Remembering exam days…

remembering the days of the exams,

now I laugh at the absurd pleas

to gain another minute, to print

some more illegible words,

on the rough parchment, smeared with ink:

.

(the stage is set, the play must begin)

.

I remember, I was a pupil of grade/class 8th,

sitting for a mathematics exam,

having forgotten my wrist watch at home,

wondering, whether I will be able

to solve all those problematic problems,

in a span of those three final hours,

I hurried, through every single question,

untying the quadratic equations,

solving HCF, through long-division,

calculating the profit from the loss,

and the hungry bank’s interest rates,

finishing the exam, in what I thought

was due time, and waiting for the bell to chime,

but it didn’t, I waited, but it didn’t,

morbidly asking the invigilator-

“How much time is left, Madam?”

she looked at me queerly, and uttered,

“Why! You have another hour and five minutes.”

.

(shed the curtain on the stage of memory

and jump to an act in a near future)

.

it was the 11th year of school,

the time of the final exams,

the subject titled: Business Studies,

name itself had an ominous sound to it,

theoretical to its core (which is very deep),

allotted hours were 3 and the questions 30,

I started with the surreal six marks questions- 5,

wrote, wrote, wrote… an hour gone, gone, gone,

then the turn of fervent five marks ones- 5,

spending yet another hour on these hefty ones,

what was left was just a simpleton hour,

questions:

frugal four marks ones- 5,

tedious three mark questions- 5,

and the ten obnoxious one mark ones,

began to inscribe letters and words,

die-hard attempt, to complete all the answers,

till the time the invigilator came,

to snatch away the exam copy,

my wrist still in motion spilling ink,

on the log of wood before me,

.

(leaving stage in between, I disappear)

.

remembering the days of the exams,

now I laugh at the absurd pleas

to gain another minute, to print

some more illegible words,

on the rough parchment, smeared with ink,

I think, and keep on thinking,

of those question papers, I never solved,

those answer sheets, that remained unfilled,

which could well have been the key,

to a future I will never know

.

* This poem is written in consideration of dVerse Poetics.

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I remember you…

“He isn’t ready. I won’t suggest you to meet him.”

“I would like to see him and that is my decision.”

“Love, he doesn’t remember…”

A single drop of tear appeared in her eyes, “I don’t care whether he remembers or not. I want to meet… meet him,” she said in a cracked voice.

“As you wish dear, but do not tell him…”

They walked up the old wooden staircase which creaked at every step. There was a foul smell emerging from the room looming before them.

“I give you ten minutes,” the care taker said and walked back down the stairway.

She was left alone. Hesitatingly, she knocked at the door. There was no reply. She knocked again.

“Uh!” a terrible voice emerged from inside.

She opened up the door and found the wrinkled man sitting on the chair, curiously looking at her.

“I remember you, sweetheart… my daughter.”

* This comes out to be my 400th post. I thank you all for the continuous support. It is a great feeling. This blog has become the most important thing in my life and I am not kidding. 🙂

And to rejoice the moment, I would like to share one of my most favorite songs with you all:-

Baby Piano: A 100 Word Story

“I can’t forget how we grew up together and then got separated. And today, it is a coincidence that we could meet.”

“It is indeed.” He gave her a brilliant smile.

“You still smile the same,” she shyly commented.

“And you are still the same.”

They shared a quick kiss which was delayed for years.

“And you remember when you visited me at 1 in the night and tried to hide inside my baby piano when my parents came up hearing your loud voice?”

“Yes. And I remember why I visited you.”

They held hands, past memories flooding their minds.

Copyright- John Nixon

* Written in response of the Friday Fictioneers Writing Prompt.