The unit test

“So basically darling we just have to complete the sequence of numbers,right?”

“No Daddy,we have to find the nth term. And we have to also tell them what’s the formula to find the nth term.”

“That’s the same thing,darling! It’s just like one of those puzzles in the newspaper.”

“No Daddy! It’s Algebra!”

“Ok,ok and have we studied our French conjugation?”

“Daddy,French toh I know backwards! Avoire and Etre,both! I’m only worried about Physics.”

“Physics? We have a Physics Review also?”

“Yes. And Daddy… tell me,in History,it’s okay if I don’t learn the dates,nah?”

“We have History?! And what do you mean it’s okay if we don’t learn the dates? That’s all there is to bloody History… bloody dates! When was the first Battle of Panipat,when was the second Battle of Panipat,when was Bajirao Peshwa born,all that!”

“Panipat?”

Why do I get the feeling that life is repeating itself,but only the bad bits? My mind staggers reluctantly into flashback: Seven days before my Unit Tests I would be “studying” my Hindi Muhavras with a Commando comic carefully buried within the pages of my textbook. Three days before my Unit Tests I would be “studying very,very hard for 12 hours a day” my Hindi muhavras with an Archie comic carefully buried in my textbook. The night before my Unit Tests I would be mugging like a maniac,trying to cram as much as I could into my poor,seldom used brain,until I had Mmuhavras swimming out of both ears.

Then on the morning,my poor mother would drag me in front of her little desktop puja place and urge me to pray for all sorts of good things.

“How much you are praying for?”,my father would ask suspiciously,“80%? 90%?”

“Daddy,it’s a Hindi Unit Test. I have to be realistic. Even God’s God cannot get me 80%!”

“Ok,so how much?”

“35%.”

“Arre,don’t be a gel***dia! If you ask for 35%,you will 100% fail! Ask for at least 50%.”

“Daddy,God will not take me seriously!”

“Ok,38%. You can’t ask for exact,you have to always ask for more,remember,hanh!”

After that fundamental lesson in negotiation,my mother would generously smear my forehead with as much vermillion as would fit between my hairline and my eyebrows,thrust my clipboard into my hand and push me out the door wringing her handkerchief in despair,as though she was certain she would never see her son again.

“Goodbye darling. Do well. Remember it is only a Unit Test.”

Nowadays,I find myself doing the same thing with my daughter,except I also add a small 75-minute lecture on the futility of suicide.

“Remember,they cannot fail us on a Unit Test! Only on our Final Exam!”

“Da-ddy! It’s not a Unit Test. It’s just a Review!”

Oh yeah? Then how come my heart is pounding and my lips are dry and my hands are sweating and my brain is cheerfully blank?

And then after: “So how did we do darling?”

“Mmm… good. Physics was good. Maths was good. History was good. And French was great… I should pass in that!”

Oh phlock! Anybody got a good Archie comic?

(adipochas@yahoo.com)

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