The transition from 7th Grade to 8th Grade is a tricky one. Especially, after the vacation was over. Moments were won and lost. Like astronauts returning from space. We had to re-enter the atmosphere of school carefully, so the sudden change in pressure wouldn't kill us. Still, the beginning of eight grade looked like it was going to be a smooth landing. We weren't the lowest men on the totem pole anymore. We were men...among the sixth and seventh-grade boys. More importantly, we were men among the sixth and seventh-grade girls. In social-studies, we talked about National politics. In History we discussed the Mughal Rule and Mumtaz Mahal. Yep - everything was looking A-OK. All systems "go".
Well until fourth period happened. An eerie voice coldly announced “take your seats and open your textbooks, to chapter one. Page sixteen. We will begin...with the introduction to variables”. So much for introductions and the social niceties. Mr. Gyanendra Dey – High School Mathematics Teacher. We'd never seen anything like him. He was a math machine. All math...all the time. With the chalk marks on his grey flannel trousers to prove “If the union of sets "S" and "T" is negative two and zero, what is the intersection” Faced with this implacable force. We were trying to get him to look at the other variable that was not on the blackboard – Life. “Mr. Dey, how did you learn to draw such neat circles”. Each in our own way. A stern reply came “It is not necessary to draw perfect circles to do these problems correctly - it will not affect your marks either way”. But nothing distracted him. Not rain. Not sun. Not the period over bell. Not even the cries of the tortured. We threw everything we had at him But we didn't have a chance. After a dismal few periods with him I had to talk to him. “Do you have a problem?” “Um... No”. “For tomorrow I would like you to do problems one through ten on page eighteen.” Boy, what's the story with this guy? He's going to kill us. Sure, he looked tough - but I wasn't worried. Not to brag or anything, but I was a pretty bright kid. Compared to the competition around.
Those days in the erudite middle class families, Maths score was given the same hallo as religion. A poor score can set you in the same ranks as felons, rapists the degenerates of the society. A staple conversation in any social get together would definitely circle around the Maths scores of the kids and how many sums they did every day. So I had responsibilities. Social responsibilities. To ensure that my parents don’t get eradicated from the social and family scene – with my Maths score. Besides it wouldn't be a bad idea to bone-up a little and start the year off with a 90% Or maybe a "80". "75", maybe. So it was the time for the 1st class test to be published. Mr. Dey in his Chamber of Horrors voice announced. “The results of your class test Deepanjan”. Ahh! The ovation. The accolade. The Disaster. It was horrible. I'd never gotten a "50" before. Not even in Sanskrit. There was only one possible explanation. This had to be a mistake I had to handle this with a little tact After all, the man was human. So I went to him after the period was over “Um...I have a question about my score”. Saying this I flipped my answer sheet toward Mr. Dey. He looked over the quiz nonchalantly, then at me “Yes?” I added “About the grade.” “Well, it's a "52.” “Yes, it is”. OK We'd made a start. “Well, I...think it might be wrong” I added with a smile and a slight shrug. “Well, let's take a look” He puts on his glasses, rests his forehead against his hand and studies my answer sheet. “You're right.” There - that wasn't so hard. “Number five should be...minus one-half...that's half off...this is 45. Thank you for calling that to my attention”. Now wait a darn minute, here. I thought you were going to increase that 45” If you're having a problem with Maths I run a help group after schools...on Tuesdays and Thursdays and you are most welcome to join.”
Whoa, whoa, whoa! This guy was getting entirely the wrong impression. I had to nip this in the bud, and fast. “No, it-it's just that...I don't think of myself as a "Bad" student. What I'm saying is that...I...wasn't as prepared as I might have been well...I don't think this is representative of the work I usually do”. He said “Then I look forward to seeing your results on future tests.” If that's how Gyanendra Dey wanted to play it sure - I'd get 'em. Fact was, I hadn't really studied for that first quiz. But now, I was serious I'd show Gyanendra Dey what I was really made of. And so I burnt the midnight oil. Even my parents noticed. Thus prepared I arrived for the “Next Test”. Then there was the “Next test Score.” This was nuts! This was crazy! This was… Another45. What was going on, here? Was I losing my touch? There had to be another answer. Over the next few days things went from bad to worse. The pressure was increasing. When my Dad asked about my Maths Tests I had to lie that I haven’t yet got the results. Now I was in bed, sulking, so I can only imagine what happened next... But you have to bear in mind, when it came to surveillance, the FBI had nothing compared to your parents. They would find out. He was an ace in Maths and would have died of a broken heart if he knew my results. I imagined my widowed mother, my uncles, and my friends all gathered around his death bed and screaming at me. “You killed your father”. Gosh! This was horrible. I was living a lie.It was only a matter of time before I was found out and become an orphan.
That afternoon... I just happened to pass by Mr. Dey’s classroom. By accident, of course! So, what was the big deal? Maybe I'd drop by, get a few tips from the old help-group. Wait a minute! this was the help group! Arunima Roy who thought the Revolt of 1857 was a dispute over salami. Somnath Halder had been in the eight-grade since the British Rule we called him Dadu. In the delicate ecosystem of Grade 8 these guys were - well let's face it - bottom-feeders. Seeing me standing with horror on my face Mr Dey asked “Are you joining us?” “Uh...no” was my only reply. I couldn’t have been seen with these guys. “I'm giving a major test next week it would be a good opportunity for you to bring up your grade.” Sheesh! Who did he think I was? Some kind of a Loser? I ran away on the pretext of an urgent errand from my class teacher.
Well the “Major Test” day was here. As I heard the clinical announcement of “Put your books on the floor” all I needed was... A miracle. If only I could pull off a "75", or-or a "60” OK. Let's just take it slow and easy, Here from the top... Question number one. Hmmm, nothing familiar. Scroll down. Well, just find a question you know how to do, and do that one first. In the question paper I could see The Venn diagram becoming blurred, accompanied by music effects from Nightmare on Elm Street. Pay no attention to that. Move right along to the next one. I started to sweat. I could hear my heartbeat. It took about four minutes to attain total panic. As I hyperventilated I looked towards the other students for a similar expression of despair. There was none. The heartbeats continued. I was desperate. I was a drowning man looking for anything to cling to. Anything. Even cheating from Paramita and Devarun sitting next to me. And that's when I realized I'd sunk as low as a person in eight-grade algebra could sink. And then it was over. I got “15". I didn't answer most of the questions. I walked upto Mr. Dey. A dying man. Diagnosed with the most fatal of all diseases. Mathematitis! I felt lost. I felt confused. I felt alone.
There are times in life when you think you're lost. When every turn you take seems wrong. Then, just for a moment... You see a light. So that light was Dad. And to him did I yield. My crown at his feet. I wailed to him “I don't understand math I'm - I'm lousy at it.” “I will bring shame to you” “I’m the worst kid in the family” He heard me and asked me to get my Maths book out. And as we went pages after pages of Algebra, initially I had no idea what my father was talking about, but suddenly I fell in love with the rhythm and flow of it all. And till this day Maths and Dad became synonymous. And so I began that long climb into the light. Only this time... I wasn't alone. I guess we really didn't understand why he was so hard on me sometimes. Because sometimes, and I remember these times so distinctly, my dad could be great. He could be so much fun. You never wanted that feeling to end. Every war has its casualties, and every victory its price. Well growing up was nothing short of war. But life goes on. Sooner or later, though...you learn
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