A short story: The Test

The Test

Hallowed be his name; his kingdom it was— he thought to himself. What were the odds?

Why, it was no one but he; he who had never thought to have tasted the savouriness of success in a more manifesting manner, and now he, a boy of fifteen called Binay, believed he had.  Half, or rather three quarters, of the class had failed the Physics assessment. The generally celebrated topper among the lads sulked more at present than when he would miss the full marks by a score or two; even then, he vainly flipped though the sheets to check if the evaluator had made a mistake in adding any mark to the total. Back-benchers laughed about everything, it was all a stomach rending jape to them, each told a lower score than the previous and laughed harder—the new lowest scorer the hardest—and then they reminisced the treatment they received at home after they had told their parents scores of previous tests in other subjects; and now they too, one by one, proceeded to sulk.

Students had begun to queue up at the teacher’s table, to clarify why they did not deserve any more, and, majorly, to convince the teacher that they indeed deserved more. Meanwhile, Binay, in all his humble mediocrity, could hardly believe he had scored more than the topper. The news of his marks hadn’t come directly from the boy’s mouth, but, you know—toppers can hardly keep their marks secret. Binay managed an awkward grin in his attempt to hide his triumphant feeling of superiority with an untrue humility, when boys from the neighbouring benches came to know, and soon he was in the limelight. He lost possession over his answer sheets, as they were passed around and across the room, from one pair of hands to the next, from one desktop to the other, and stealthily they compared their answers to his. Then one of the lot discovered what was awry, finally. 

“Hey, Binay!” some boy called out to him from the benches behind, and Binay replied with “Yeah?”

“Man, you sly fox,” he chukled.

“What?” said Binay, unprepared— almost hurt.

“You answered an extra question,” answered the boy named Chetan, “didn’t you?”

To that, his first answer was no answer at all. What was he supposed to think of it? Involuntarily, a scowl formed on Binay; incredulous, he broke into an unwelcome sweat. “And you got some marks for it. That made the impossible possible, eh?” Chetan laughed, and induced the other boys to giggle along. In his excitement, Binay hadn’t really cared to add up the marks. He wasted no time in grabbing the paper from him, and started scanning every mark for every answer. “Why don’t you tell the teacher?” blurted one of the boys. “Honestly, we’re so jealous”, said he, and displayed his teeth in a ritual that begged to not be called a mere grin.

Binay contemplated the number of friends he had in the room, who could help him evade getting caught, or at least stand for his cause. He knew why he didn’t have any; he was so unpopular— good, honest, shy kids never—oh wait! Where’s Atul?  There; Atul stood in the queue, shaking a leg with sodding impatience and riveted to his answer sheet in a keen glare, perhaps still having trouble digesting a low score. Binay had to believe it, the evidence lay naked before him as he bent over his sheets, and when he looked up to meet the phantom gaze upon him, he saw the till-hence undisputed topper, unfairly stripped of glory, looking straight at him, eyebrows barely apart.

To Binay, he was the sovereign who had sniffed the usurpative ploy of a disgraceful schemer.

“Let me see it”, mouthed the lad, and stretched out his arm from two rows away. Binay couldn’t remember any recent time when he had been so afraid of losing something. Promptly, he shook his head like a dog drying itself. The topper grunted subtly and beckoned Binay’s answer sheets towards himself, again. Binay observed the situation at the teacher’s desk; it was Atul’s turn to be denied hope— from what could be made from his shrunken face and the frequent wan smiles he smiled to preserve polite acceptance of the teacher’s judgement. Then Binay’s answer sheets fluttered away.

“Hey, hey! Hey!” Binay exclaimed loud and clear for the world to hear. The topper had some friends that qualified more as worshippers or sidekicks, or so Binay thought of them; and one of them had got hold of his test papers and was sneaking it to the boss that the big topper boy was. Like a sink, the commotion sucked in the bustle in the air not fast, but steadily. Binay had thrown out his arms to get back the classified documents, which added to the drama in the scene. Everything happened swiftly. The moment the teacher started addressing the actors in the act, Binay burst with complaint.

“Ma’am, he took my test paper,” he said, pointing at the accused, “and isn’t giving it back!”

At times like this, one expects the superlative degree of raptness of attention from the class. With bovine expressions and simian curiosity four score eyes gorged on the scene. The poor kid of a criminal meanwhile tried to stutter an excuse and was mercilessly cut short by the teacher.

“Shush! Not a word! Have I permitted you to sneak a look at other people’s answer sheets? Too curious, aren’t you, Damodar?”

“B-But Madam, I never—”

“No; have I?”

The boss sat showing hardly any concern, he sat like a young man who had never asked for a surreptitious look into some kind of personal belonging; if he was anxious at all, he hid it well— and stared blankly at the prime suspect. Binay imagined himself in the shoes of the boy who took his papers to begin with, and decided that the awkwardness of the situation itself would make him feel so guilty he’d wish he imploded into a singularity. The poor boy fumbled at the options he had, and finally got overwhelmed by the urge of spitting out—

“Sorry. I’m sorry, Ma’am.”

“Are you, now? For all I know, you could be saying that just for its sake.”

Damodar, the boy, was bereft of an ideal reply; despite knowing no one could prove it, he said he meant the apology. He looked at Binay, appeared to have remembered his whole motive, turned to the teacher to say something, and cut it out for goodness’ sake.

“You shall have a score deducted from your total, nonetheless, for causing the ruckus.” Binay almost heard the teacher say it. He played out the furthering of the spicy plot in his head; seeing Damodar with his ruined ego and all, pleading with the teacher to let him go and his marks stay. Then he returned to the world on hearing the teacher tell Damodar to give back the papers to Binay, but when she said, “Never mind; give it to me” instead: he sensed peril.

“All right,” the teacher announced while sneaking a peek at her watch, “it’s time; the class ends now. Give your papers back. Come on, quick!” The period ended with the sonorous ring of the school gong, and Binay sighed in his head, oblivious to any smart reason behind his caution. That was it. The school gave over for the day.

Besides being afraid of crowds, yet always craving to be unanimously adored, it was in Binay’s nature to ruminate pointlessly. The subjects of his brooding made him imagine hypothetical scenarios and far-fetched philosophies too preposterous to be shared, and it was customary for him to be caught off guard, to the extent that sometimes he would be completely lost when a stranger asked for directions to a nearby place he walked past daily; like on another day, he had stood flabbergasted when asked for directions to a nearby school in the locality, before Atul had rescued him and answered on his behalf. This time, heading down the stairs, he imagined he felt a demonic presence about himself. The feeling wasn’t mild enough to let him ignore it. It was a sixth sense— of being rained with loath, of suddenly becoming a centre of attention, but looking around, he only saw other pupils merrily accompanied by each other or hurriedly scaling down the stairs. Then a tight, gentle slap landed on his back.

His astonishment was followed by dread, except Atul’s voice called out to him, “Oy brother, ha’ much have you got?”

Binay relaxed before tensing. Atul was quite a compadre of his, the friendship extended beyond sharing lunch or notes; he had his trust on him and his company just made him feel good. But of course, he had unjustly got to best the topper by four whole marks! The question was whether his chum knew. Binay decided to go with a negative as the answer. He said, “You don’t know?”

“Uh, no. Was I supposed to?”

“Well, I topped the test, mate.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes”, His pitch rose and then fell through the single syllable. Then he told him the number.

“You know what people are saying?”

“About what?”

When Atul kept staring at him, Binay said, “Let me guess; me, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

This was what he had been dreading. Atul knew. Atul knew that his pal who he had perhaps thought of as an epitome of sincerity, had had all its stock compromised when the time had come to own up. Binay consoled himself with the idea that anybody in his place would have kept quiet—perhaps ... or would have they? He felt the apprehension crawl in. His schoolbag felt heavy with his guilt. “Well, I don’t believe them", Atul said at length. "I know you. Honesty spews from your bones; and honestly, at times to brook it is too much to be asked of me”, and he smiled dryly. Binay made a face at him, and he shrugged. However, he could not help noticing the unwonted sharpness in his voice. “But hey, guess what—”

*****

Binay lay face down on the edge of the road to the station; the fall was more inglorious than it was mighty. He climbed to his feet with some of his own exertion, and some help from a fellow pedestrian. Then he dusted off the dirt off his school trousers, and breathed deeply. His left trouser had cleaved at his knee— which now issued his blood forth, and it seeped into the remaining dirt clinging to his skin. Under the flaming, melancholic sky washed with the dregs of daylight, he looked westward, where his anonymous rival had disappeared.

Atul had not come along. His mother had come to pick him up for a prearranged visit to his maternal grandmother. Binay had seen him and his mother off in their Chevrolet. Unlike the other days when 

Atul would accompany him till the railway station, where they parted ways for home, he was walking alone.

That very day, he had had a sweet notion shattered by Atul, which had shaken him up badly. His agitated self had been walking with a newfound testiness, which had also caused him to walk faster than usual, and which Binay was aware of. This way, he had walked till he was a little less than a kilometre away from the station— when a random schoolboy, from a different school to his, walked past him. He had seen the lean, fair lad blithely walking faster than him, while he was falling behind by the second—that was all he had made of the scene. Binay’s nostrils had flared and he had ever so slightly increased his pace. That hadn’t helped him anyway, because the moment he had caught up, the fear of being outvied had become mutual. Backing away would have been ignoble, or so he had thought, while breaking into a run without any apparent reason would have earned him unwanted attention, or so had he imagined. To his horror, though, Binay had concluded that they had now become eternally locked in a dynamic deadlock.

For ages on end, they had walked. The intense competition that had underlain the mere sight of the duo walking fast, from the perspective of a third party on the street, was imperceptible. The finish line was at hand, Binay had thought with glee. There! There was the train home, approaching the station, so close-by.

Without a warning, Binay’s fatigued knees had buckled, and quickly the fateful fall had befallen him. His fellow racer had perhaps bothered to stop. Or he hadn’t. Binay was least bothered.

That was decided; he had lost again. The pedestrian showed his concern for him, advised him to wash his wound with some water and hurried away. He was alone; but the fact was, he had lost again. Atul had yanked him down from cloud nine; he was not the topper of the Physics assessment. In fact, if he was to be believed, the one who had topped the test— was Atul. His sour face at the teacher's table had been completely unrelated to the marks affair; the teacher had only chided him for being somewhat impolite. Binay felt thoroughly betrayed.

Before he carried on, though; on his shoulders— the bag felt lighter.