I was taking the class ten pre-test exam. My seat was in room 112. I’m explicitly mentioning the room number because this room usually got the posh students — the toppers. That day was probably the Bengali First Paper exam. I couldn’t do anything except Subha; if I had to pass, I’d have to copy. I went with that intention. After bombing the MCQ section, I started writing the creative questions. I always got low marks in written sections because my handwriting looked like endoplasmic reticulum. And my speed was that of a tortoise. Rarely in school life could I finish all seven creative answers in a Bengali exam. But in today’s exam, for some reason, my writing was coming out beautifully. I was writing the ‘D’ part of the second creative question. That’s when the exam supervisor came and stared at my answer sheet. He kept staring. Let’s call the supervisor Musa Bhai. He was also a Bengali teacher. I started getting nervous — with how I was making up answers for C and D, the teacher might blow up! After a long forty-five seconds of eye contact, the teacher looked away from my paper. Then, somewhat surprised, he asked, “Isn’t this room 112?” I said, “Yes sir.” The teacher asked, “What’s your roll number?” I said, “Sir, nine.”
The teacher was stunned. He asked in surprise, how did you get roll number nine with such horrible handwriting? And yet, that was my most beautiful writing.