It was the beginning of 1999. I was brimming with confidence,
despite knowing that the previous academic year hadn’t gone well. A lack of
proper teachers had left me floundering in Physics and Chemistry. But Biology
had always been my strength. I had already given up on Maths—my entire focus
was now on cracking the PMT exam with PCB. All hopes were pinned on me.
My father had long dreamt of seeing me become a doctor. My mother
shared that dream. They wanted their firstborn to enter a prestigious
profession. My mother often said, “If the eldest carves the path, the
younger ones are sure to follow.”
I had made up my mind—come what may, I would burn the midnight oil
and fulfill their dream.
That day, our textbooks were to be distributed. I remember wearing
the blue tracksuit my father had bought for us—there were two, one blue and one
purple. Chinu, my younger sister, chose the purple one. We were made to sit
cross-legged on the floor as books were handed out—books that were supposed to
shape our futures. Books that were supposed to make me a doctor.
Sometimes I wonder how different my life could’ve been if I had
done well that year. I could have added so many feathers to my father’s cap. He
has always been a good father—not perfect, perhaps—but undeniably a good man.
My mother didn’t travel anywhere that year; it was my board year, and she
stayed back for me. My father went to the village to visit our grandparents,
but she remained by my side.
In an effort to stay fit—my tummy had started bulging a little—I
began jogging in the mornings. I’d run four rounds of the large track near our
school. After returning, the smell of breakfast would welcome us home. That
summer, mango shake was a constant.
But then came the World Cup cricket tournament—a massive
distraction. The jingle, “Come on India, jita do, duniya ko dikha do”,
was too catchy to ignore. India didn’t even make it to the semifinals, and the
disappointment in the air was thick. I was allowed to watch only the India
matches.
That was also the year inverters had just started becoming
popular. During power cuts, Kelapati Ma’am—the PET teacher—would show up with
her husband or her students to watch matches at our house. We didn’t like the
intrusion. So we’d lower the TV volume and, whenever they knocked, pretend the
inverter battery had died.
Until the end of summer vacation, I still held on to hope. But I
didn’t take any private tuitions—and in hindsight, that was a huge mistake.
They say wisdom and age don’t always arrive together. If I had taken coaching,
maybe I could’ve covered the Class 11 syllabus properly. Maybe I would have
built up the confidence I so badly needed. Still, part of me believed that if I
failed this year, I’d take a drop year and prepare again.
But that extra year never came.
By July, things started slipping out of my hands. My preparation
was falling apart. To cope with the mounting tension, I’d sometimes go to the
girls’ hostel just to chat and breathe a little easier.
At home, when I was trying to study, my father would often bring a
colleague over to chat. Their loud conversations made it nearly impossible for
me to focus. It frustrated me deeply. But Papa was alone too—my mother had
taken up a job in another city.
He had bought me stacks of reference books, hoping they would
help. But instead of guiding me, the sheer number overwhelmed me. I didn’t know
where to begin. I often wonder—if destiny doesn’t back your dreams, can you
ever really become the person you want to be, no matter how much you want it?
That famous line from The Secret—about the universe
conspiring to fulfill your deepest desires—felt completely false that year. It
was a season of broken dreams, crushed hopes, and growing fear.
Thankfully, my maternal grandmother—my Nani—came to stay with us.
She sensed the pressure I was under. Every time Papa confidently announced, “She
will get through PMT this year,” I felt a little more suffocated. Deep
down, I knew it wasn’t going to happen. Nani often scolded Papa, asking him not
to create so much pressure on me.
Eventually, one day, I gathered the courage to tell him—I didn’t
want to pursue science anymore. It must’ve shattered him. He had nurtured that
dream for years. I still remember him trying to teach me Class 12 Biology when
I was just in Class 8. He would try to explain Physics too. But he wasn’t a
great teacher. And when I zoned out or struggled to follow, he’d lose his
temper and slap me. It made learning from him frightening.
As the exam approached, my courage began to fade. When the
datesheet was announced, I was sure I would flunk a subject or two. I, who used
to stand first in class, now expected failure.
I remember praying to Lord Shiva, begging Him to just let me pass
in Physics and Chemistry. I was confident about Hindi, English, and Biology—but
the rest felt like cliffs I couldn’t scale.
When the results came, I was at my maternal uncle’s place in
Haldwani. I got the news over the phone: I had scored 73%. I hadn’t failed in
any subject. I had come third in class.
And yet, it felt like I was swallowed by darkness.
I didn’t even ask who came first. I felt no joy, no pride. Just an
emptiness. A quiet, bitter relief that I hadn’t failed. But I knew—I had failed
something bigger.
It was a terrible year. A year we had all pinned our hopes on. A
year we believed would change everything. A year that could have rewritten the
destiny of my entire family. A year that could have made me an achiever, a
doctor, someone respected, maybe even wealthy.
But that year didn’t deliver.
It failed.
And with it, something inside me quietly gave way.
The course of my life changed forever.
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