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