A multiple choice Dilemma

My beloved Tinted is broken. I had got a new set just some time back and now it is broken.
The world is awfully bright and blurred.
And there are so many exams lined up. The worst part of being a doc apart from having to depend on parents for a long time, is having to give exams, exams and more exams.
By the end of it all, a doc is so used to exams that, even if you wake him up at some unearthly hour and ask him to write an exam, he will automatically reach out for the pen.
This morning there was a mock exam. I don’t understand why it is called a mock. Does it mean, it mocks the actual exam itself, as in making things more difficult that the actual exam ? Anyways the actual exam is quite difficult, so how much tougher can a mock get.
Or probably it is called a mock, because it mocks our knowledge or the lack of it.
In an MCQ pattern exam, each question has four probable options with one right answer.
When I start out, I read the question. The chances of getting a straightforward answer are as minimal as Sailor finding a girlfriend. Why should we know what is the percentage of sodium ions in breast milk? Or the kind of shit pot needed for a village whose majority population lives in thatched roof houses? Hell, they don’t have houses proper what shit pots they will use?
You will be surprised, docs are even supposed to learn the measurements of shit pots and the type of latrines.
And despite learning all that junk, the question still stares with four options.
When I don’t find a direct answer, I look at it the reverse way. Rule out options.
In the same shit pot dimension question, it is easy to rule out two options. One will say “pot big enough for elephant” ruled out; “pot big enough for cows” wait, aren’t cows responsible for global warming? Maybe this is the answer, no man, this not a veterinary exam. Rule out.
So now I have ruled out two options, increased my chances of getting the right answer.
But the next two options flummox.
“Pot big enough for an average size man” or “pot big enough for average size woman”?
Damn, I was this close to getting there.
So the next available option is take a chance. But the problem with that is if I get it wrong, I get negatives. I really can’t afford that. The number of answers I get right is minimal, so if I get negatives, my total score will be less than the arctic temperatures.
While up against the wall, there is a new idea. Dwell into the psyche of the examiner. Almost like holding a séance, only sillier.
“Do you think the examiner is asking a straight question? Or is the examiner a feminist? Then the answer might be woman oriented? On the other hand if the examiner might be a very theoretical person. Maybe the answer is woman oriented because the shit pot size may come under the safe maternity programme? Rubbish, no maternity programme talks of shit pot dimensions. As long as they shit it is fine. If they don’t shit then it is false labour. Let’s not even go there.
So I decide it must be “pot big enough for an average size man” but I recall one fellow saying these Americans have weird rules. True. If the whole world follows and accepts that there are nine orifices in the body, the Americans will come up some insane argument and say there are more than nine. They have two instead of one I guess.
And all their major text books will faithfully concur.
But this is a question of an Indian shit pot. I go ahead with my answer.
In all this I have forgotten I am not wearing my good old tints. Everything is a blur. Instead of marking option A I marked B. wrong answer; I can almost hear a buzzer. Damn. I bang the desk. The invigilator gives me a frooti. Cool down. I take time off to relax. It was a taxing question.
In what’s the most inappropriate moment, I am caught staring the bottom of this cute and curvy girl sitting a few benches ahead. If just getting caught staring wasn’t enough, I sip on the frooti pack so hard that it makes an irritating noise. I learnt the definition of the word scowl. I could have written poetry on those dainty bottoms, but then I am reminded of shit pot questions waiting to be answered.
I am supposed to be a doc.
And before long the invigilator says time’s up.
Gone! At this rate, I will probably clear this exam after hundred years or maybe never.
Then I will have to start working in some dilapidated nursing home in some shady corner of the city. I will be paid measly daily wages on a monthly basis. Imagine, with my first pay, I buy sweets and gone home. There is already a box of sweets waiting there. The new security guard also got his first pay. It is more than mine.
So I go to a friend’s place. He is a techie. I give him sweets. He offers me champagne. His wife just delivered a second baby.
No way am I going to let this happen.
I wanted Tinted back; getting him fixed as early as possible.


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Listening to: Ray LaMontagne - Gossip In The Grain
via FoxyTunes