Failure is Alright

Me, back in 11th grade

It was the month of September in the year 2001. I had just moved to Calicut from Muscat, after completing nearly 2 months into my 9th grade. It was a rather gloomy evening. I particularly remember the month and year, because, on that particular day, the world had changed forever. America was under attack, and that is all you could find on the television channels. Even the rather bland national television channel Doordarshan was blaring the news into the drawing-room at my grandparents' home through the old yet reliable Aiwa TV.

As the world changed, so did my life. Earlier in the day, I was handed the news that I could not continue in 9th grade, and would have to repeat 8th grade. It was pretty shitty news to digest, considering that it is ingrained into the psyche of a typical Indian kid that failure is never an option. It took me one whole year to comprehend the fact that failure is nothing but a detour to bigger, better things.  

The reason I decided to write on this topic (I have discussed this with a lot of people but have never disclosed in writing) is because of all the hullabaloo behind the CBSE question paper leak (https://bit.ly/2WlbjXC). After the news of the leak broke out, the very next day, newspapers carried out full-length copies of how the students were mentally unprepared and how stressed out they were thinking about having to write the exams again. To the poor souls out there, I would like to ask you to relax. Examinations are never the end of the world. Let me tell you a small anecdote.

A little backstory: My two brothers and I had been born and brought up in Muscat, Oman. Due to circumstances, except my dad, all of us moved back to our hometown of Calicut, India, in 1997. After completing my 6th and 7th grades, my mom, younger brother, and I moved back to Muscat in 2000 to be with Dad.

When I moved back, I really wanted to get back with my division 'F' classmates in ISWK, whom I had last met in '97 (5th grade). But as luck would have it, that very year, the 'F' division of the 8th grade was split up into the remaining divisions. After much lobbying, we got back our 'F' division and spent one more year together in the same class. But the honeymoon was short-lived. Come 9th grade, we were all split again. But it was a fresh start, with Mr. Dragwidge, our English and class teacher creating an atmosphere unlike any I had been in before. All was going well until I was broken the news that we would be moving back to India again. I was heartbroken. Just as I was getting ready to settle in, we were back on the move.

After packing our bags, nearly a year after we moved back, we were on our way to Calicut again. Then, it was a marathon to get me admitted to a possible school in the 9th grade. Naturally, our first stop was the school from where I had left a year back - Hill Top Public School. I do not remember the reason why, but I was not able to secure a seat there. We went to a few other schools. But everywhere we went, we were met with some excuse or the other - some financial, others genuine, some academic and yet others - random ridiculousness.

Finally, we went to MES Raja Residential School in Pavangad. I was asked to write exams in all subjects if I had to secure a seat in the 9th grade. I wasn't a particularly bright student, nor were my marks from my previous year warranting immediate admittance. I thought it was fair for them to test my aptitude in the subjects I would be taking up. And boy, did I show them? I failed in all, except English. I even scored a zero in Hindi and Maths. I still remember sitting in the Vice-Principal's office, with my mom and grandfather pleading to admit me into the 9th grade. But, the Vice-Principal was adamant that I be admitted to the 8th grade instead of ninth, because of my 'brilliant' test results. Well, something was better than nothing. And the deal was done - I would be enrolled in 8th grade. Again.

I do not think I cried that evening, but I was definitely disappointed. But more than that, I was sad to have let down my parents. They had done everything for me, and I could not pass a simple all-subject test. While I did sulk a bit, thinking of having to repeat an entire year, and remained moody through the rest of the year, I took it in my stride and marched on.

I always had a feeling that 9th grade would make something out of me. It was Mr. Dragwidge's effect, I reckon. It was in 9th grade that I engrossed myself in extracurricular activities. It was also the year that I actually started writing. Having forged new friendships, I was able to balance academics and extracurricular with relative ease - something I had rarely done before.

My final five years of high school were spent in that very school. And let me set the record straight - I was still the typical student with average results in all tests, except in the languages where I scored well. While studies put me in the ordinary bracket, I had an excellent rapport with the teachers, be it on their Bruce Banner or Hulk side.

My moment of redemption for the disappointment and humiliation I faced in 2001, came on a sunny morning 3 years later. After our 10th grade CBSE exams, I decided to continue in the same school on account of really close friendships and the familiar routine. Around June or July, after our 11th grade had begun, I was summoned to the Vice-Principal's office. I seldom got into trouble, and it was somewhat surprising to learn that I was being asked for, and that too to the Vice-Principal's office. I went along with our docile English and class teacher Ms. Jalaja, who kept insisting that I wasn't in trouble. We made it to the lair of the Vice-Principal. The room was filled with the class teachers of 11th grade, the headmistress, and a couple of other teachers, if I remember right. The atmosphere in the room almost always felt drab and gloomy to me. And then the Vice-Principal spoke: "So I've spoken to the teachers, and they have recommended your name for the School Captain. Are you up for it?" (Our school didn't have student elections, and our teachers recommended names for a captain and vice-captain. And, generally, they would be selected from the 11th and 9th grade, respectively.)

The general disdain for me was visible when those words came out of her mouth, but boy, was I up for it? Before you know, the boy who was almost denied admission three years back had become the captain of the very same school. The boy who failed every subject except English had somehow rooted himself and spread his wings. That was redemption. That was satisfaction.

But, being the school captain never stopped me from flunking my annual chemistry exam that year or retaking some other paper. I did somehow scrape past my 11th grade and eventually 12th grade as well, but failure never stopped me.

To all the boys and girls out there, I want to tell you - do not be afraid to fail. Failure is not the end of the journey, but it is the beginning of a whole new story. You never know the course of your life, and hindrances are just a part of it. What matters is not what has happened in the past, but what you make of yourself in the future.

How We Were Taught Part 4 (surpassing Part 3)

The school that provided a cacophony o f memories

A week back, after being constantly hounded by friends, I decided to make a Whatsapp group for our batchmates from MES Raja Residential School, Pavangad, where I spent the last five years of my school life. The chitter-chatter that ensued on the group encouraged me to continue the series, which has seen the longest lag on this blog. It is this institution and the atmosphere it presented me and the friends that it gifted me, that has influenced me the most. 

My entry into the school was not something I really cherish. After getting out of Hilltop and then after just a year in Muscat, I came to MES unwillingly. I was into the third month of my schooling in the ninth grade at ISWK, when I had to come back to India, after Dad met with an accident. After reaching Calicut, no school agreed to take me in. The main reason being that they had already registered for something in the CBSE (the national syllabus board) exams. MES agreed to take me in, provided I was a genius. Which I so was not. They made me take an exam in each and every subject in the eighth grade. I flunked in all, except one – English. And then they made a proposition – I could sit in eighth grade again, or not take a seat at all. Without another choice, I joined. 

I was apparently a giant when I got into VIII-B. And my fashion didn't help me sullen down my gigantism - over-sized shirt with baggy pants (almost like a hobo). I seemed so out of place, even without wanting to. 

I still remember to this day, my first friend in the school – Deepak Das (whom incidentally, I got to get in touch with again, last month, at a men’s fashion store in my hometown, where he was the store manager). Deepak helped me to get into the groove of the life that I was to spend at MES then. Our class teacher, Sharmila miss, taught Malayalam (which was third language for me; the second being Hindi). On her insistence, one of the more all-round student (and also the class leader then) was asked to help me. And that’s how I got to meet Nunna (today a mother of three and a medical student - respect!). 

Both Nunna and Deepak helped me through the initial days. Even when Shameem, one of the ‘cool kids’, very playfully gave me a fresher’s welcome – grilling me with some of the most ridiculous questions, answer to which were quiet embarrassing. The initiation ceremony was concluded by him quizzing about a local soft pornstar’s latest film (which i very diligently answered). It was all taken in the stride, and before I knew it, I got into the act of school life in Calicut for a lengthier term. A crush developed, I religiously failed in a number of math exams and so on and so forth. But it wasn’t the favourite term of my school life. 

Ninth grade takes the cake, for being the best year of my life (after 2012, maybe). It was the 2002-03' academic year that changed my life. It was also the year I met Anusha, my best friend from school (this year marks a decade of our friendship). It is also in the ninth grade, I ‘found’ Vivek, Faris, Shamnad (the now famous back-benchers), Ashwin (aka Assman), Izhak, Akhtar, Nahana, Adithi and so many more friends that I will cherish forever. 

After breaking the two division pattern that was followed in eighth grade, ninth had three divisions – A,B,C. And we were the A divisioners. Our class teachers also varied throughout the year. We started off with Archana ma’am, a lazy eyed Geography teacher, who had to leave half way through. Then came Farzana miss, an English miss who understood youngsters as youngsters should be (and also reminded Vivek of a girl called Manasi he met in Bhopal on one of the National Science Drama competition traveling days. I can still hear him go on and on and on about that girl! God!) – thereby making her a class favourite for the best teacher ever.

But it was Subhan Babu, our Islamic studies teacher - a tiny man with a praying mantis like stance - who takes the 'most-interesting' teacher award for the ninth grade. He was not exactly a terror, but he got everyone's attention. It was he who remarked to a boy in our class, (when the boy wore really tight pants), that he would not be able to have kids in the future if he wore the pants any tighter. I think that kid is today the HR manager of an IT company , but has not been able to prove the theory of Subhan Babu to this day (not that i know of). And then there is the incident involving Shinaan, during our class tour, which i had earlier written in a post on this very blog five years back. Hate him or like him, you couldn't ignore the enterprise that was Subhan Babu. (last i heard, he was teaching somewhere in Sharjah).

There were poems written by groups, yes, you heard that right – a single poem written by a group of three-four people. There were who-could-be-the-funniest competitions (although it was more of who could torture you the most with their PJ's competition), there were fights between the different divisions (especially between A & C), there were literary competitions, there were silly pranks played on the least suspecting friends (the girls in front of the last benchers were usually the guinea pigs. Yes - Anusha, Adithi, Nahana - you are exactly who we are talking about). Ninth was a cacophony of memories aplenty.

The next year was back to normalcy, since we had the 'earth-shattering', 'mind-numbing', 'life-altering' (exact words used by our teachers) board exams coming up. But the exams were just 'meh', and school life all the more fun. 

The divisions were again conjoined this time to form just two - A & B. Our class teacher, Jalaja miss, a sweet doeful lady, taught us english, and took more than a willing role in getting to know more about our personal stories rather than the fiction in the text books. But all said and done, she was a wonderful teacher. 

Then there was Sindhu miss - who taught us geography like nobody else ever did. Her funda was - learn what she gives you, then she'd test you on the same matter, and if you passed that, then you could sit in class. Every recess, you could see a line of us (usually the boys) lining up in front of the staff room, to get the mountains, rainfall and the rajma chaaval statistics of the country right. Once again, it was more of a learning experience rather than punishment. All of us were eager to learn for her class, and i think she got the result, as many of us got marks in social studies in the excess of 90 percent during the finals.

I don't know when i started hating maths, but it seems to be exactly when i started failing the subject, the first instance being in my eighth grade. Along with not liking the subject came not liking the teacher too. But that was not the case with our teacher in the tenth grade -  Hema miss. She instilled the confidence, that i could at least pass maths. But i did not just pass it, i came close to getting around the whereabouts of 80 percent for my finals. For that, but more importantly, just for being an awesome teacher, i respect her. 

Then there was Asha miss, who seemed older than the institution we were under. She had that experience - and she'd been teaching hindi for close to three decades by the time she taught us. As Nahana reminded me while discussing on the same subject on chat - Hindi period meant free period. Asha miss would get over with our lessons with timed precision. All we had to do was listen to her as she went from story after story, poem after poem and grammar classes after grammar classes. Before you knew it, there would be no more to learn, and thus we would sit ducks, which is not entirely true, because we would be upto our mischievous best, even though there were only six or eight of us in the class. Once, Vivek took the opportunity of the freeness in the class and started crooning 'thadap thadap ke' from the movie 'Hum dil de chuke sanam'. Faris, not to be outdone, started translating the song as Vivek sang on. For the line - 'aisa kya guna kiya, ki lutt gayi' - came the hilarious translation - anganatthe enthu gunann njan cheythath - from Faris (apologies to the non Malayalee readers, but the joke's relevant only in Malayalam). But coming back to Asha miss, to reiterate her influence on me, (even though my Hindi speaking abilities are still mediocre), you need just go back to my previous blog post, wherein i have tried my level best to translate my favourite Hindi poem by Harivanshrai Bachchan. I first fell in love with it, during one of Asha miss's meticulous classes. Hindi has since then been part of my life, in one way or the other - be it seriously or humourously, it sure is Asha miss's Hindi that i carry forth.

Then there was Sheeja miss - the only terror apart from the principal. For lack of a better word, i reiterate terror, due to the fact that everyone was punctual, up-to-date and in tip-top shape in front of her. She took history and civics for us. There is this one instance, in which she punished us boys, just because we went to play at a ground at the ground near the next bus stop in our school uniforms after school got over! Ok, even today the last line reads - ridiculous. Just imagine - 20-or-so-odd boys standing on the ground, under the hot sun, not knowing what they have done wrong. But punishing so many people out of a class - not a good idea, and before we knew it, we were back in class. (But as i come to think of it now, i think the reason given for punishing us was - we went to play when we had to actually prepare for an exam the coming week, but when did a game of cricket ever hurt anybody or for the teachers sake, lower the score of a kid in an exam?)

Other than these colourful yet wonderful teachers, we also had Anitha miss for chemistry, Beena miss for biology, Rajeev sir for PE and so many more. All played their roles to perfection.

But the title memory of tenth grade would be when a handful of us boys went to Vaseem Kannankandy's house for a sleepover on the eve of our exam results. The excitement of us kids huddled in front of the computer screens, early next morning, eagerly awaiting our results is something that can never be forgotten. All did good. All passed. 

-

It was only in the winter of last year, after six long years, the same boys (along with the addition of a few new ones) got back under the same roof, and crowded around a laptop; albeit this time, watching comedy videos on Youtube.

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(I never knew i would be able to write so much just about my time in MES, so i've decided to leave the rest for another time, another post, same blog. I'd also promised that this post would be about my second stint at ISWK, but that had to wait, after all the nostalgia talking to the 34 odd people on Whatsapp - it's like we never even left school)

P.S.: Other than Sindhu miss and Asha miss, i don't think anybody else teaches at the same school currently.

How We Were Taught, Part 1

Over the past few days, I have been privileged to read some of the most amazing anecdotes by students of their most incredible times in school or their fondness for one teacher or the other. Some in blogs, some picked up by media, some shared and some just stumbled upon. When I look back, I see that it is not just these few people who’ve had some unforgettable times in school. I believe each and everyone of us have a story or the other. I know what you must be thinking right now—uh oh! He is going to take us on his nostalgic trip once again. Well you don’t go wrong there—as I am going to do exactly that!

School for me were three beautiful establishments—the first being ISWK in Muscat, where I began, then HTTPS, Puthiyara in Calicut and finally MESRRS, Pavangad again in Calicut. I still remember vividly when my mom told me that I had to go to school, but before which I had to give an exam. My mom being herself had us gotten started at an early age, teaching us (my brother and me) alphabets and basic counting and giving the best teachers’ experience even before school began in reality for us. It needn’t be anything major, but you give her a book with question and answers and she would sit and hear you out after she asked a question, pointing out mistakes as we went on. And for her part she loved teaching us. She had sat down with each one of us three brothers’ education almost unto eighth grade. But it didn’t stop there; it is through her motivation that the three of us are into as diverse a field as we are in right now.

So coming back to kindergarten, I still remember heading to Muttrah (that was where our school was located, before moving it to the better building-ed Wadi Kabir location), sitting in a classroom full of little kids, each of them finishing up their own tests. After a couple of days I got my results and it turned out that I had done immensely well. But then my mom saw my paper, and she came up to me and showed me where I had gone wrong. There was a math counting exercise in the paper, where I had to write the number of objects that was in a row. Me trying to be a smartass, went on to count the box also in which I had to write the answer. Thereby, losing marks, but jumping to KGII instead of KGI. The first few years I have not much memory of. It seems to me now as if it was all too blurry and way too quick.

But I do remember my class teachers. There was one Mrs. Neethu ma’am who was our teacher in the first or third grade. Again, as I told earlier, too blurry, too quick. But I clearly remember our second grade teacher, Ms. Loraine Pinto. I have for one have been trying to locate her the past few years. But it’s a difficult situation for a teacher to recognize you after like 18 years—either you had to be freakishly talented or annoyingly mischievous. I was an in between student. But yes, Loraine ma’am if you are reading this, I hope this will be a memory refresher. She was a tall teacher, who used to come in these red and grey suits, had long nails which were always painted red, and used to be super fond of all her kids, me more so. I still remember one science exhibition day, she gave me a new red Pilot pen and asks me to finish off the ink in it. I just scribbled the hell out of that pen, and finished off the ink in it and gave it to ma’am. She looked at the pen and then looked at me, I knew I had done something wrong—in my frenzy I had gone on to break the nib of the pen. She had a good laugh and gave me another pen to finish off. She taught us everything—math, English, science, social studies, assignments where you had to stick pictures, colouring within the borders, and to me, my most fantastic sporting achievement ever in school life—winning the inter class sports competition, after losing out to the A division in every practise run. It was the annual sports day, and we had to take part in a team event, where eight of us would line up behind a race line, and one after the other would run to a distance and go and build and rebuild a pyramid made out of soda cans, placed at a table at a distance. Our class, the F division, which would become synonymous to becoming the average class with extraordinary people, was kind of pathetic at it—that is what one would say, when we went on to come in last in almost all the practice runs. The A division even received prizes during these unofficial races. But when it came to the real deal, we surprised even ourselves. We left our best and fastest runner, Aemon, for the last. Each of us, did our best, making and destroying the can-pyramids one after the other. When Aemon ran back after making the pyramid for one last time, we couldn’t believe our eyes- we had won! I clearly remember the excitement that ran through us, when we finished the race—still gives me goosebumps. Yes, primary school was that exciting for us, especially with teachers like Ms. Loraine Pinto.

Where memories began

Then in the fourth grade, I encountered the teacher I will not forget for the rest of my life—Ms. Charmaine Bell. She is to me, the best teacher there ever will be. I still remember her coming into the class, with her curly frizzy hair and big smile, while we rose in chorus - Good morning ma’am! It was she who inculcated in me the will to be capable of anything, the ability to excel and the importance of being a team player. In that one year in fourth grade, I learned so much, that I believe will remain in memory forever and hopefully will be passed on to my own kids. I remember one instance, when we had to do the class play. There was Warren Vaz (who is right now a chemical engineer, if I am not mistaken) and me who were vying for the role of the Prince in the fairy tale, Cinderella. And then there was the wordy role of the narrator. I really wanted the Prince’s role, but Charmaine ma’am was so sweet, that she convinced me to be the narrator, which had more importance and stage presence than any one else. And I had like pages and pages to learn before I could actually go on stage. With the help of my mom, I actually did learn all those lines, by heart. On the day of the play, everything went absolute smooth, and after I had said my last line, I walked backstage, and Charmaine ma’am, comes and grabs me and tells me I had been just plain wonderful, and plants a kiss on my cheek. I hastily rubbed off the lipstick mark on my cheek (as you would see any young boy do), but the pride I felt in me, when she told me what a wonderful job I had done, I don’t think any other instance with any other teacher could equate with that. The very lady moulded us even more going into the fifth standard. (I met up with her in 2010, along with Jonathan, and she is still the sweet frizzy haired lady with a smile that can make anyone's day)

And then in the fifth grade, there was the arrival of another teacher that greatly influenced me in the art of story telling. When he had come, he was a French teacher, and did teach French to the higher classes. But to us, or rather me, he will always remain our temporary-math-teacher-turned-permanent-math-teacher in fifth grade. We were struggling with a replacement for our math teacher. While Mr. Keerthi Kumar, the man forever in the white shirt, pants, shoes and even hair and beard was up for teaching us in a few years, fifth grade required someone less intimidating. So as we waited one fine day for out math teacher to show up, a thin, lanky young spectacled man walks into our classroom. We were like – aha another substitute, another free period, we are gonna have some free fun time. But then how Mr. Sivakumar got us hooked on for the next half hour is beyond comprehension. He started off by asking us to close the curtains in the classroom in the first place. After which he goes on to tell us one of the most genuinely scary stories of all times. The atmosphere created by him was absolutely electric. There was the chill in the air, there was the simplistic manner in which he actually transported us to the location – it was just pure magic. That was it, the next time Mr. Sivakumar came to our class, he was teaching us math, and from time to time, the brilliant scary stories. I have told that story now to an entire battalion of cousins over various trips to a number of places around the Middle East and back home in India, and even so do too to this day. His popularity was so immense that he was even invited over for birthday parties, where again he weaved his magical story telling ability. From being a substitute, to being a part time math teacher, to a full time favourite – you sir, are indeed an inspiration to this day. (Mr. Sivakumar went on to teach French to my other friends over the next few years).

But then it is not like other teachers didn't exist. There were others without whom we could not have made it through those young years, and I betcha my classmates who are reading this will remember, and hopefully one day all us kids and teachers can meet so that we can tell you from the bottom of our hearts, a big thank you!

We shall now take a small interval, since after the fifth grade, I too left ISWK for a couple of years, moving back to India. But that as we all know, folks, is for another post, another day and another time.

(Yes, I have restarted my shameless to-be-continued series of posts)
(But pliss be the kind and bear with me J)

The Shower Cubicle Incident

This happened during our 10th grade, during a tour from the school to the Hill Stations in Kerala, South India. This particular incident happened when we stayed over at Idukki at a place called Greenland lodge. We had to stay over for the night because we had seen enough sites for the day, and were to head for our next destination the coming morning. 

 It was a fun night, I tell you. We had a huge dormitory. Some guys were lucky enough to get rooms (which was shared among four of them). But it was more fun in the dorms. There was the occasional trying out new stuff (like – “hey who’s smoking in here?”). 

We never knew when the sun shone on our faces. It was freezing cold out there, being a hill-station and all. We were asked to get ready by the two teachers who accompanied us. The teacher accompanying the boys was our moral studies’ teacher. Now, the girls were provided with well to do wash facilities, and most importantly, bathrooms with doors and latches on them. While the boys were shown the imperial bath suites – a gym washroom setup, but instead of doors, just curtains in its place.

There were 5 shower outlets, and so five of us took our baths at the same time. There was this one friend of ours, who was a complete laugh riot. You wouldn’t even know when time passes by when he is around. This friend of ours went into the shower cubicle. He turned on the shower, that is when it hit him – he’d forgotten to take the soap. He ran (obviously with a towel around his waist) and made it to the dorm, rummaged through his luggage, got the thing that he was looking for, and made it back to the shower cubicle. 

But alas, the cubicle was occupied. The curtains were closed. And somebody was taking a shower. Now Shinaan had been waiting in queue for long to take a bath. And when by chance he got it to himself, somebody took it over. This couldn’t happen. Our friend went ballistic. He shouted to the person inside the shower cubicle – “Hey asshole! Get the <beep> out of the <beep> shower. I’ve been waiting in here for <beep> time, and you <beep> take it all away. <beep> you!!! <beeper beep beeping beeper>!!!”

The person inside turns the shower off. And then a familiar voice came from inside – “If you have finished, you can please move aside. You might not want to face me when I come out.” 

It was our moral studies teacher. 

Mischief Helps

This took place during our final term of our eleventh standard in India. The year would be around March 2005. The final exams were just around the corner and all were quite engrossed in books and stuff. But not us three – Fathima, Anis and myself. We were the three inseparable stooges of our class. No, not just the class, but the school.

Anis and myself wanted to go to Fathima’s home since long. She had a lunch to give us, which was long overdue. And Fathima being a good friend of ours decided to invite us to her house (after waiting for almost half the year). Her mom is preacher and takes classes frequently outside her home. And then the expected day arrived
We had our final exams going on at the time of this unforgettable experience. And the next day the exam was chemistry. Oh what with all the organic chemistry to learn who would go into learning chemistry. Fath’s mom left for her classes in the afternoon to some distant place. Fath seizing the opportunity invited us over to her home. She lived with just her mom and her maid. The rest of her family was in Saudi Arabia. She was the only one studying in India. At first she struck a deal with her maid Zeenath as to allowing us to get into the house with her mom knowing nothing about it. Fath had to allow Zeenath to watch T.V., that’s all. And so the deal was finalized. Zeenath even prepare fried rice for us.

Us, anis and myself were scared to our very inner beings at the prospect of going to a girl’s home without either of her parents knowing. But we accepted the challenge and left for Fath’s home by1 in the afternoon. Anis came to pick me up on his Honda bike and we bought some refreshments and headed unto Fath’s home.

Fath quickly ushered us in as Zeenath hurried to take in our shoes (no clues should be left behind). So we entered Fath’s home at last. We had lunch (mmmm…the fried rice did taste real good), played monopoly, watched movies and had a lot of fun. We didn’t know how the time went by us. Suddenly the time was 4. it had been three hours since we had arrived here. The topic of our talk shifted from fun to our chemistry exam. As soon as I heard chemistry, I immediately went to Fath’s room and took her chemistry text and started reading from it. The other two did not join in. They started discussing about as to how they could bunk the exam next day. They kept giving suggestions, like Fath went – ‘ How about putting your head in the water and then standing under the fan?’, I told them the fact about cold and that one can’t catch a cold like that. Then Anis said that it was enough that one sprained their arm to keep them stay back at home for at least a day. I was still looking into the chemistry book while these two plotted their own disappearance tomorrow. Fath decided to sprain her arm. But she couldn’t do it on her own. She asked Anis to do it for her. And when he was about to twist her hand, we heard the horn – Fath’s mom! She was back. Aaagghhhh!!! We started to panic. But Zeenath had it all under control. She asked us to move to the backdoor, and wait for her signal. Fathima quickly went and opened the gate for her mother, while we went to the backdoor and hid behind the well. Our shoes were already kept there. As soon as Fath’s mom entered the house Zeenath gave us the signal and we quickly took on to the front of the house while Fath kept her mom busy. After that we left the place and headed back to our respective homes.
After some time all of us were again online on the phone, in conference. Each had their own mobile. Fath and Anis kept talking about how to bunk classes. I just kept giving my comments on each plan. Finally the decision was taken. I was sent to the pharmacy by these two people to enquire as to whether anything would happen if someone takes in a little dose of washing powder. I enquired and they said that it’s quite a trip to the toilet. So Anis and Fath decided to get upset stomachs to bunk the exams the next day. So at 9 that night, we were again on conference. After the plan I had sat down to study, whilst these two were having a ball by just thinking about the plan. We spoke to each other as the two dank two tablespoons of washing powder with water. Fath vomited the first time, but then she took courage and drank again. That was the night. We had to wait until the next morning to see if something would go wrong with each others stomachs.

You must be thinking that they must be going to the bathroom now and then. That was not the case. Nothing happened to both of them. They had no sorts of effects with the intake of washing powder. I was getting tensed out here about what I had learned and not, while they were now acting sick with their parents, telling them all sorts of ‘I-just made-that-up’ type of pains. As has to be with concerned parents, they were asked not to go to the school in that condition. I was the only one among us three who went to write the exam. But to my relief the headmistress called the two at their respective homes and said that they have to write the exams and go. So Anis came 2 hours later, wrote 1 or 2 questions out of 15 and left. Fath came an hour later and wrote anything she knew (which was limited).

So the exams were all over. Anis and Fath’s ‘bunk-the-exam’ plan had failed. I wrote the exams as much as they wrote, but didn’t try to act my way out of the exams. But the irony of it all comes out in the end – d-day – the results. When the results came out, guess who had to take a retest in that subject? Me! While the other two – Anis and Fath passed out without any trouble. Looks like mischief making can get you somewhere. Unfortunately I decided against it that day. And they enjoyed their holidays while I had to learn for my retest in chemistry. Oh, the irony!