Chalk Dusters, Chemical Dreams, and the Fraud of Tomorrow
Editor’s Note: The narrative humorously contrasts the experiences of backbenchers and front-row students in a classroom setting, highlighting the mischief and camaraderie among those who embrace their average status versus the disciplined achievers. Central characters like Ram exemplify the struggles of seeking validation, while Eashwar showcases extraordinary memory without a drive for top grades. The author reflects on the common resolution of students to improve study habits post-exams, only to be distracted by life’s demands. A pivotal moment occurs with a failed pill intended to boost alertness, leading to an ironic realization of the power of sleep over sleepless nights of study. This story was written by A. K. Grisam and shared for the followers of Digitalmehmet Curated Magazine.
(Author’s Warning: Not recommended for gold medalists or class toppers. On second thought, perhaps they should read this — if only to realize the sheer amount of fun they sacrificed while slogging away and burning the midnight oil.)
The Geography of the Classroom
Now, we backbenchers had our perks. We could orchestrate pranks, play textbook cricket, or escape to the canteen — all while seated safely in the rear rows. First-rowers, on the contrary, had to maintain impeccable discipline under the constant, heavy stare of the lecturers. Only masochists — or true seekers of divine wisdom — willingly chose the front row. We kept trying to convince Ram that the sound quality was identical in the back, but he wouldn’t budge.
Once, he got into a minor altercation with a lecturer over a missing mark in a question for which he felt he deserved credit. Ram is usually the epitome of gentleness and decency, but something snapped that day. He snatched up the chalk duster and held it mid-air, as if poised to hurl it at the lecturer’s back while the man was writing on the board. The lecturer suddenly turned, and there stood Rm — frozen like a Greek statue, duster raised, caught red-handed in the act.
The Wisdom of Team B
Ram was sincere, honest, and extremely hardworking. But he lacked one thing — our specific brand of wisdom. We had recognized early on that our God-given gifts did not include a mercurial intellect. No matter how fervently we tried, we were never going to dethrone the ‘A’ graders. We were practical and realistic. If only two students secured an ‘A’ and ten received a ‘B’, it made no difference whether you came third or tenth — you were still part of Team B.
The only exception was Eashwar. He possessed a razor-sharp mind but had no interest in top grades. I suspect he simply disliked loneliness. ‘A’ graders are a serious, grim lot who lead blameless, monk-like lives. No movies, no canteen, no bunking. There were rare exceptions, like Anil and Venu, who managed to balance both worlds.
Recently, I met Eashwar. He asked me if I remembered my roll number. I said, “17… or maybe 21?” Not only did he rattle off my correct roll number, but he recited the entire class list — names and numbers of every single student. I was dumbfounded. When I finally gathered my senses and called him a freak, he countered that I was the eccentric one. “You hear roll call every day for five years — even if you bunk 25% of the time — how can anyone forget?” he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
The Great Exam Resolution
I feel that the thoughts of 99.9 percent of all average, middle-class students emerging from an exam hall go something like this:
“Damn it! Had I put in just a little more effort, I could’ve scored twenty marks more. From tomorrow, I’m turning over a new leaf. I’ll read the day’s portion for two hours daily. No more mountain-sized backlogs! One can’t climb Everest the night before an exam, after all. From tomorrow, I’ll be organized.”
But — as we all know — tomorrow is the biggest fraud in the calendar. It never shows up.
The Calendar of Distractions
The very next day, that same student is found watching a movie — because obviously, one deserves some “well-earned” relaxation after the trauma of exams. Then come the birthday parties, family functions, a roommate’s cousin’s farewell, and the neighborhood dog’s wedding… all requiring urgent attendance. The noble resolution gets pushed further and further until, once again, a monstrous syllabus looms, and panic returns like an uninvited guest.
I personally never believed in “nights out.” My theory was simple: if you can’t digest a portion in twenty hours, you’re not going to magically master it in twenty-four. It’s not Hogwarts. So, I’d sleep for four hours and do my best with the remaining twenty, remaining fully awake and fully mortal.
A Chemical Conspiracy
My Wild Bunch friend Dinesh had a brother-in-law who owned a medical shop. Consequently, he had unrestricted access to medicines and pills that promised to keep one awake and alert. Dinesh would pop one and read through the night like a caffeine-charged owl. He even offered me one, but I politely declined and stuck to my four-hour sleep plan.
Until the Theory of Machines exam arrived.
Now, Theory of Machines wasn’t just a subject — it was a conspiracy against mental peace. One particular lesson on cam profile design was so complicated that it made ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics look like kindergarten doodles. I tried to absorb it, but the moment I grasped a line, it would wriggle out of my brain like a greased snake. I’d have to go back again… and again… until my time, patience, and sanity started cracking.
The Pale Parabola of Despair
It reminded me of Psmith, the hero from Leave It to Psmith by P.G. Wodehouse. In the novel, Psmith learns that a celebrated poet has cancelled his visit to a grand mansion. Seizing the chance to meet the heroine, Psmith arrives disguised as the poet.
To prepare for the charade, he tries desperately to read the man’s actual work but cannot get past the first line: “Across the pale parabola of joy.” Whenever fans ask for an autograph, he simply writes that one line and signs off with a flourish.
That’s how I felt. A pale parabola of camshaft despair. I turned to Dinesh in desperation.
“Does this pill actually work?” I asked.
“One hundred percent,” he said confidently, as if advertising on Doordarshan. “I’ve used it many times. Pop one, and you’ll stay wide awake all night — like a bat on Red Bull. Even if you lie down and beg for sleep, it won’t come.”
The Sleep of the Just
That was enough for me. We popped one pill each, sat up like scholars in a monastery, opened our books… and gradually slid onto our backs like sleepy turtles.
And we slept. Like babies.
When I woke up, it was 7 a.m! I shook Dinesh like a man trying to revive a drowned friend.
“What the hell was that?!” I shouted. “Did you give me a sleeping pill by mistake?!”
He blinked in confusion, showed me the medicine foil, and insisted it was the correct pill.
“No idea why it didn’t work,” he mumbled. “Maybe it’s your fault. Your urge to sleep must’ve been stronger than science itself.”
Contd…
To read the full story, see The Backbencher’s Manifesto
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