I still remember the excitement bubbling inside me when I headed to New Delhi for the Maulana Azad Medical College admissions counseling. MAMC was the dream—right in the heart of the bustling capital, modern facilities, that spanking new vibe of a big-city institution. I could already picture myself there, strolling through vibrant campuses, far from the small-town life.

But fate had other plans. When my name didn’t make the cut for MAMC, I got allotted S.N. Medical College in Agra instead. The news came via a telegram from Yadav Ji at Krishna Coaching: “Congratulations! Selected for Agra.” It was a mix of relief and heartbreak. A letter from a surgical supply company arrived around the same time, offering to sell us white aprons—somehow, that small thing felt heartening, like a sign that this journey was really beginning.

My uncle and Phupha Ji accompanied me on the bus ride to Agra. The city welcomed us with its scorching heat, thick humidity, and swarms of mosquitoes buzzing relentlessly. “Beta, yeh jagah thodi garam hai, lekin padhai mein mann laga dena,” my uncle said encouragingly as we completed the admission formalities at the college office. S.N. Medical College, one of the oldest in India, had this grand old charm, but stepping onto the campus felt like a step back in time—dusty paths, aging buildings, and that unmistakable small-town grit.

The Pre-Admission Medical Check: Strip, Panic, and Pigs

The day before official admission, we were herded into the college hospital for the mandatory medical examination. Rumour had it that it was just a formality—height, weight, eyes, chest expansion, the usual. Nobody warned us it was going to be a full-strip parade.

We freshers lined up outside a small room in the outpatient block, clutching our files, trying to look brave. One by one, we were called in. “Andar aao, kapde utaro—sab ke sab!” barked a ward boy. Sab ke sab? Underwear too? Yes, apparently. We stood there in a shivering row, stark naked, trying to cover strategic areas with our hands while pretending we were totally cool about it. The Agra heat didn’t help; sweat trickled down backs, and mosquitoes circled like vultures.

A resident doctor—tall, fair, apron so white it could blind you in sunlight—did the preliminary check. Stethoscope here, tap there, “Cough. Again. Jump. Arms up.” He looked like a film hero: radiant face, intelligent eyes, crisp apron tied perfectly. We felt like village idiots in comparison.

When he reached me, he pressed the stethoscope to my chest and frowned. “Heart rate bahut tez hai. Dr. Wahal ko dikhao.”

My heart? Tez? It was already doing bhangra inside my ribcage—naked in front of strangers, future career on the line—what did he expect? I wrapped a towel around myself (finally allowed) and shuffled to the next room where Dr. P.K. Wahal, the senior physician, sat behind a desk.

Dr. Wahal was legendary—calm, soft-spoken, with a gentle smile that could disarm a bomb. He listened to my chest again, checked pulse, blood pressure.

“Beta, kuchh nahi hai,” he said kindly. “Pure anxiety hai. First time medical college mein aaye ho na? Sabko hota hai. Deep breath lo, relax karo. You’re perfectly fit.”

I almost hugged him in relief. “Thank you, sir!”

He chuckled. “Ab jao, apron pehno aur doctor banne ki taiyari karo. Anxiety se bada dushman nahi hota.”

Back outside, the line had moved. Everyone swapped horror stories in whispers: “Mera toh hernia check karte waqt bola ‘cough harder’—main toh mar hi gaya sharm se!” Another: “Resident sir ne bola ‘chest expand karo’—jaise balloon phula raha hoon!”

Finally cleared, we stepped out into the campus properly for the first time. The main college building was beautiful in an old-world way—red brick, colonial arches, wide corridors, a certain faded grandeur. Established in 1854, S.N. Medical College was proudly the third oldest in India, after Calcutta and Madras. You could feel the history in those walls.

But step just outside the gates, and reality slapped you hard.

The college was bang in the middle of old Agra city—narrow gullies, encroachments everywhere. Small shops had eaten half the footpath, rehriwalas parked permanently, wires hanging like jungle vines. Pigs—yes, actual black pigs—roamed freely, rooting through garbage piles. The smell? A heady mix of open drains, cow dung, pig shit, frying pakodas, and incense from a nearby temple. Alleys so tight that two cycles couldn’t pass without romance.

We’d just been declared “fit” inside those grand old wards (themselves creaky and ancient, with fans that groaned like tuberculosis patients), and now this was our daily route to hostel or market.

“Arre bhai,” said my new friend Raj, dodging a piglet that darted between his legs, “Delhi mein MAMC miss kiya, yahan toh bonus mein zoo bhi mil gaya!”

Another fresher laughed nervously. “At least pigs are healthy—medical college ke paas hi rehte hain na?”

We carefully tiptoed through the muck, holding our new aprons high like delicate brides holding lehengas. The radiant residents inside seemed from another planet; out here, we were back to being small-town boys trying not to step in shit—literally.

That day taught us early: medicine wasn’t just sterile wards and shining aprons. It was also navigating real India—pigs, narrow alleys, anxiety attacks, and all.

And somehow, we loved it already.

After paperwork, they dropped me at G.B. Pant Hostel, the junior boys’ residence. “Ab tu akela ho jaayega, himmat rakhna,” Phupha Ji patted my back, his voice a bit emotional. They boarded the bus back home, waving until they disappeared. I stood there with my suitcase, feeling utterly alone in this hot, mosquito-ridden belt.

The real shock started the next morning. We freshers were in crisp white uniforms, black shoes polished to a shine, hair cropped super short—like little soldiers. But the seniors? They seemed to have no other job than to “welcome” us.

As I hurried to my first class, a group of second-years blocked the path. “Oye fresher! Idhar dekho!” one barked. I froze.

“Sir, good morning, sir!” I stammered, eyes fixed straight ahead as instructed.

One laughed mockingly. “Arre, chapraasi ko good morning bola tune? Woh sweeper hai! Rule yaad hai—sirf seniors ko wish karo, aur teesra button dekho, aankh milana mat!”

I had accidentally greeted a cleaner passing by. Before I could apologize, a sharp slap landed on my cheek. “Agli baar sir ko miss kiya toh aur yaad dilayenge!”

My face burned, more from humiliation than pain. Another time, I forgot to wish a senior properly—eyes not on the third button of his apron—and whack! Another slap. We were told to stare at that exact spot, nowhere else. It was absurd, terrifying, and exhausting.

Mornings became a mad rush: dodging seniors on every corridor, running to avoid their “calls.” If they spotted you, it was endless orders—sing songs, dance like fools, or worse.

The worst was the sprint to the anatomy dissection hall. “Chalo, fresher log! Upar chalo—seven floors, stairs se, daud ke!” a senior would yell, grinning sadistically.

We’d bolt up those endless stairs in our white clothes, shoes pounding, hearts racing, short hair slick with sweat. Reaching the top floor, we’d burst into the dissection hall, gasping for air—only to be hit by that overwhelming, disgusting stench of formalin and preserved cadavers.

“Ugh, yeh smell!” I muttered once, pinching my nose.

A senior overheard and smirked. “Abhi toh shuruaat hai, doctor sahab. Yeh dead bodies ke saath hi toh jeena seekhoge. Pasand nahi toh ghar jaao!”

It wasn’t a nice sensation at all—that sharp chemical burn in your nostrils, eyes watering, mixed with the eerie silence of the bodies on the tables. We were supposed to learn the wonders of human anatomy, but those early days felt more like survival training.

Looking back, those miserable times built resilience, I suppose. The ragging was brutal, the place a far cry from the shiny Delhi dream, but S.N. Medical College became home. We endured, bonded over shared slaps and stair runs, and eventually emerged as doctors. Funny how disappointment turns into stories worth telling.

Our First Real Anatomy Dissection Lesson: The Pectoral Region

It was a few weeks into the first year at S.N. Medical College, Agra, and we’d finally moved beyond the bones and histology slides. The day had arrived for our first proper dissection in the hall on the top floor—that infamous seven-storey climb we dreaded not just for the stairs, but for the seniors lurking on every landing.

That morning started like the others: a frantic dash from G.B. Pant Hostel. “Chalo bhai, daud lagao! Seniors aa rahe hain!” my roommate Raj whispered urgently as we spotted a group of second-years lounging near the gate. We sprinted in our starched white aprons, black shoes thudding, short-cropped hair already damp with sweat, eyes glued to the ground—or rather, to the third button rule.

We made it to the dissection hall just in time, lungs burning from the stairs. The door swung open, and bam—that wave of formalin hit us like a wall. Eyes watered instantly, noses burned. “Yeh smell kabhi khatam nahi hoti kya?” muttered Sanjay, a fellow fresher from Lucknow, pinching his nose discreetly.

The hall was a vast, dimly lit room with rows of steel tables, each covered by a white sheet hiding a cadaver. Fans whirred lazily overhead, doing little against the humid Agra air. About ten freshers per table, grouped haphazardly. Our demonstrator, Dr. Gupta—a stern but fair anatomy professor in his fifties—strode in, clapping for attention.

“Today, we begin the pectoral region and axilla,” he announced in his booming voice. “Pectoralis major, pectoralis minor, clavipectoral fascia, axillary vessels. Remember, the cadaver is your first teacher—your silent guru. Respect it.”

We nodded solemnly. Some batches recited a little prayer or oath before starting; ours didn’t formally, but there was a hushed moment as we uncovered the body. It was an elderly male cadaver, preserved stiff and grayish from the formalin tank. The skin felt cold, leathery—nothing like the living human body we’d imagined.

“Gloves on, instruments ready,” Dr. Gupta instructed. We fumbled with our dissection kits: scalpel, forceps, scissors, probe. My hands shook a bit as I made the first incision along the midline, following the professor’s demonstration on the blackboard.

“Oye, dheere karo! Skin mat phaado,” whispered Amit, my table partner, as I nicked too deep. Blood? No, just preserved fluid oozing out. The smell intensified—sharp, chemical, mixed with something indefinably organic.

Dr. Gupta circled the tables. “See here—the superficial fascia. Reflect the skin flaps laterally. Good… now, identify pectoralis major. Its clavicular and sternocostal heads.”

We peeled back the skin carefully, exposing the massive pectoral muscle. “Arre waah, kitna bada hai yeh muscle!” exclaimed Raj excitedly. “Gym wale bhi jealous ho jaayenge.”

A few nervous laughs broke the tension. But then came the deeper layers: reflecting the pectoralis major to reveal the minor underneath, tracing the clavipectoral fascia. “Probe gently—don’t damage the cephalic vein,” Dr. Gupta warned at our table.

Sanjay gagged a little when we hit a pocket of fat. “Bhai, yeh… yeh normal hai na?” he asked, face turning green.

“Haan yaar, first time sabko hota hai,” I reassured him, though my own stomach churned. The formalin stung our eyes relentlessly; tears streamed down as we worked.

By the end of the three-hour session, our aprons were splattered, hands pruned from the solution, and arms aching from the precise cuts. We’d exposed the axillary artery pulsing faintly in our minds (though long still), labeled structures with pins and tags.

As we packed up, Dr. Gupta smiled faintly. “Well done, batch. This is where medicine truly begins—understanding the body from within. Tomorrow, mammary gland and axilla proper.”

We stumbled out, blinking in the sunlight, the smell clinging to our clothes. “Kal phir yeh stairs?” groaned Amit.

But beneath the exhaustion and nausea, there was a spark—excitement. We’d touched the intricacies of the human form, dissected life itself. That hot, mosquito-ridden hall in old Agra had started turning us into doctors, one careful incision at a time.

Physiology: A Breath of Fresh Air (Literally)

After the choking formalin haze of the anatomy dissection hall, stepping into the Physiology lecture theatre felt like paradise. No dead bodies, no stinging chemical smell—just the faint whiff of chalk dust, old wooden benches, and the occasional ceiling fan stirring the hot Agra air. The theatre itself was grand in that old-school way: high ceilings, tiered seating that creaked under our weight, and massive blackboards flanking the podium. From the front rows to the back, you could actually hear the professor clearly—no microphones needed.

We filed in quietly, still in our uniform: white apron over white shirt and trousers, black shoes polished (or at least attempted), hair cropped short. The girls arrived in their spotless white salwar-kameez or sarees, aprons tied neatly, black shoes, hair oiled and plaited with coloured ribbons—red, blue, green, yellow, pink—one colour per batch section, I think to make roll-call easier. They looked so prim and proper that, as one senior crudely joked later, “Dimple Kapadia ko bhi Durga Khote lagne lag jaayegi inke saamne!” We freshers laughed nervously, not daring to disagree.

The professors were legends. Dr. Sharma for systemic physiology, Dr. Verma for special senses—they spoke from the podium with such clarity, weaving concepts like stories. No dry rote learning; everything was illuminating, constantly making connections that lit up the brain.

They followed a beautiful logical order: started with the upper limb (“superior extremity,” as they called it in classic style), nerve supply, muscle physiology, blood supply. Then the lower limb (“inferior extremity”)—comparing and contrasting, showing how evolution shaped gait and grasp. After that, abdomen and pelvis: digestion, renal, endocrine. Then thorax—heart, lungs, respiration. Finally, head and neck, neurophysiology, special senses. By the time we reached the brain, it all felt connected, like assembling a living machine piece by piece.

“See, gentlemen—and ladies,” Dr. Sharma would say, adjusting his spectacles, “the neuromuscular junction is not just acetylcholine and receptors. It’s the bridge between will and action. You think ‘lift arm,’ and voilà—the superior extremity obeys. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

We’d nod vigorously, scribbling notes furiously in our practical files.

But peace? Forget it. The “rangers”—those relentless second-year seniors—didn’t spare even the sanctity of the lecture theatre.

We’d be sitting attentively, lost in a brilliant explanation of cardiac cycle, when suddenly the back door would burst open.

“Oye freshers! Bahar aao sab ke sab!”

Hearts sinking, we’d try to shrink in our seats. But no escape. “Murga ban!” they’d shout, and ten-twelve of us would be herded out into the corridor or the empty side room.

There, under their grinning supervision: “Murga bano! Hands through legs, ears hold karo!”

We’d squat like roosters, thighs burning, while they circled us laughing. “Physiology padh rahe the na? Ab practical karo—yeh hai endurance test!”

Sometimes they’d make us do it right there in the lecture theatre corridor, within earshot of the ongoing class. The girls would peek out worriedly, ribbons swaying as they turned heads discreetly.

Minutes felt like hours. Finally, “Chalo, jaao ab. Next time lecture mein phone mat nikalo!” (Even if we hadn’t.)

Back in our seats, red-faced and sweating more than the Agra heat demanded, we’d try to catch up on missed notes. The professor usually pretended not to notice—perhaps remembering his own fresher days.

Physiology: A Breath of Fresh Air (With a Side of Murga Masala)

Oh, Physiology—sweet, sweet Physiology. After weeks of marinating in formalin like pickled onions in the anatomy hall, walking into the Physiology lecture theatre was like stepping into an air-conditioned paradise. No dead bodies staring at you with their empty eyes, no chemical smell strong enough to strip paint off walls. Just good old chalk dust, creaking wooden benches, and fans that moved the air just enough to remind you they existed. Bliss.

The lecture theatre was genuinely impressive—tiered seating like a mini amphitheatre, blackboards so big you could play cricket on them, and acoustics so sharp that even if you sat in the last row (prime snoozing territory), you could hear every word from the podium. And the professors? Gods among men. Dr. Sharma especially—he’d stand there like a maestro, pointer in hand, turning dry concepts into pure magic.

They taught in this beautifully logical order: superior extremity first (fancy term for arm, because who says “hand” when you can sound like a 19th-century British textbook?). Nerve conduction, muscle contraction, reflexes—everything explained with live demos. Dr. Sharma would slap his own knee with a reflex hammer: thunk—leg kicks out. “See? Patellar reflex. Your spinal cord saying ‘I got this’ before your brain even wakes up for chai.”

Then inferior extremity (legs, obviously). We learned why we don’t fall flat on our faces while walking. By the time we reached abdomen, chest, and finally head-neck-neuro, it all clicked together like a perfectly solved jigsaw. No wonder we left every lecture feeling smarter—even if our thighs were still burning from earlier “extracurriculars.”

But let’s talk about the girls for a second. They’d glide in looking like they’d stepped out of a 1950s moral science textbook: snow-white salwar-kameez or sarees, aprons tied with surgical precision, black shoes shining like mirrors, hair oiled to a glossy sheen and braided tightly with coloured ribbons—one colour per section: red, blue, green, yellow, pink. So disciplined, so proper, that one senior whispered (loud enough for half the theatre to hear), “Arre yaar, inke saamne Dimple Kapadia bhi Durga Khote lagne lag jayegi!”

We freshers didn’t dare laugh too loud. We were too busy trying not to get caught by the real villains: the Rangers.

Yes, the same second-year goons who chased us up seven floors now invaded our sacred lecture theatre like it was their personal comedy club.

Picture this: Dr. Sharma is in full flow, explaining the cardiac cycle. “Preload… afterload… stroke volume…” He draws a beautiful Frank-Starling curve on the board. We’re scribbling notes like our lives depend on it (because our exams did).

Suddenly—BAM! Back door flies open.

“OYE FRESHERS! LINE MEIN BAHAR AAO!”

Twenty heads snap up in terror. Dr. Sharma sighs almost imperceptibly, adjusts his glasses, and continues as if nothing’s happening—veteran move.

The Rangers march in like they own the place. “Aaj ka special: Murga Position—with a twist!”

Out we go, single file, into the corridor. “Murga ban! Hands through legs, ears pakdo, aur… hop karo!”

Hop? Yes, hop. Like deranged chickens.

“Bhak-bhak! Awaz nikalo!” one commands.

So there we were—twelve future doctors, squatting in rooster position, hopping in a circle, clucking “bhak-bhak” while trying not to collapse. Thighs screaming, dignity in the ICU.

One guy, poor Vinod from Bihar, lost balance and toppled over. Immediate punishment: “Extra round! Ab gaana gao—’Mere angne mein tumhara kya kaam hai’—murga pose mein hi!”

The girls peeked from the door, ribbons swaying, some giggling behind their dupattas, others looking sympathetic. One brave soul (rumour says she was the red-ribbon section topper) even whispered, “Jaldi khatam karo, lecture miss ho raha hai!”

Finally, after what felt like geological time, the Rangers got bored. “Chalo jaao, doctors banne ka sapna dekh rahe ho na? Ab jaake Starling ka curve complete karo.”

We shuffled back in—sweaty, red-faced, aprons crumpled—trying to look composed as we slid into our seats.

Dr. Sharma, without missing a beat, glanced at us and deadpanned: “Gentlemen, I hope your practical demonstration of muscle fatigue was educational. Now, where were we… ah yes, ejection fraction.”

The whole theatre burst into muffled laughter. Even we couldn’t help grinning.

Yes, Physiology had no formalin smell. But it had something better: brilliant teaching, zero corpses, and enough absurd humiliation to give us stories we’d laugh about for decades.

Biochemistry Lectures: Chaos in a Test Tube

If Physiology was a breath of fresh air, Biochemistry was a full-blown lab explosion—literally and figuratively. The lecture theatre was the same grand old one, but now it smelled faintly of ether, reagents, and someone’s failed attempt at hiding a samosa. Blackboards turned into war zones of arrows, cycles, and chemical structures that looked like a drunk spider had gone wild with chalk.

The professors were brilliant, no doubt. Dr. Mishra, our main biochem guru, was a walking encyclopedia with a voice like a radio announcer. He’d stand at the podium drawing the Krebs cycle for the tenth time and still make it sound like the plot of a thriller: “Citrate to isocitrate… oxaloacetate reborn! The circle of life, gentlemen—mitochondria’s very own Ramayan!”

We’d nod along, trying to copy the entire citric acid cycle before he erased it for the next slide (there were no projectors back then; everything was hand-drawn artistry). Glycolysis, gluconeogenesis, beta-oxidation—he taught them like songs, with mnemonics that were half genius, half filthy. “King Philip Came Over For Good Sex”—that one for classification we all remember, whispered with guilty giggles.

But peace? Ha! Biochemistry lectures were prime-time entertainment for the Rangers.

They’d perfected the art of disruption here. The moment Dr. Mishra turned to draw a complicated pathway, the back door would creak open.

“FRESHERS! Roll call!”

Half the boys’ side would freeze. Dr. Mishra, ever the gentleman, would pause mid-arrow and say mildly, “Please continue outside, gentlemen. Enzymes wait for no one.”

Out we’d troop like lambs to slaughter.

The favourite game in biochem was “Practical Demonstration.”

“Today’s topic: pH and Buffers!” a senior would announce with a evil grin. “Fresher log, murga ban—and maintain neutral pH! No acidity in expression!”

Down we’d go into rooster position. Then came the twist: one senior would hold a glass of water, another a bottle of lime juice.

“Ab buffer system samjhao! Yeh acid daal raha hoon—tum log resist karo! Expression mat badlo!”

Drip, drip—imaginary acid, but we had to clench our faces like we were fighting heartburn. Anyone who winced got “extra H+ ions”—meaning a light whack on the head.

Another classic: “Enzyme-Substrate Complex!”

They’d pair us up—one fresher the enzyme, the other the substrate. Enzyme had to chase substrate around the corridor in murga position while shouting, “I’m hexokinase! Bind to glucose!” If you collided (which you always did), both had to collapse dramatically yelling, “Product formed! Pyruvate ban gaya!”

The girls, safely seated inside, would watch from the doorway, ribbons neatly in place, some stifling laughs, others rolling their eyes. One day, a bold blue-ribbon girl muttered, “Inko bhi ek din substrate banayenge,” and the whole corridor erupted—seniors included.

Back in class, we’d slink to our seats looking like we’d run a marathon. Dr. Mishra would glance over his spectacles and drop a gem: “I see you’ve been revising muscle glycogen breakdown practically. Good. Now, let’s discuss Cori cycle—how liver saves your tired muscles.”

The entire theatre would burst into muffled laughter, even the girls hiding smiles behind notebooks.

One legendary day, a senior tried to pull the “bomb calorimeter” prank—threatening to “measure our energy content” by making us hop endlessly. Poor guy didn’t notice Dr. Mishra had quietly followed us out.

“Beta,” Dr. Mishra said calmly, “if you expend so many calories harassing juniors, your own basal metabolic rate will shoot up. Come inside and learn how to calculate it properly.”

The senior turned beetroot red, saluted, and vanished. We freshers nearly cried with joy. Hero moment.

Biochemistry was chaos—pathways that looped like infinity symbols, lectures interrupted by human enzyme demos, and enough acid-base jokes to last a lifetime. But somehow, amid the madness, we learned. Those cycles are still etched in my brain, arrows and all.

And honestly? I wouldn’t trade that test-tube circus for anything.

Who needed peace when you had entertainment like this?

Yet, strangely, those lectures remained magical. The knowledge flowed pure and bright from that podium, cutting through the fear and fatigue. Physiology wasn’t just better because there was no formalin—it was where we first started feeling like future doctors, not just ragged rookies. The human body, alive and functioning, explained with such passion… it made everything worth it.

Even the murga position. Almost.