Picnic of the Year

"Exams don’t tell you anything," said someone years ago.

"You can’t label one a fool and another a genius on the basis of his/her marks," he argued with anyone who dared to think otherwise.

So everyone scoffed and whispered behind his back, "A genius such as him can afford to say that." But today, I quite agree with him.

Last month I had my final exams. Preparations began a month earlier, with regular trips to the college library. The Xerox machines worked full time and some of us formed study groups. We did however continue to frequent discos, theatres and popular eating joints, but we also made time for some studying as well.

But when the exams began, we realized we were fools.

We were emailed a list of fifteen subjects, of which we could choose any six (Even if those six subjects had no connection with the subjects you were specializing in). Each day there would be three exams. I made sure I had an exam a day, so I wouldn’t feel overworked and tired at the end of the day. The first paper was on Radio Production. We hadn’t had any classes on Radio Production the whole year, so a majority of the class was expecting general questions. So close to a hundred did the paper and answered simple questions like “History of Radio.” The next exam however was on Current Affairs. After last year’s debacle no one wanted to take a risk with it again.(A football fanatic had prepared last year’s question paper. So we got several questions on football. I, among others was confident of just one question in the paper; “Why was Russell Crowe in the news recently”? Happily I wrote, “He won the Oscar for best actor.”)

So predictably, only a select five who read more than three newspapers took the test.

For invigilators, we had men and women who spoke only Marathi. They stood a safe distance away, looking suspiciously at the boys who walked in with earrings, nose rings and eyebrow rings. We didn’t have hall tickets, and we could sit wherever we wanted. So those intending to copy settled down in the last row with friends and bits of paper cramped with as many answers as possible.

Five minutes before two, we were asked to put away our bags and books. Everyone obeyed and soon the question papers were distributed. There was sudden silence and the writing began. But not for long.

Some of the boys decided it was time to make a trip to the toilet. Before the exams, notebooks and library books had been carefully hidden there. The invigilator let them out, and they rushed back minutes later, so they could quickly write out whatever they had mugged in the toilet. The damsels in distress got help from such Samaritans as well. Generously, answers were whispered audibly, so everyone in the vicinity got to hear the answer. The angry invigilator often interrupted them.

"Kya hai”?

“Nothing Madam. Hum discuss kar rahe hain.”

She would then make futile attempts to frighten them. Nothing worked. The discussion groups simply got bigger and bolder.
The students also had another big problem. During the course of the exam, they would start getting hungry. Picking up their wallet, they would simply march out (By now permission wasn’t being asked for anymore). They would walk down to the canteen, buy biscuits, chips and coffee, and return. On reaching the classroom, those who weren’t hungry would also develop sudden pangs of hunger on seeing these people. But we were a generous class. Biscuits were thrown across to people sitting in all corners. Coffee cups were handed down, so everyone got a sip.

The invigilator simply sat in front, staring vacantly out of the window.

The seating arrangements were hilarious. Since you could sit anywhere, all those part of the discussion groups in class sat together at the back. Those of us who felt strongly about not copying sat in the first two rows. In-between was this big empty space that was sometimes occupied by the invigilator. She would sit on various benches there, and stare helplessly at those copying.

The exams really were a farce. Those of us who studied disliked the fact that the faculty did nothing about it. But what could they do?

The ones who were copying had jobs waiting for them. The syllabus prescribed ancient, irrelevant topics. And what you needed to know for the world outside, they knew. Everyone had some work experience to boast off. Jobs lay waiting for them. So who cared about exams that asked questions about Eisenstien’s film theories?

I don’t blame them. We do study a lot of unnecessary things that don’t help in any way. So maybe the solution to unethical means of writing exams, is a completely new syllabus that prepares you for life ahead, instead of simply testing your mugging skills.