I have been through the A-Z of exam stress. A for acute nausea, which occurred when I first checked the syllabus, three days before the exam. B for book trauma triggered by the realisation that I did not have several textbooks, and it was too late to go out and buy them. C for cruel fate, which always ensured that the three chapters I left out were the ones most prominently featured in the test paper. D for delirium, when I actually knew one of the answers. E for extremely shady, which is how I would behave when people asked me later how it went. F for fried food, which I needed in large quantities. G for Gargi, who once taught me during an exam that girls have certain inherent advantages, by flipping the book she was copying from under her skirt, leaving the invigilator nonplussed. H for Horlicks, which my mother would make me drink, thanks to which I have a lifelong aversion to undistilled malt. I for the inevitability of failure. J for Jaba Kusum hair oil, applied liberally to cool the brain, with extra on the day of the Math exam. K for the knowledge pill, which I kept hoping someone would invent. L for the little spasms that clutched my chest, as the panic attacks came and went. M for massive optimism, which led me to believe that I could finish six chapters in the next three hours. N for Nazia Hassan, whose music my neighbour would play while I tried to memorise Organic Chemistry. O for Organic Chemistry, then and now, a thing of horror. P for Panipat, whose battles I always mixed up. Q for Question Papers, in bound volumes larger than my head, which I would leaf through, hopelessly, as the Horlicks grew cold near my elbow. R for Rotomac, a pen that I am ashamed to admit, I used frequently. S for sympathy, which my classmates did not display when I begged them for their notes, even though there were times when I cried. T for the Tips and Tricks series, which was not as useful as I hoped, and never advised me to start studying earlier. U for unemployment, staring me in the face. V for victory, which I had no hope of achieving. W for wedding bells, which grew fainter and fainter as my prospects for a job receded. X for xeroxing, the discovery of which seemed to make learning how to draw countries and creatures unnecessary and unjustified. Y for Yashodhara, a teacher whose beauty distracted us from geography (or was it history?) leaving us particularly unprepared for exams in that subject. Z for zero, both the marks I expected, and what my teachers said I would amount to. We were both wrong, but just barely. Those times were times of great suffering, but now I see them as a good thing. Whenever things look bad, and the end seems near, with neither hope nor help visible on the horizon, usually around Tuesday, I remind myself that I don’t have to sit for exams any more.
The writer’s most recent novel, Murder With Bengali Characteristics, is set in the near future, where they still haven’t invented the knowledge pill