakesh, who burned the midnight oil, the added stress of dodging seniors’ pranks—like water balloons or late-night “quizzes”—cut into his meticulous prep for Gray’s Anatomy. A 2018 study in Frontiers in Psychiatry found that ragging-related stress can lower academic performance and self-esteem, especially for introverted students.
   Moment: “I barely got through the cranial nerves last night,” Rakesh grumbled, rubbing his eyes. “Anil’s ‘sing or squat’ game kept me up till 2!” I nodded, “Tell me about it. I dreamed I was bowling bouncers at Veer’s head.”

Balancing the Scales

Ragging in ’76 was a rite of passage, a chaotic blend of humiliation and hilarity that shaped us. The good—camaraderie, resilience, and broken hierarchies—gave Rakesh and me lifelong friends and stories we’d retell over chai. But the bad—humiliation, toxic habits, and disrupted focus—left marks, some visible only years later, like Rakesh’s cigarette-fueled decline. Today, with stricter anti-ragging laws (thanks to UGC regulations post-2009), the practice has waned, but its legacy lingers in our memories: Veer’s bellows, Anil’s smirks, and two freshers clucking their way to brotherhood. It was a crucible—forging us, but at a cost.

Despite his vices, Rakesh excelled in his MD, settling in Varanasi to practice Internal Medicine with the same precision he applied to his studies. His patients loved him—his booming voice and quick wit made even grim diagnoses bearable. But the cigarettes he couldn’t quit took their toll. Tragically, Rakesh left us too soon, passing in his early fifties, a loss that hit our hostel gang hard. I still picture him, leaning against the hostel wall, glasses glinting, spinning tales and cracking jokes, a lanky scholar who lived fiercely and loved deeply, leaving behind a legacy of laughter and learning in the halls of G.B. Pant.