I walked into an exam hall after years – and loved every anxious minute of it

Today, as I walk into the huge BIT college, that is my exam centre, I am taken back to those heady college years — hanging around nervously with friends a few moments before entering the hall (only to wish I hadn’t as I realise that I have forgotten to study some super-important stuff), while simultaneously realising that I’ve forgotten to wear my bloody watch; and of course, always at the back of my mind, those damn pens whose ink seems to dry up the minute some serious writing is attempted. All of this is not nostalgia anymore; it’s the reality, and I (secretly) relish it.

Of course, right now I am friendless. This is one of those distance learning programmes where no one knows anyone. But at the same time, there’s tension in the air, and also the lovely smell of coffee. I spot a college canteen (Yes! Another college experience to cherish) and head over for a cup that clears my slightly heavy head. It’s not had to strain itself like this for a very long time now, and while all this is fun and games, there is, after all, an exam to take.

I head to the noticeboard to find the room number I’m to take my exam in, chuckling over notices like “Stray candidates must report to Room No 621”. The hall is large and has the standard benches and long tables. I find a nice bright spot, wipe down the dust on the table and get ready. A few candidates are gathered outside, studying from fearsome textbooks. One lady has marked dozens of pages with posh post-its, but I am heartened to see a small study guide in someone else’s hand. All my student life, I had looked down on anyone who studied from a guide, but now, they are my go-to, as well as Chat GPT, which further breaks down the guide’s clumsy way of explaining things. If nothing else, at least studying in this phase of life has humbled me.

(The XII-grader daughter recently gave me a dressing down when she saw me doing my project with the help of You-Know-What. It’s plagiarism, she scoffed, and ensured I’m not doing something totally illegal.)

The exam starts without ado, and Pen No. 1 gives up within the first hour, but at least the questions make sense, and I think I can answer them.

“Excuse me, can I go to the toilet?” an older man sitting a few rows behind me asks the young examiner.

“Ummm… ok, come fast,” she replies.

The candidate next to me is restless. She stretches, sits back and thinks deeply. A few young men behind me, who look like young army men, are occasionally talking in whispers.

Half an hour later, the examiner is telling someone off.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you are doing, sir. Please hand over that chit. I know that’s why you went to the toilet.”

I’m awaiting an angry retort, for after all, this is a full- grown man. Instead, there is silence. Perhaps, he’s reliving his glorious old days when he sneaked in chits, and this is a little (cheap) thrill from the past.

Time is running out, so there’s no time to gawp, though I’m running out of things to say. I feel for the poor evaluator, as my handwriting moves from scrawl to scribble, though, of course, I am the one who will be feeling poorly thanks to the marks I may get. I try to make up for it by underlining key phrases. It used to impress evaluators, but then that information is aeons old. Who knows what impresses them now?

I totter out of the hall, three hours later, my limbs stiff, back slightly achy, feeling every muscle. On the way out, a nice hot egg puff rejuvenates me, and I sit on a ledge around a shady tree in the winter sun, surrounded by young people chattering away in groups. The couple who sit on the opposite ledge catches my eye — they’re sharing some hot cheese Maggi, and I decide that’s what I will get after the next exam.

It’s good to be in the groove again. It’s good to feel young.

PS: Aforementioned XIIth grader was asked to proofread this article. She approved, but with a rejoinder: “Why are you wasting your time when you should be studying instead?” Being young has its cons, I remember now.