Testing... Testing
© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆
The final
year of HS remains a hazy blur. An endless testing maelstrom. An
immutable imtihānmania.The grand finale, The Mother of All Tests, was
the State Board. But there was something called a Sent-Up test
apparently mandated by the Grand Pooh-Bahs of secondary education to get
our systems fighting fit for the main event. This was held a few months
before the MoAT. Our school, in its infinite wisdom, had chosen to add
another scrimmage called Pre-test a few months prior to the Sent-up.
These two bouts huffed & puffed just like the Big Bad Wolf followed the same format as The Big Bad Board. All these were supposed
to polish our chain mail, repair any chinks in our armors and battle
harden the battalions for the final fracas.
The
Big One was usually held at another school, the "centre" as it was
known. It was a topic of intense discussion between my parents and the
other Sharmaji's & Auntieji's in the community for months, "Centre
kahān padā?" (Where is the Centre?) Those were the days long before parikshā became an
ingredient of a national level hyperventilating, hyperbolic WhatsCrapp charchari. It was a discussion only at a hyperlocal level but perhaps
just as frothy.
During
my final year in HS, our school's "centre" got moved to a location
different from the previous years which led to much speculation and
formed the nucleation of many conspiracy theories about corruption,
ineptitude, favoritism, mismanagement, dark motives and secret phoren influences, etc. etc. and about the callousness and vagaries of those
vague powers that be. Nevertheless, the lead-up to the Big One was
memorable. Some details may have been forgotten now but the rest have
formed quite the core memory.
Our
entire household was fully engaged and mostly (reluctantly?)
supportive. It was anyway the SOP at our home for any exams during our
childhood no matter what the academic level or which child. "Yeh egg-jāmmy-nation, yeh zindagi bhar kā maslā hai!" (This test, it is a life-altering event) a multi-syllabic admonition from
many well-wisher neighborhood unkills. For this one, the Bigg Boss,
my sisters walked around on eggshells during the weeks leading up to it,
a bit resentful (testy?) although not outright defiant. My mom threw herself
into managing the household with ruthless efficiency to the dismay of
our domestic help. There certainly was a kind of hush, all over our
world, I suspect at the homes of all my classmates as well.
The
clothes were freshly washed and pressed daily. My room was kept swept
and tidied up to perfection. Mom personally supervised every snack,
every meal, etc. ensuring freshness, taste, nutritional quality and
quantity of food. An unwritten but well-understood and rigid schedule
for the care and feeding of the examinee was followed. Nourishment of
the mind and the body was at its optimal level. The spiritual soul was
also tended to with due diligence. Appropriate number of diyās and
sticks of incense had been lit at all the right temples including at the durga bāri and a candle at the catholic church (mine was a Jesuit
school complete with a chapel). There were visits to the gurudwārā as
well as to the local pir ki mazār. There were no synagogues nearby so
we may not have gotten the rabbinical barak. I saw a whole different
side of my parents who had never been known to be deeply religious at
any point during my existence to date. Unbeknownst to us, flowers,
fruits, money, jaggery, kumkum, akshat, chandan, nāriyal, humād, Gangā
jal, the whole lot had been offered at all the right altars in
different cities by multiple close relatives and friends on my behalf.
We apparently hedged our bets across all deities and faiths in those
day, seeking divine help. Oh, and it was also strongly rumored that at
least one not-so-friendly family with a son the same age as me had been
sticking sharp needles in a voodoo doll but we have no real proof of
that. By any chance if you are reading this, Sammy Mr. you-know-who, buri nazar wālé, térā muh kālā! I guess their evil eye was negated
by a discreetly placed kājal spot on my forehead. All ill will
obliterated by the overwhelming prayers to the sankat haran, chintā
haran deities and resulting avalanche of all the goodwill. (True story,
I met the two brothers, Sankat Haran & Chinta Haran U. at IIT Kgp
later in real life!!)
I
had been reminded throughout my childhood by many a neighborhood bhadralok of the ancient student code of conduct, that of kaāk
cheshtā, bako dhyānam, swān nidrā tathaiwa cha, swalpāhāri, grihtyaāgi,
vidyārthi panch lakshnam; that the five traits of a good student are:
be relentless like a crow, focus like a crane, sleep alert like a dog,
be light in food intake and to abandon home (I assume to go to gurukul). Funny how ancient wisdom from past centuries has been adapted to the
modern times somewhat piecemeal.
Subscriptions
to all magazines to our home had been suspended for months leading up to
The Board Exam. I was allowed 15 minutes with the one daily newspaper.
Turning on the only radio at home was prohibited. All novels, etc.
explicitly banned. (Actual compliance to such draconian decrees is
another story. I do wish to acknowledge their complicity and thank both
my sisters profusely for not ratting me out until after the exams were
over)... Telephone had been off-limits for months and those hour-long
chats with my best buddies were a distant memory. In other words, no
distractions were to be permitted in my bako dhyānam.
Besides
the siblings and moms, the ones really stressed out even more than me
or any of my classmates appeared to be our dads. Like most dads of their
generation, they took that role very seriously indeed. Apparently since
the day I was born, mine had been walking around with furrowed brows
convinced that left to myself, I was destined for a less than a stellar
future. BTW, all the classmates finally noticed that every Sharmaji in
the neighborhood had developed similar furrowed brows and noticeable
tics. Us kids found this to be a somewhat peculiar affliction unique to
the dads of highschoolers. They all seemed to sport the same dark,
brooding miens about their own nālāyak's, constantly reminding
us delinquents of the brilliance of the other Sharmaji's illustrious
sons. It was quite a complex philosophy of motivation using subtle
ridicule, vague intimidation and hinted future darkness if "not making
something of ourselves." Modern child psychologists would find a very
rich dataset unique to desi culture, about developing resilience, etc.
about how our generation not only survived but mostly thrived compared
to the fragility of today's Z's and Alpha's. A quick WhatsCrapp count
shows many of us became proud bhakta's, and the rest, rabble-rouser kambakhta's.
Our
school's "centre" happened to be the local government HS, the Zila
(District) School. Normally this place was not known necessarily for
being an institution of learning as opposed to being a notorious recognized hotbed of non-academic pursuits. Most of the local political
figures and neighborhood underworld rank and file had almost
matriculated from this establishment. It was reputedly a fertile
breeding ground, a recruitment center and training facility for the local
goons, some of whom eventually gained State level prominence. A police thānā was located conveniently close to the school but the cops and
the school population had developed a mutual understanding and the two stayed out of each other's way respecting the sheer aura of political power emanating
from these hallowed halls. I believe at least two other schools had been
allocated the same "centre" that year.
The
usual school activities had been suspended and usual Zila school
denizens were not around for the duration of the Board Exam. I recall
taking a long walk towards a huge sprawling building painted a neutral,
dull pinkish-brown hue. The place was originally built during the Raj
and the ugly architecture reflected that. It was rumored to have been
used as a detention facility by the Brits at some point. The grounds was
hardened clay without a single patch of greenery, with the
yellowish-brown patina of spaghetti westerns. With a little imagination,
one could see ole Clint scowling at the hombres malos, across the
schoolyard, complete with the tumbleweeds and the eerie waaaaaanh
waaaan waaaaaanh music. Eight-foot high barbed-wire topped boundary
walls surrounded the entire property. No vehicles were allowed past the
massive wrought-iron gate. The classrooms were dark, cool and dusty with
hard, wooden chair/desks that had quietly suffered over their lifetime.
Several generations of students had carved their names and other
messages on wooden surfaces and on the walls. So many hues and so much
ink decorated the high ceilings, it could give a run for the money to
the likes of Michelangelo and his efforts on the vaunted Sistine
Chapel. The tall pillars supporting the red-tiled roof overhang seemed
to have been painted with equal mix of original earth-tone color and
redecorated by paān stains at different point in its history.
Our
weapons of war had been assembled and readied with much care. They
included the fountain pen freshly filled in the morning and a couple of koh-i-noor HB pencils sharpened to micrometer tips, safely contained
with the other instruments in the geometry box. There was at least one
backup pen and a couple of other pencils, just in case. There was a good eraser in there that did not obliterate paper but we had been admonished to not use it if at all
possible. Those were the days when even a four-function calculator had
not made an appearance. One never could even dream of a phone not
tethered to the wall by a long cord, cellphone was pretty much in the
realm of science fiction. My children are convinced I went to school
doing homework on stone tablets with mallets and chisels.
The
week-long exam schedule had two "papers" each on the first three days
and one "paper" a day for the rest (I think). The hour in between the
two "papers" was the time to gobble down lunch and do the last minute cursory deep
review of study material exhorted by whichever parental unit was
present. That lunch was the best part. The thin, cool cucumber slices
sandwiched between thick slabs of generously buttered white bread from
Ralisons Bakery. (Only later I discovered that its owners were R. Ali
& Sons). Just light salt and pepper for seasoning. Or a sprinkling
of Amul Cheese over sliced hard-boiled eggs instead of cucumber. A
banana or an apple. A sandesh. All topped off with the best cool nimbu paāni lovingly
prepared and packed by Mom. It was delivered fresh and crisp and
devoured quickly before the bread become a soggy mess. We had two
driving emotions during that week, alternating between hunger and panic.
Intense brain-work burned calories much faster, apparently.
Oh,
our examination hall had the same two "invigilators" during the entire
schedule. One was a lanky dude with a flowing white beard who wore an
impeccable and impossibly white kurtā pajamā the entire time. A skull
cap over his sparse comb-over completed his ensemble. The other one was a
portly gentleman with an impressive girth, well-oiled salt'n'pepper
hair and paān stained teeth. Both were teachers at the same Zila
school and talked in hushed tones as to how well-behaved these kristaān school children were. Apparently, the previous year they had
an examinee show up for the exams half an hour later than the scheduled
start on most days, usually accompanied by his entourage that catered to
his various needs throughout the day. A switchblade or two were rumored
to have made an appearance at some point during that schedule. His math
exams were rumored to have been taken by substitute test-takers. The
invigilators had wisely agreed to look the other way, having heeded the
friendly heads-up from the persuasive members of that entourage.
Our
actual exam week passed mostly uneventfully for the most part. Don't
get me wrong, there was plenty of rubber-necking during the entire
schedule. However, due to the exceptionally well-planned physical
separation of students from the same school and placement of complete
strangers in adjacent seats, there were very few actual incidents of
wide-spread cheating that I was aware of. There was plenty of
head-scratching for many. Cases of forgotten stanzas to be quoted, of
misplaced punctuation and of confusing gender constructs in the four lit
papers, five if you count Sanskrit. There were many protruding tongues,
dang-mind-gone-blank looks, forgotten formulas, ephemeral vocabulary,
sudden incomprehension of everyday language, bouts of sheer panic, tears
and quiet but intense prayers for divine help all around me. There were
sibilant whispers and desperate, low-volume psssst requests for help.
Most were quelled with sharp looks and scowls from the two invigilators
but for the most part, their participation was thankfully minimal.
Neither really seemed eager to engage more actively, haunted by the
memory of previous year's switchblade incident.
The
two math papers were the most interactive since the desperate
solution seekers seemed to be more in number. All seemed to be of the opinion that as long as they had
the correct answer from their friends, they could sketch out the steps of
"show your work" in some fashion and get away with it. Luckily, perhaps
most of us did not ever again need to Quod Erat
Demonstrandum any more theorems. Nor deduce any further deductions,
construct esoteric polygons of the same area as a given geometric figure, feel acutely obtuse about angles, etc. later in
their professional or personal lives.
And
while I did not witness any if the following personally, there were many
rumors of admirable creativity. There was a young lady who wore
long sleeved kurti's on those very warm days that concealed much ink
that she insisted was actually henna which had turned blue due to her
unique skin chemistry. The hidden scrolls in quite a few geometry boxes
showed incredible talent for micro-calligraphy in other rumored
instances. There were some redecorated keds that were disallowed,
forcing the use of alternative footwear. Simpler times! It also appeared
that the restrooms had much of the contents of Hall & Stevens and
other textbooks inscribed on its walls over generations. You just had to
find the right restroom with the right stall and not get distracted
admiring some of the very graphic ditties and action diagrams from the
all-boys high schoolers ardently expressing their emotions towards their nearby
all-girls high school classmates.
The
Physics and Chemistry papers had 20% of the marks in "Practical" which
were conducted in the respective labs back in our own schools a week
later with External Examiners who also conducted a brief viva-voce. I
recall I enjoyed both of mine. One involved melting wax in a water bath
and the other playing with some mystery salts, Bunsen burner and borax
beads. I don't believe that the concept of gloves, eye-wear or any other
type of personal protective equipment had entered our vocabulary yet.
Ignorance is truly blissful.
And
then we were done with High School! A long relaxing summer lay ahead
of us. Quite comfortable with the wisdom that we were pretty much in
possession of all the human knowledge ever that was needed by any humans
to possess. Later as we got to IIT (or similar places), I was a little
bit less sure about this conclusion. Grad school was quite a surprise as
to the abysmal depth of our ignorance. And then, the first job when the
phrase Imposter Syndrome truly hit hard. But more on that some other
time.
In school, you're
taught a lesson and then given a test. In life, you're given a test that
teaches you a lesson. I don’t know about you but as for myself, having
slept many moons past The Board Exam that I had once thought to be the
final bookend of my scholastic journey, I am unsure of any lessons
truly learned along the way. What had started a decade or so earlier
with Sr Carmella seems to have continued on and on and on as I remain a
student, only more keenly aware of my ignorance of the true depth
of my ignorance.
© 𝕾𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖍 𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖗𝖆
