Over the course of my life, I’ve been through my share of
seminal events. When things were never the same again. My first crush, marriage,
becoming a parent, my first car and the like. But nothing has been so seminal
and as life-changing as the 12th standard board examinations. Not
mine. My son’s.
I should have seen it coming a year ago when well-wishers had
started liberally advising my son. From highly pointless tips like “Word hard,
it’s your entire future” to more practical ones like “Go take coaching from
Centum Sujatha”. My son likes his space and fiercely guards against any
intrusion. He fought the good fight and ensured all talk of coaching classes at
6 am and such similarly foul ideas were snuffed out early. My wife is equally
tenacious, apart from having a circle of friends, all of whom seemed to have
kids writing the board exams. She was being constantly bombarded by friends
exchanging notes on how they were prodding their kids on to higher levels of
achievement. Most days used to end up with my having to console and convince her
that our son’s not taking coaching lessons was not necessarily a poor
reflection on her as a mother.
Listen, I’m usually a fair minded person. But this event was
growing wings and had started intruding on other aspects of life. I was
keen to get the house repainted. Nope. Let the Boards get over, ruled my wife. Can
we buy another sofa? Wait till April. And forget things like vacations, long or
short. In fact, my younger daughter had just about had it. At the tender age of
8, she first displayed a grasp of sarcasm when she asked me – “Do you know why
I cannot buy a new frock for my birthday this year? Because Ashwin has his
board exams…”
The lead up to the exams reminded me of the great generals
of the past preparing for war. No eating out for the next 45 days, pronounced
my wife. No soft drinks, no oily food, pack the medicine cabinet, fumigate the
house… While we were all going nuts, my son hopefully, in the midst of this
circus, was preparing for the exams…
Finally, D-Day. The first exam. It was English. Makes sense.
It’s a little like beginning the cricket World Cup campaign with a match
against Afghanistan. Lets you ease into the flow of things. I was in cheerful
mood and even offered to drop my son. We reached the venue at some absurdly early
hour and were amazed at the buzz of activity. Parents of different sizes and
shapes as far as the eye could see, with a few scattered kids in between. In
all the diversity, one thing seemed to unite all the parents – furrowed brows,
anxious looks, pulse rate above 100 and a BP of 160/120…
Inevitably, some of us parents got talking. One parent
claimed that he had come to the Exam center two days ago and did a recce.
Another one had Vibuthi from a dozen temples neatly folded in small packets and
she was smearing her son’s forehead with each of them. A third one was holding
his son’s face close to his and giving a serious pep talk - a scene straight
out of the boxing ring. I even thought I heard “Eye of the tiger, man, eye of
the tiger”.
The ultimate irony occurred as the parents finally and
reluctantly dispersed with “All the Best” being thrown about liberally!! Hell,
I thought the kids were writing the exam inside – what were we parents doing
wishing each other?
Back home. Self in a moody silence, mulling over my obvious inadequacies
relative to the other parents. Wife in the Puja area, muttering away, holding
some mystical conversation with the deities. As the clock struck 10.30 am, I
could picture my son bravely wading into the English paper. Poor baby, my wife
wailed! What if he suffered a mental freeze? Did he carry enough pens with him?
Clearly there were two groups of people over the next three hours. Those who
felt that time was flying too fast – this group largely consisting of students
writing the exam. And the second group that felt that time had come to a
standstill – this group dominated by the parents. It’s funny how we think we
have control over things that play out with no involvement from us whatsoever.
Why my wife should feel that if she sits on the living room sofa, which she
considers her lucky seat, my son should perform well in the exam beats me. When
I point this out, she asks me why I think that my standing-near-the-window-on-one-leg-routine
makes CSK win. Good point. Score 1-1.
After a nerve-wracking period of time, finally my son
entered. We rushed to the returning warrior. “How was it?”, “Was it an easy
paper?” and “Did you do well?” all colliding with each other as we fell over
him. A hushed silence as my son very slowly and deliberately, enjoying all the
attention, walked to the sofa and finally pronounced his judgement with a bit
of disdain – “Relax folks. It’s just another exam…”
Slowly and agonizingly, over the next few weeks, the
examinations wound down to an end. Finally, I was looking forward to some peace
and quiet. And some much needed house repainting and Sofa shopping. But our
work is not done yet, claims my wife. So many things can still go wrong. Which
examiner will the paper wind up with? Will he or she be in a good mood while
correcting the paper? Will there be a clerical error? It’s not in my wife’s
nature to leave things to chance. Not when you can bring in the factor of
divine intervention. So, over the next few weeks, we will be in and out of a
bunch of temples, praying to all kinds of gods and promising to do all kinds of
crazy things if everything turns out well.
