The autorickshaw smelled like old leather and jasmine air freshener that had given up trying weeks ago.
Arjun pressed his bag against his chest, watching Ahmedabad's morning chaos unfold through the open sides—street vendors arranging their stalls, students in uniforms rushing toward bus stops, shopkeepers pulling up shutters with metallic clangs that echoed down narrow lanes. The city was waking up, and so was his nervousness.
*First day of college.*
His stomach twisted. Not the excited kind of twist. The kind that made him wish he could rewind time to yesterday when this was still tomorrow's problem.
"Beta, we're almost there," Papa said from the front seat, gripping his medical store bag like it held precious cargo. It probably did—Papa never went anywhere without some emergency medicines, even to drop his son at college. Old habits. "Kasturi Pharmacy College. GTU-affiliated. You're going to make us proud."
Arjun nodded because what else could he do? Papa had closed Mehta Medical & General this morning—the small medical store that had fed their family for twenty years. Closed it completely, put a sign saying "Will open at 2 PM", something he never did. All to accompany Arjun to orientation.
The weight of that gesture sat heavy on Arjun's shoulders.
"You know," Papa continued, navigating the rickshaw driver through shortcuts only locals knew, "I've been selling medicines for two decades. I know which syrup works for which cough. I can tell customers about drug interactions. But I'm not a real pharmacist, beta. No degree. No license. Just a shopkeeper."
Arjun had heard this before. Many times. It was Papa's favorite speech, usually delivered late at night when the store's accounts were being tallied.
"But you," Papa's voice carried that tone—the one filled with dreams Arjun wasn't sure he could fulfill, "you'll be a proper pharmacist. Bachelor of Pharmacy from Gujarat Technological University. You can practice anywhere. Open big pharmacies. Work in hospitals. Maybe even become a professor."
*If I survive four years of this.*
Truth was, Arjun hadn't wanted pharmacy. Not really. He'd dreamed of computer science—coding, gaming, startups. Things that didn't involve human lives depending on his knowledge. But his 12th grade marks had been painfully average, and Papa's hopeful eyes had been impossible to disappoint.
"We're here," the rickshaw driver announced, pulling up before imposing gates.
**KASTURI PHARMACY COLLEGE**
**Affiliated to Gujarat Technological University**
**Approved by Pharmacy Council of India**
The words loomed large on a stone arch. Beyond it, a sprawling campus—cream-colored buildings with red roofs, manicured lawns, students everywhere. Some walked with parents, others in groups already laughing like old friends. Banners hung across pathways: **"Welcome B.Pharm Batch 2025! Future Healthcare Professionals!"**
Arjun's mouth went dry.
Papa paid the rickshaw, adjusted his kurta, and placed a hand on Arjun's shoulder. "Come. Let's find the auditorium. And beta—" his voice softened, "—you'll do great. I believe in you."
*I wish I believed in me too.*
They followed the flow of students toward a large building. Dr. K.M. Shah Auditorium, according to the signboard. The crowd thickened—parents and students, nervous chatter, the occasional excited squeal as someone found their school friend.
Arjun felt invisible in the swarm.
Inside, the auditorium was massive. Rows upon rows of seats stretching toward a stage where faculty members in formal attire were arranging themselves. The air buzzed with that particular energy of new beginnings—terrifying and thrilling in equal measure.
"I'll sit with the other parents," Papa said, gesturing toward the back rows filling with adults. "You go sit with your classmates. And Arjun—" he squeezed his son's shoulder once more, "—pay attention. This is important."
Arjun made his way down the aisle, searching for a seat that wasn't too conspicuous. Not the eager-to-impress front row. Not the too-cool-to-care back row. Somewhere safe in the middle.
He slid into an empty seat in the fifth row, setting his bag down carefully. The plastic chair creaked under his weight. Around him, students chatted—comparing admission stories, discussing hostel room assignments, already exchanging Instagram handles.
Arjun pulled out his phone, pretending to be busy.
"Is this seat taken?"
He looked up.
A girl stood there, all bright energy and confident smile. She wore a yellow kurti with tiny mirror work that caught the auditorium lights, and her hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail. Her backpack had pins—a stethoscope symbol, a mortar and pestle, something that said "Future Pharmacist" in English and Gujarati.
"No, it's free."
"Perfect!" She dropped into the seat with the ease of someone who'd never known social anxiety. "I'm Kavya. Kavya Iyer. You?"
"Arjun Mehta."
"First year B.Pharm, obviously," she grinned. "Unless you're a really lost engineering student, which would be hilarious. Are you nervous? I'm nervous. But also excited. My grandmother was a pharmacist—like, old-school, compound-everything-herself pharmacist—and I've wanted this forever. What about you? Why pharmacy?"
The words tumbled out in a stream, barely pausing for breath. Arjun blinked, struggling to keep up.
"Um. Family business. My father runs a medical store."
"Oh, that's perfect! You probably already know so much. I mean, I know theory, but you've got practical experience, right? That's going to be so useful in labs. We should totally study together. Actually, are you staying in hostel or local?"
"Local. I live here in Ahmedabad."
"Lucky! I'm from Kerala. Hostel life. Which I'm excited about, but also terrified, you know? New city, new people, new language—I mean, I speak Hindi and English, but Gujarati is still tough for me. You'll have to teach me swear words. That's always the most useful vocabulary."
Despite himself, Arjun smiled. There was something infectious about Kavya's energy. Like being near sunlight.
"Sure. Though I should probably learn the proper Gujarati first before teaching you the improper version."
"See, we're already helping each other! This is great. I have a good feeling about this batch. About this whole thing." She paused, finally taking a breath. "Sorry, I talk a lot when I'm nervous. My friends say I'm like a pressure cooker—the steam has to come out somewhere."
"It's fine. Better than sitting in awkward silence."
"Right? Oh, they're starting!"
The auditorium lights dimmed slightly. The buzz of conversation faded to expectant whispers. On stage, a tall man in a crisp white shirt and gray trousers stepped forward to the podium. Reading glasses perched on his nose. Gray hair combed back neatly. The bearing of someone who'd spent decades commanding rooms like this.
"Good morning, students. Good morning, parents and guardians."
His voice carried—deep, clear, authoritative without being harsh. The kind of voice that made you sit straighter in your seat.
"I am Dr. Rajesh Patel, Principal of Kasturi Pharmacy College. On behalf of the entire faculty and staff, I welcome you to what I sincerely hope will be the most transformative four years of your lives."
The screen behind him lit up with the college logo—a mortar and pestle crossed with the Rod of Asclepius, all contained within a circle. Below it: **"Knowledge for Healing"**
"You are here because you chose pharmacy. Not medicine. Not engineering. Not any of the dozen other paths available to you. Pharmacy. Some of you chose it deliberately, with passion and purpose. Some—" his eyes swept the auditorium, "—perhaps chose it by circumstance. Because of marks. Because of family. Because it seemed safe."
Arjun felt seen. Uncomfortably seen.
"I'm here to tell you that both paths are acceptable. What matters—what will always matter—is what you do from this moment forward. Pharmacy is not a backup plan. It is not a safe option. It is not merely about selling medicines in a shop."
Dr. Patel clicked a remote. The screen changed to show an image—an elderly woman in a hospital gown, smiling, holding a small medicine bottle like it was treasure.
"This is Mrs. Jayaben Sharma. Three years ago, she came to Civil Hospital with uncontrolled diabetes. Her blood sugar levels were dangerously high despite being on medication for months. Her doctors were puzzled. They'd tried multiple drug combinations. Nothing worked."
He paused, letting the tension build.
"Do you know who figured out the problem? Not the senior physician. Not the endocrinology consultant. A final-year pharmacy intern from this very college. During a simple medication history interview—something we will teach you in clinical pharmacy—she discovered Mrs. Sharma was taking her diabetes tablets with strong masala chai every morning. She didn't like swallowing pills with plain water. It felt wrong to her."
Murmurs rippled through the auditorium.
"The tannins in tea were chelating the medication, preventing proper absorption in her gastrointestinal tract. The drugs never reached her bloodstream effectively. A five-minute counseling session about taking medicines with plain water, waiting thirty minutes before tea—that's all it took. Within two weeks, Mrs. Sharma's blood sugar normalized. Same medication. Same dose. Just proper administration."
Dr. Patel let that sink in.
"That pharmacy intern didn't prescribe anything. She didn't perform surgery. She didn't order expensive tests. She simply understood pharmacokinetics—how drugs move through the body. She understood patient behavior. She understood her role as a medication expert. And she saved a life."
The screen changed again. Bold text appeared:
**PHARMACIST ≠ MEDICINE SELLER**
**PHARMACIST = MEDICATION EXPERT**
To be Continue.