TRISHA
The campus of Rajasthan’s most prestigious medical college pulsed with life, a chaotic symphony of hurried footsteps, last-minute revisions, and the ever-present scent of chai and pakoras from the roadside tapri. The air carried the remnants of last night’s rain, the damp earth mingling with the crisp morning chill.
I weaved through the hostel corridor, sidestepping a group of juniors sitting cross-legged on the floor, giggling over some viral reel. Their laughter was infectious, but I had bigger battles to fight—like dragging my best friend Avika out of bed before Dr. Mehta’s class.
Pushing open the door to my room, I sighed at the familiar sight. "Avika, you do realize we have class in twenty minutes, right?"
A groan. Then a dramatic shift in the bed as Avika pulled her blanket higher. "Trisha, the world can wait. My sleep, however, is non-negotiable."
"Ria," I turned toward the only responsible one among us, who was seated at her tiny desk, furiously scribbling notes. "Please tell me you’ve at least convinced this sloth to get up?"
Without looking up, Ria adjusted her glasses. "I tried. She threw a pillow at me."
I sighed, marching to Avika’s bedside. "Get up before I pour cold water on you."
"You wouldn’t dare," she muttered, peeking out from beneath her blanket.
I smirked. "You wanna test that theory?"
Ria snorted. "I’d get up if I were you, Avika. Trisha’s insane enough to do it."
With a dramatic sigh, Avika flung the blanket aside and sat up, her curly hair a glorious mess. "Fine! But only because I respect our friendship."
"Yeah, yeah, get moving," I said, tossing her towel. "And Ria, stop stressing. You’ve been scribbling like your life depends on it."
Ria finally looked up, her expression stricken. "Because it does! I was supposed to revise cardiology, but I focused on pathology instead! Dr. Mehta is going to ask, and I am going to die."
Avika perked up instantly. "Ooooh, if you do, can I have your bedside lamp? It’s way nicer than mine."
Ria threw her notebook at her. "You can have my ghosts haunting you instead!"
I laughed, pulling my bag over my shoulder. "Come on, if we don’t leave now, we’ll be late. And you know what that means—front-row seats to Dr. Mehta’s interrogation."
That got them moving. Within minutes, we rushed through our morning routine—brushing, dressing, grabbing books. Years of medical school had turned us into a well-oiled machine, perfectly synchronized.
By the time we reached the lecture hall, most seats were taken. "Front row is yours, Ria," I teased, nudging her toward the dreaded spot.
"I hate you," she muttered, gripping her notes like they were her last lifeline before execution.
Avika and I slid into the middle rows, just as Dr. Mehta began his lecture on heart murmurs. I tried to focus, I really did, but my mind drifted.
The campus, the friendships, the chaos—it was all so exhilarating. Despite the grueling exams, the stress, and the sleepless nights, I loved this life.
A sharp jab to my ribs snapped me out of my thoughts.
Avika smirked. "Caught you daydreaming, Miss Future Surgeon. What were you thinking about?"
I grinned. "Just… how much I love this madness. Even Dr. Mehta’s quizzes."
Avika raised an eyebrow. "You’re officially crazy."
I chuckled, stealing a glance at Ria, who was whispering fervent prayers before the inevitable questioning. Avika was already typing something on her phone, no doubt texting that mystery crush she refused to acknowledge!
And me? I was soaking it all in—this fleeting, beautiful moment of being young, unchained, and free.
______
The Quiz Begins.
Dr. Mehta’s voice rang through the hall like a death sentence. "Alright, let’s begin our quiz. No notes, no whispering, and definitely no passing out in fear."
Ria whimpered. "I am so dead. Write my eulogy, Trisha. Make it poetic."
Avika leaned over. "Can I add ‘May her soul rest in peace, but her bedside lamp now rests in my room’?"
I bit back a laugh. "Focus, both of you."
Dr. Mehta scanned the room, and his gaze settled on Ria. "You. Define aortic stenosis."
Ria froze, looking like a deer caught in headlights. "Uh… um… it’s a condition where the… um… the… heart valve—one of them—gets… uh, stuck?"
Dr. Mehta raised an eyebrow. "Gets stuck? Miss Ria, is this a medical class or a plumbing workshop?"
Avika coughed to hide her laughter, while Ria flushed red. "I-I mean the valve narrows, causing obstruction of blood flow."
Dr. Mehta nodded, unimpressed. "Barely acceptable. Next question.
The questions continued, and soon, it was Avika’s turn.
"Miss Avika, describe the clinical features of mitral regurgitation."
Avika blinked. "Um… symptoms include… shortness of breath, fatigue, and, uh…"
"And?"
"And extreme distress when being questioned about it?" Avika offered weakly.
The class erupted into muffled laughter. Even Dr. Mehta had to fight a smirk. "Not the answer I was looking for, but fair enough. Next time, study before trying to charm your way through my quiz."
I shook my head, amused. That was Avika for you—confidence even in cluelessness.
Then, his gaze landed on me.
"Miss Trisha. What is the most common cause of infective endocarditis?"
I took a deep breath. "Staphylococcus aureus."
Dr. Mehta gave a curt nod. "Finally, someone who studied."
I shot Avika and Ria a smug look. Ria pouted. "Show-off."
Avika grinned. "We let you have that moment, Trisha. Next time, we shine."
I rolled my eyes, leaning back in my chair as the quiz moved on. Despite the pressure, despite the stress, I wouldn’t trade these moments for anything.
The moment Dr. Mehta dismissed us, the classroom erupted with sighs of relief and hushed murmurs of survival.
Ria, looking like she had just survived an apocalypse, clutched her notebook to her chest. "Mujhe lag raha hai maine ek saal ki umar kho di." (“I feel like I’ve lost a year of my life.”)
Avika, ever the drama queen, threw an arm around her shoulder. "Ek saal? Tujhe toh bonus milega. Dr. Mehta ka quiz clear karne wale log directly swarg jaate hain!" (“A year? You’ll get a bonus. People who survive Dr. Mehta’s quiz go straight to heaven!”)
I shook my head, chuckling. "Bas bas, chalo canteen chalte hain." (“Enough, enough, let’s go to the canteen.”)
The three of us walked through the campus, dodging juniors and soaking in the golden afternoon light. The air smelled of dust and sun-warmed books. As we entered the canteen, the familiar aroma of samosas and cutting chai welcomed us like an old friend.
I grabbed a cup of chai and took a deep breath. "Yeh chai hi asli motivation hai zindagi jeene ki." (“This chai is the real motivation to live life.”)
Avika smirked, dunking a biscuit into her cup. "Agar medical degree se doctor nahi bane, toh tapri khol ke chai zaroor bechenge." (“If we don’t become doctors, we’ll at least open a tea stall.”)
Ria, still shaken from class, took a long sip. "Tum dono mazaak uda lo, lekin mujhe sach mein lag raha tha ki Dr. Mehta mujhe wahin gira denge." (“You both joke all you want, but I seriously thought Dr. Mehta was going to finish me right there.”)
I nudged her playfully. "Bach gayi na? Ab chill kar." (“You survived, didn’t you? Now, relax.”)
After a short break filled with laughter and lighthearted banter, our alarms went off in unison.
"Shifts start in fifteen minutes," I groaned, stuffing the last piece of my samosa into my mouth. "Chalo, duty calls." (“Let’s go, duty calls.”)
We dragged ourselves toward the hospital wing, slipping into our white coats. The sterile smell of antiseptic and the soft hum of activity greeted us as we entered.
Avika sighed dramatically. "Goodbye, freedom. Hello, sick people."
Ria adjusted her stethoscope. "Welcome to the real world."
The moment we stepped through the heavy hospital doors, the atmosphere shifted. The world outside, with its carefree college chatter and endless teasing, felt like a distant memory. Here, the air was thick with the scent of antiseptic, the crisp sting of bleach mingling with the faint undertones of medicines and something unmistakably human—hope, fear, and exhaustion.
The fluorescent lights cast a pale glow over the pristine white walls, and the rhythmic beeping of heart monitors played like an eerie background score. Patients lined the corridors, some sitting on rusted metal chairs, their eyes filled with silent pleas, others lying on gurneys, their bodies frail and waiting for relief. Nurses bustled past, their rubber-soled shoes squeaking against the linoleum floor, their arms filled with files, trays, and an overwhelming sense of duty.
"Bas bhai, ab shuru hota hai asli struggle," Avika muttered under her breath, adjusting her ID card clipped to her coat. ("Now the real struggle begins.")
I let out a slow exhale, rolling my shoulders back. We had spent years buried in textbooks, memorizing diseases, treatments, and drug interactions. But all that theory meant little when faced with a person who looked at you like you held their last sliver of hope.
At the nurse’s station, our senior, Dr. Sinha, was already waiting, arms crossed, eyes sharp with the kind of authority that came from years of sleepless nights and relentless practice. "Late by two minutes. Keep this up, and I’ll have you all scrubbing bedpans for the rest of the week."
We straightened instantly. "Sorry, sir!" we chorused.
Dr. Sinha sighed, rubbing his temples as if debating whether we were worth his patience. "Rounds start now. You’ll shadow me today, but that doesn’t mean you get to just stand around. Learn fast, or I will make sure you do."
With that, he turned on his heel, walking briskly toward the first patient, and we scrambled to keep up.
---
The next six hours were a whirlwind of movement, questions, answers, and hastily scribbled notes. The hospital felt like a living, breathing entity, constantly shifting and
A frail old man, his skin as delicate as parchment, clutched my wrist with surprising strength. "Doctor sahab, yeh davaai kitni baar leni hai?" ("Doctor, how many times should I take this medicine?")
I steadied my voice, offering a reassuring smile. "Din mein do baar, uncle. Aur khana khane ke baad." ("Twice a day, uncle. And after meals.")
He patted my hand, his fingers trembling but warm. "Bhagwan tumhe safalta de, beta. Tum jaise doctor zaroori hain." ("May God bless you with success, child. Doctors like you are needed.")
The weight of his words settled in my chest, heavier than any textbook I had ever carried.
Nearby, Avika crouched beside a young boy, no older than seven, who was clutching his mother’s dupatta with one hand while his other arm was outstretched for an injection. Tears pooled in his wide, fearful eyes. "Didi, injection dukhayega?" ("Sister, will the injection hurt?")
Avika, ever the softhearted one, gave him her warmest smile. "Bilkul bhi nahi! Aap toh bahut strong ho na?" ("Not at all! You’re very strong, right?")
The boy hesitated before giving her a tiny nod. I could see the way his little fingers curled into fists, bracing himself. Avika winked at me before swiftly administering the shot. The boy blinked in surprise—no tears, no wailing. Just pure, innocent pride in himself.
By the fourth hour, my back ached, and my feet throbbed, but there was no time to stop. A woman in labor screamed in the distance, a stretcher rushed past us, and a heated argument broke out at the reception desk over a billing issue. The hospital was a battlefield, and we were its foot soldiers.
Ria, ever the perfectionist, was in deep conversation with a senior doctor over a patient’s medication plan. Her notebook was already half-filled with new information, and I had no doubt she would be up until dawn revising every single detail.
I leaned against the nurse’s station, taking a second to catch my breath when I felt a gentle tug on my coat sleeve. An elderly woman, draped in a simple cotton saree, smiled up at me. "Beta, tum sab bahut achha kaam kar rahe ho. Bhagwan tumhe hamesha khush rakhe." ("Child, you all are doing such good work. May God always keep you happy.")
I blinked, exhaustion momentarily forgotten, as warmth spread through me. "Dhanyavaad, Aunty. Yeh sab aap logon ke liye hi toh hai." ("Thank you, Aunty. This is all for people like you.")
She cupped my cheek for a second before walking away, leaving behind a strange, indescribable feeling in my chest.
As we finally stepped out into the evening air, the cool breeze kissed my sweat-dampened skin, and I exhaled deeply. The sky was a blend of deep blue and fading orange, the world outside moving on, oblivious to the battles fought within those hospital walls.
Avika groaned, stretching her arms. "Hum pagal hain jo yeh sab kar rahe hain." ("We’re crazy for doing all this.")
Ria adjusted her glasses, still flipping through her notes. "Pagal toh hain, lekin acha pagalpan hai." ("We’re crazy, but it’s a good kind of crazy.")
I smiled, watching as a nurse helped a patient into a wheelchair, as a father kissed his newborn through the glass of the NICU, as a doctor reassured a worried family. The exhaustion was worth it.
"Haan," I murmured, "pyaar bhi toh isi pagalpan se hai." ("Yeah, but we love this madness too.")
The cool evening air was a welcome relief as we finally trudged back toward the hostel, our bodies aching from exhaustion but our minds still replaying the chaos of the day. The campus pathways were bathed in the dim glow of streetlights, their soft yellow light casting elongated shadows as students strolled past, some chatting animatedly, others lost in their books.
Avika yawned loudly, stretching her arms. "Mujhe bas ek cheez chahiye ab—garam chai aur mera bed." ("I just need one thing now—hot tea and my bed.")
Ria scoffed, adjusting her glasses. "Tujhe chai aur neend se upar kuch dikhta hai kya?" ("Do you even see anything beyond tea and sleep?")
I chuckled, feeling the familiar comfort of our banter ease the day’s weight off my shoulders. "Mujhe bas ek cheez chahiye—woh assignment jo aaj submit karna tha aur jo maine likha hi nahi." ("I just need one thing—that assignment we had to submit today, which I haven’t even written.")
Avika gasped dramatically. "Tujhe seriously dhyan hi nahi rehta! Ria, is ladki ka kuch nahi ho sakta." ("You seriously never pay attention! Ria, this girl is beyond saving.")
I smirked, pushing open the door to our hostel floor. "Bas, ab yeh mat kehna ki tu ne complete kar liya." ("Just don’t tell me you actually finished it.")
Ria smirked, holding up her notebook. "Puri details ke saath." ("With complete details.")
Avika groaned. "Bas, ab yeh ‘main topper hoon’ wali baatein mat shuru karna." ("Ugh, just don’t start with your ‘I’m the topper’ talk now.")
Our laughter echoed down the empty corridor as we finally reached our room. The moment I stepped inside, I kicked off my shoes, feeling an immediate sense of relief. My body felt like lead, my muscles screaming for rest. But first—freshening up.
---
After a long, hot shower, I changed into my oversized t-shirt and pajama shorts, the fabric soft against my tired skin. Avika sat cross-legged on her bed, towel-drying her hair while humming a song off-key. Ria, ever the disciplined one, had already organized her books on the study table, her damp hair wrapped up in a neat bun.
"Chalo, khana khane chalte hain," I suggested, my stomach growling in protest. "Agar aur der hui toh mess wale hume bhooka maar denge." ("Let’s go eat. If we delay any longer, the mess staff will kill us for being late.")
Avika groaned but got up. "Haan haan, warna phir sirf sukhi roti milegi." ("Yeah, yeah, or else we’ll only get dry chapatis.")
_______________
The mess hall was already buzzing with students, the air thick with the scent of warm dal, freshly made rotis, and overcooked vegetables. The sound of clattering plates and lively chatter filled the space as we grabbed our trays and sat at our usual table by the window.
I took one bite of the sabzi and made a face. "Yeh sabzi hai ya punishment?" ("Is this a vegetable dish or a punishment?")
Avika poked at her plate. "Shaayad yeh sabzi nahi, koi failed experiment hai." ("Maybe this isn’t a vegetable dish, but a failed experiment.")
Ria, as usual, was the only one calmly eating. "Zyada natak mat karo, kha lo. Warna phir maggi banani padegi." ("Stop being so dramatic and just eat. Otherwise, we’ll have to make Maggi later.")
I sighed but forced myself to eat, my hunger winning over taste. The warm food filled my stomach, dulling the day’s exhaustion just a little.
---
Back in our room, the night stretched ahead of us like an unfinished chapter, heavy with responsibilities but tinged with laughter. We sat on the floor with our books sprawled around us, our notes a chaotic mess of highlighters and scribbled explanations.
"Alright, bas ek ghanta padhai, phir so jayenge," Ria announced, adjusting her glasses. ("Alright, just one hour of studying, then we’ll sleep.")
Avika groaned, flopping onto her stomach. "Ek ghanta toh sirf samajhne mein lagta hai." ("It takes an hour just to understand one topic.")
I flipped through my notes, the words blurring together. "Kal ka topic kaunsa hai?" ("What’s tomorrow’s topic?")
Ria didn’t even look up. "Cardiovascular disorders."
I sighed. "Matlab raat bhar padna padega." ("That means we’ll be up all night studying.")
Avika flung a pillow at me. "Bas drama band kar aur padhai shuru kar." ("Stop the drama and start studying.")
As the clock ticked past midnight, our energy drained little by little. My eyelids grew heavy, my head dipping every few minutes. Finally, I couldn’t hold it in any longer!
"Bas, ab so rahe hain," I announced, snapping my book shut. ("Enough, we’re sleeping now.")
Avika didn’t even protest, collapsing onto her bed. "Haan, warna kal rounds ke beech mein hi behosh ho jayenge." ("Yeah, or else we’ll faint in the middle of rounds tomorrow.")
Ria, ever the responsible one, sighed but closed her notes. "Theek hai, bas subah jaldi uthna padega." ("Fine, but we have to wake up early.")
I climbed into my bed, the cool sheets a soothing contrast to my aching body. As I closed my eyes, the events of the day played in my mind—the patients, the chaos, the kindness, the exhaustion.
And with that thought, sleep finally pulled me under, the laughter of my friends the last thing I heard before the world faded into darkness.
_________________
Morning arrived too soon, pulling me out of my deep slumber with the sharp blare of my alarm. I groaned, slapping at my phone until the noise finally stopped. The first rays of sunlight filtered through the thin curtains, casting golden streaks across the walls. The faint sounds of birds chirping mixed with the occasional honk from the busy street below.
Avika was the first to stir, stretching her arms above her head. "Subah ho gayi? Mera toh mann nahi hai uthne ka." ("Is it morning already? I don’t feel like getting up.")
"Same," Ria muttered, her voice muffled by her pillow.
I rubbed my eyes, forcing myself to sit up. "Chalo, fresh hone ka time aa gaya. Warna phir mess ka breakfast miss ho jayega." ("Come on, it’s time to freshen up. Otherwise, we’ll miss breakfast at the mess.")
Dragging myself out of bed, I grabbed my towel and trudged toward the communal washroom. The hostel corridors were already alive with the hustle of students rushing to get ready. The air was thick with the scent of soap, toothpaste, and steaming chai from someone’s hidden electric kettle. The tap water was ice-cold, shocking me fully awake as I splashed it on my face.
By the time we reached the mess hall, it was packed. The usual breakfast of aloo paratha and chai awaited us. I took a bite, my mind already wandering to the lecture ahead.
"Aaj ka lecture kis topic pe hai?" I asked, stirring my tea. ("What’s today’s lecture topic?")
"Neurology," Ria answered. "Be ready to get your brain fried.
We laughed, finishing our meal quickly before heading to class. The lecture hall buzzed with students flipping through notes, some desperately trying to cram in last-minute revisions. I settled into my seat, pulling out my notebook just as my phone vibrated.
Maa Calling.
I sighed, my fingers hovering over the screen. Ignoring the call was tempting, but I knew she’d keep calling until I picked up. Taking a deep breath, I stepped outside and pressed the answer button.
"Hello?"
"Trisha, beta, kaisi hai tu?" Maa’s voice was warm but held a certain firmness. ("Trisha, dear, how are you?")
I leaned against the cool wall of the corridor, watching students rush past. "Theek hoon, Maa. Bas class shuru hone wali hai." ("I’m fine, Maa. Class is about to start.")
"Accha, accha. Main jaldi baat karti hoon. Tere liye ek ladka dekha hai." ("Okay, okay. I’ll be quick. We’ve found a groom for you.")
My grip on the phone tightened. "Kya?" ("What?")
"Haan, beta. Tu ab 24 ki ho gayi hai. Ab toh shaadi ke baare mein sochna chahiye na? Ladka achha hai, doctor hai." ("Yes, dear. You’re 24 now. It’s time to think about marriage, right? The boy is nice, he’s a doctor.")
I exhaled sharply, pressing my fingers to my temple. "Maa, maine pehle bhi kaha tha, mujhe shaadi nahi karni. Abhi nahi." ("Maa, I’ve told you before, I don’t want to get married. Not now.")
"Beta, samajhne ki koshish kar. Tera bhala chahti hoon. Hum sirf ek rishte ki baat kar rahe hain. Mil toh le." ("Dear, try to understand. I want the best for you. We’re just talking about a proposal. At least meet him.")
"Maa, please," I interrupted, my voice sharper than I intended. "Mujhe iss sab mein koi interest nahi hai. Mujhe apni padhai pe dhyan dena hai. Bas." ("Maa, please. I have no interest in all this. I need to focus on my studies. That’s it.")
There was silence on the other end, heavy and suffocating. Then she sighed. "Theek hai. Par tu hamesha aise nahi reh sakti, Trisha. Kabhi na kabhi toh yeh baat sochni padegi." ("Alright. But you can’t always stay like this, Trisha. One day, you’ll have to think about it.")
I clenched my jaw. "Woh kabhi nahi aayega. Ab mujhe lecture attend karna hai. Bye." ("That day will never come. Now, I have to attend my lecture. Bye.")
I ended the call before she could say anything else, my chest tight with frustration. Taking a deep breath, I shoved my phone into my pocket and walked back into the lecture hall, forcing my mind to focus on neurology.
But the weight of that conversation lingered, like a shadow I couldn’t shake off.
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Thank you deepians ✨
I hope you all liked the three mischievous friends - three peas in a pod 😁!!
Let me know how much you enjoyed their banter in the comments!
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Have a great day💗😄!!
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