March 2012. I stood at the school gate, my heart pounding, fingers clutching my transparent...
March 2012.
March 2012.
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March 2012.
I stood at the school gate, my heart pounding, fingers clutching my transparent pencil box. I turned back one last time—there she was, my mother, giving me a reassuring nod. "Best of luck," she whispered. I nodded back, took a deep breath, and stepped inside.
The instructions had been clear: Only a transparent box, a writing pad, and no calculators. Arrive 30 minutes early. At that time, these rules seemed unnecessary—just another layer of stress before the 10th board exams. Why were they being so strict?
Years later, I found my answer.
I stood outside an examination center—not as a student, but as an IAS and a part of the administration. And suddenly, I saw what I had once been blind to.
I watched as nervous students lined up outside exam centers, some flipping through notes, others murmuring prayers.
But beyond that, beyond the trembling hands and fast-beating hearts—there was an entire machine at work.
Traffic control to prevent congestion, exam papers transported under police security, answer scripts tracked carefully. Drinking water stations were set up, toilets cleaned, signboards placed at every turn. Even power outages were anticipated and backup plans put in place. A sick room was ready, with medical teams on standby, just in case a student felt unwell.
It was an operation that, if done perfectly, would go unnoticed. But if anything went wrong, it would be all over the news.
Yet, amidst the logistics, I saw something else—a quiet understanding among the officials, a shared memory of once being in those very shoes. We had all stood at our own school gates once, hearts racing, minds running through last-minute revisions. And maybe that’s why, no matter how complex the task, we tried to make it just a little easier for the students.
Because we remembered!
Then, the first bell rang. And for a fleeting moment, I was 15 years younger, standing at that school gate, my mother’s voice a fragile thread of comfort in the cold March air.
"Best of luck"
I whispered it now, too—softly, to no one and to everyone.
Then, as the doors closed behind them, I stepped back, blending into the machinery that made it all work. Because today, it wasn’t about us. It was about them!