Summer to fall: not just a change of seasons, but a period commanding serious action from all those who intend to sample the bitter-sweet flavour of MBBS. It is the time when applications to government and/or private medical universities are made, entrance tests written and verdicts announced. Simply put, it is one of the most harrowing phases of one’s student life — and justifiably so.

What is far from justifiable, however, is the unwarranted persistence of a rather lethargic admission system in Pakistan — a system that is frustratingly laced with tedious, unnecessary requirements and old-fashioned procedures; one that remains adamant in wrestling with each fragment of rationality within you.

For typical medical school hopefuls, the story commences with their preparing for an average of three different kinds of entry tests in Pakistan, and launches into full-time drama as the filing of lengthy application forms begins. But here’s the twist: you just don’t have to fill the form; you need to purchase it first (from the university itself/certain branches of certain banks), duly attach all necessary documents, then queue up for at least half an hour for its submission — only to be told that ‘the university would like it much better if you photostatted the entire set and submitted it alongside the initial’.

You have no choice but to comply with the freshly revealed set of instructions and line up all over again, irrespective of how long it takes. At times, the queue tends to extend all the way to the roads, with no tented canopy — no nothing — for you to fight the sweltering afternoon heat. Like it or not, that’s the way things work ‘in here’.

Such is the admission system of Pakistan’s government-based medical universities (interestingly, the private ones boast of a rather sensible approach towards the issue). Opaque instructions as to the number of ‘copies’ to submit, however, is only the tip of the iceberg: much more is yet to pour forth in the name of inconvenience. For instance, during my very own experience, a certain university — University X — forgot to mention the three most important words of the procedure: register with NTS (introducing NTS: the National Testing Service, failure to have registered with which results in one’s inability to sit for the entrance test — oh, and it involves a transaction of Rs1,000. To Islamabad).

Apparently, X had assumed that its applicants would have already been privy to this indispensable sliver of information.

Perhaps because University Y — a close, sovereign cousin — had taken the pains of mentioning it in its set of instructions … Blink, blink. As if that makes any sense.

But my concerns as an applicant had just begun. Despite using the courier service to successfully register with the testing body, University X still called each one of us to personally come over (again) and submit a copy of the transaction/courier receipt — when it could have directly contacted NTS (it is the age of technology, isn’t it?) and saved all the trouble.

It doesn’t get any more absurd than this. Or maybe it does. Because Y committed a similar offense by asking its applicants to ‘fill out the given provisional certificates’. Now there is perfectly nothing wrong with the innocent request … save the fact that Y did not feel the need to attach the said certificates in the first place (X asked for the same and did). Oh, brother!

Needless to say, it once again reminded me of the uncalled-for, confused sense of dependence between the two institutions, leaving me with the following question: what about those who had planned on applying to either one of X or Y? What had become of them? And what were the institutions thinking?

The unfounded purchase of affidavits — legal documents that levy certain obligations on the applicant upon successful admission — emerges as another compulsory yet completely unnecessary requisite. Indeed, why should one be asked to pay for an inconveniently available sheet of paper that has no connection with the application process, and which only comes into play when the admission has been guaranteed? And what about the obligatory completion of a separate ‘online application form’ — an exact replica of the hard copy that one is required to fill out? Especially with the test date inching closer every minute, how does one ever justify redundancy of such sort?

The dearth of a common-application procedure — wherein only one form is needed for nationwide application to all medical colleges — constitutes as yet another loophole in our admission system. America, for example, has been successfully practicing the ‘common-app’ ritual, salvaging not just her trees but the applicants’ money, effort and time (multiple hard copies of the same document is just not the answer). Indeed, the need of the hour is to simplify and modernise the anachronistic process:

why not upload the application on the Internet so it is not just more accessible but also free of charge? (As of 2012, it takes an understated Rs6,000 — something just to purchase forms for admission into three to four universities — no kidding).

Then comes the entrance test itself — a procedure that has been miserably twisted for no rhyme or reason. Instead of having a single examination for all medical universities (both private and government), and then drawing out a priority/merit list, numerous entry tests become the fate of the struggling to-be doctors. Remarkably enough, it is not so in India or China. As The Hindu states, “If everything goes as scheduled, admission to (government and private) engineering and medical undergraduate courses in India from 2013 will be a much easier process, with students writing only one test for medical and one for engineering.” Thus, the first ever National Eligibility-cum-Entrance Test (NEET) in India will be found catering to admissions in all medical and dental colleges on the basis of its merit list — an idealistic system of admission that satisfies the needs of not just the students, but their parents as well.

I thus humbly appeal for change — for a more mature, clean and sleek admission process, where each benefits from a framework that concentrates on hassle-free public service rather than crude self interest. Indeed, it is time we broke loose from the shackles of languid, redundant paperwork and money-minting schemes, and opted for a swifter — clearer — more organised mode of task management. It goes without saying that such a system would not just pave way for a more progressive mode of life, but also make it possible for applicants to target their energies and finance in areas that need them most.

I am no Christian Bernard, but trust me on this one.