Cut. Cross. Alright, there’s something written. But alas, empty pages again, and I strike them out with red.
Flipping ahead, I discover more sheets almost untouched by pen, some with gibberish sprinkled, demanding more crosses than ticks.
I finally arrive at the last page, it’s marked ‘Rough’. I strike it down.
Among the myriad of hundreds and ninety-nines, here’s one who has achieved the impossible, an F.
The most significant entrance examination, students vying for that coveted engineering college, and this one, so casual.
But then, what’s all that English doing in Maths Rough Work?
I’m curious, I read.
“Whoever you are, I know you’ve judged me already. I sat up all night, gave it a last try. But I don’t even want to be an engineer. I liked studies, but being pressured to excel and compete, being constantly compared, bullied by peers, loathed by teachers and parents…. I just hate my life.
I can’t see the shame in my parents’ eyes. If you could, tell my Mom I loved her.”
I’m trembling, my eyes well up. Never have I come so close to death.
I’m sorry, I whisper a silent prayer. For judging, for being part of this horrible system.
Note: This story was adjudged Runner Up in BTB Nov 25 contest.
