Upur 19

 Chapter 19: The High School Examination

The cloudburst incident had changed something within us.

After escaping death so narrowly near the stream, many of us had begun looking at life differently. The carefree recklessness that had once defined our days slowly gave way to a sense of maturity. We still laughed, played pranks, and argued over trivial matters, but somewhere deep inside, we had realised how fragile life could be.

And now another challenge stood before us—the Class X Board Examination.

For the first time in our lives, we were going to appear in a public examination.

The very words Board Exams carried an aura of fear.

Until then, examinations had always been conducted within the comforting confines of our school. We knew the teachers, understood their temperaments, and had grown accustomed to the familiar atmosphere of our classrooms. But this was different. We had heard countless stories about stern external invigilators, strict checking, and students being booked for even the slightest violation. The prospect of unknown examiners watching every movement filled even the brightest among us with anxiety.

The fear was visible on every face.

Would we be able to complete the paper on time? Would the questions be difficult? What if we forgot everything after entering the examination hall?

No one seemed to have answers.

Long before the examinations actually began, discussions about seating arrangements had become the favourite topic during recess. Since roll numbers were allotted alphabetically, students had already started calculating who was likely to sit beside whom.

Strangely, friendships too began following alphabetical order.

Those whose names started with the same letter suddenly became unusually friendly. They sat together, exchanged notes, clarified doubts, and behaved as though destiny itself had assigned them to a common cause.

JP, for instance, had become especially close to John because both their names began with the letter 'J'. They were convinced that their roll numbers would be consecutive and they would sit together during the examinations.

Fate, however, had other plans.

When the seating charts were finally displayed, JP found himself occupying the last seat of the first row while John was allotted the very first seat of the second row.

"So much for alphabetical friendship," John remarked philosophically, making us burst into laughter.

As the examinations drew closer, an unusual transformation swept through the class.

Students who had spent most of the year perfecting the art of idleness suddenly discovered the virtues of hard work. The backbenchers became regular visitors to the library. Free periods ceased to be free. Everywhere—inside classrooms, under trees, near the laboratory, even beside the football field—students could be seen with books in their hands.

The atmosphere had changed completely.

The incomplete syllabus worried everyone, forcing teachers to organise extra classes. Although these additional periods ate into our leisure time, nobody complained. The stakes were simply too high.

Our teachers, sensing our nervousness, devoted considerable time to explaining examination techniques.

Important questions were identified. Previous years' papers were collected and solved repeatedly. Teachers prepared guess papers, and soon the guess papers themselves became so voluminous that the brighter students prepared "guess papers from the guess papers."

Formula sheets for trigonometry were circulated. Physics equations were carefully listed. Chemical reactions were summarised in neat notebooks.

One topic, however, enjoyed legendary status.

The fractional distillation of crude petroleum.

Everyone was convinced that it would certainly appear in the examination. Consequently, detailed labelled diagrams of the towering distillation column were prepared and memorised with almost religious devotion. We quizzed one another endlessly.

"What comes after kerosene?"

"Diesel."

"And above petrol?"

"Petroleum gas!"

These impromptu quizzes continued wherever we met.

Despite the tension, there were moments of humour too.

One afternoon, while discussing strategies, JP once again assumed command.

"Listen carefully," he announced in a tone befitting a military commander. "During the first hour everyone will solve whatever they know independently. In the second phase we will quietly exchange information if required. During the last half-hour, we shall help one another fully. And in the final ten minutes, everyone must ensure that answer sheets are properly tagged."

The plan sounded remarkably professional.

Everyone nodded solemnly.

The objective-type questions demanded special preparation.

Codes were devised.

A sneeze meant option 'A'.

Clearing the throat signified 'B'.

Rubbing one's eyes indicated 'C'.

A cough represented 'D'.

The elaborate system amused us immensely, although whether it would actually work remained doubtful.

As regular teaching gradually decreased, many students stopped attending school altogether and preferred studying at home. Consequently, the classrooms looked unusually empty.

I found these days strangely emotional.

Our stay at Udhampur was nearing its end.

Army postings were due, and many families, including ours, had already received transfer orders. My father had been posted to Halwara. Similar news had begun arriving in other homes as well.

For children of military families, farewells were an unavoidable reality.

Still, knowing that did not make parting easier.

I often found myself looking around the classroom, wondering how many of these faces I would ever see again. The laughter, friendships, quarrels, and adventures of the past two years had become an inseparable part of my life.

Soon, all this would become memory.

The thought saddened me.

But there was little time for sentimentality. The examinations demanded complete attention.

At home, my playtime reduced drastically. Surprisingly, I did not miss it much. Anxiety had replaced recreation.

My greatest enemy was not the syllabus.

It was self-doubt.

I was confident in English, Hindi, History, Geography, and Civics. However, Commercial Mathematics, certain portions of Physics, and balancing chemical equations in Chemistry continued to trouble me.

Gradually, after completing my first revision, confidence began returning.

I also started helping friends with difficult concepts. Explaining chemical reactions and mathematical problems to others clarified my own understanding further.

That was when I discovered an important truth.

Teaching is the best form of learning.

No wonder teachers know their subjects so thoroughly.

The final week before the examinations arrived.

Six-digit roll numbers were distributed.

Hall tickets bearing our photographs suddenly made the whole affair seem real.

Some students carefully noted their roll numbers in diaries. Others wrote them on books, pencil boxes, or even their palms.

Those with consecutive roll numbers congratulated one another enthusiastically.

The first examination was scheduled for Monday.

English.

The much-awaited—and feared—day had arrived.

The school looked transformed.

Outside every examination hall stood easels displaying seating plans. Water containers had been strategically placed. Large charts proclaiming "Silence" and "Examination in Progress" hung prominently everywhere.

Most intimidating of all were the unfamiliar faces.

The external examiners.

The legendary figures we had discussed for months.

I located my seat and sat down quietly. Around me, students frantically revised notes until a sharp whistle ordered everyone to put away all books.

Instructions were read out.

Answer sheets were distributed.

An uneasy silence descended.

Soon the question papers arrived.

As I scanned the English paper, an immense sense of relief washed over me.

It was manageable.

The nightmare had not materialised.

I immersed myself in writing.

About half an hour later, I noticed something interesting.

The school coordinator arrived carrying an impressive assortment of refreshments—samosas, pastries, biscuits, and tea—for the external invigilator.

The examiner, initially stern and distant, gradually softened.

Animated conversation followed.

Plates were replenished repeatedly.

JP leaned towards Mahesh and whispered softly,

"Pataa liya isko."

("He's been won over.")

I struggled to suppress a smile and continued writing.

Soon afterwards, both the coordinator and the external examiner disappeared together.

The moment they vanished, our English teacher emerged from behind a wall like a covert operative.

Climbing onto the platform, he spoke in a low but authoritative voice.

"Everyone listen carefully and write down the answers for the objective questions."

He immediately started dictating.

"Question thirteen—option A. Fourteen—C. Fifteen—D..."

Pens raced across answer sheets.

A few confused students requested him to repeat.

The teacher exploded instantly.

"Yeh tumhare baap ka ghar nahin hai..." he snapped angrily. "I have very little time to help weak students pass. So keep quiet and write."

Nobody dared ask again.

After completing the objective answers, he even offered brief hints regarding essays and comprehension passages before disappearing as mysteriously as he had appeared.

A little later, the external invigilator returned, looking considerably more cheerful—and noticeably fuller.

The operation had succeeded.

It was a remarkably coordinated exercise.

Like students, like teachers, I thought.

Perhaps they too had once sat anxiously in examination halls.

We were strictly instructed not to discuss these happenings with anyone until all examinations concluded.

The Mathematics paper, however, unfolded differently.

Security was tighter, and very little assistance was possible.

Still, isolated incidents occurred.

I noticed one anxious father discreetly sending a chit to his daughter through students seated nearby. One teacher conveniently looked elsewhere.

Not everyone approved.

Nalini, among others, openly disliked such unfair practices.

Apparently, complaints reached higher authorities.

The very next day, while arriving for the History examination, we were astonished to find Military Policemen stationed around the examination halls.

Nobody except students and authorised staff was permitted near the premises.

The atmosphere changed instantly.

From that day onward, the examinations proceeded under strict supervision.

By then, however, we had become accustomed to the system.

One paper followed another.

History.

Science.

Mathematics.

Hindi.

Geography.

Finally, one glorious morning, it was over.

The examinations had ended.

An enormous burden seemed to lift from our shoulders.

Ironically, the sudden freedom felt strange.

For months our minds had remained constantly occupied. Now, with nothing left to study, an unexpected emptiness emerged.

Even sleep refused to come easily.

The next few days were spent watching films, meeting friends, and relaxing. Yet I found myself missing school.

I missed my classmates.

I missed the routine.

I missed Udhampur.

After the practical examinations, we assembled once again in school. Discussions revolved around future plans—Science, Commerce, Arts, Medicine, Engineering.

Everyone dreamed aloud.

Then came the holidays.

I travelled to Allahabad to spend time with my grandmother. Though I enjoyed myself thoroughly, memories of Udhampur returned every night before sleep.

Would I score well?

Where would everyone go?

Would we ever meet again?

The questions lingered endlessly.

One day, a letter arrived from Udhampur.

I had passed with good marks.

My joy knew no bounds.

When we eventually returned to Udhampur, I eagerly awaited the final gathering with my classmates.

The farewell ceremony was announced.

We were instructed to come in civilian clothes.

The next day the school campus looked dazzling.

Gone were the uniforms.

Bright colours, fashionable dresses, and cheerful laughter filled the assembly ground.

Awards were announced.

Then came the most anticipated moment.

Mr Tenth and Miss Tenth.

A boy from Section X-A won the title of Mr Tenth.

And Miss Tenth?

There was hardly any suspense.

It was Sonia.

As beautiful as she was intelligent, she had always been the obvious choice. She accepted the honour amidst thunderous applause while our entire section cheered enthusiastically.

A tea party followed.

Photographs were taken.

Promises were exchanged.

Addresses were written.

And then, slowly, inevitably, we began dispersing.

As I walked home that afternoon, I turned back once to look at the school building.

I did not know then that it would be the last time I would see many of my classmates together.

Childhood, I realised, rarely announces its departure.

It simply slips away quietly, leaving behind memories that remain alive forever.