Though I teach history, my sister is in her first year MBBS at a private college, so I hear the tales every evening. The dissection hall is a sacred, solemn space, not gruesome as some fear, but the memorisation is immense—like learning the map of an entire city in a new language. The professional exams feel like a mountain, but her batchmates become a family, studying through the nights. I see her exhausted face light up when she explains the brachial plexus, and I know the struggle is *barobar*, but so is the purpose.
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