Why Entrance Exams suck?

I've given a few entrance exams over the past few days owing to the fear psychosis stemming from a flurry of media reports about my college which prompted me to take some action even though it may involve changing courses, academically. Thus, the ordeal began. It was almost as if I was living in life in the bygone era of 2007-2008 yet again. Yes, almost because not only academia wise, the turn of events in the world were also more or less the same like unrest over fuel and food crisis and the Congress government still being in power. It's almost like being frozen in time.

Bah, so coming back I've realised that Entrance Exams are almost equivalent to the worst sort of trauma you can inflict on a person and get away with it. Here's why-

• Because we don't have a centralised system of examinations every University will hold a separate entrance exam and charge you a different amount as you proceed to fill up your form. This may range anywhere between a grand and two. So after about ten random forms you've filled up, you wonder whether getting those two dress at Mango would've been a better way of blowing all that money up. I have a strong feeling that these institutes actually survive on the provisional admission fee that scores of aspirants across this overpopulated country pay.

• Because inspite of knowing that there are actually only about a 100 seats in the "premier" institution (the rest of course belong to the reserved class), millions of people will vie to be one of those tagged people. It's almost like a Playwin lottery. You get there, you've hit the jackpot.

• Because these institutes will make sure that your centre is in the most inconvenient place of all. They're sadists because they know that it don't matter whether hell or high waters, you will reach your centre, in all probability a dilapidated school building in the middle of nowhere at sharp 9 a.m. on a Sunday morning. So much for a shot at the Amazing Race, huh.

• Now once you've manoeuvered your way through the narrow bylanes in places you never knew existed asking the irritable locals for directions and a dozen "thank you's", you reach your centre which has swarms of people and there's this always one corner which seems like a very magnified version of a thousand ants attracted to a lump of sugar. No it's no Bollywood movie shoot. It's that good old blackboard which finally gets it's moment of glory and attention that it has longed for. That's where they scribble where you're supposed to sit for the exam.

• By the sides of the already stampede prone lane, you see parents and cars and relatives with bags, books and 20 year olds in tow. These 20-25 year olds are their "aankhon ke taare" fed on curd and jaggery when they're about to set foot onto the battleground. It's almost like a bidaai ceremony with anxious parents waiting to send their 'kids' off inside the exam hall. And they will never hear from them again atleast for the next two hours because all communication devices are prohibited and the candidature is likely to be cancelled if a candidate is found using one.

• Then as you proceed climbing the never ending flight of stairs you come across those nerds in the hallway whose sole purpose is to scare the daylights out of you and make your heart pound faster than it would have had you seen Patrick Dempsey. It's actually a war strategy when they ask you "arrey yaar yeh kiya?" and when you reply in the negative, pat comes the rebuke "pagal hai kya, yeh toh sabse important hai. Past 10 years paper mein har saal poocha hai". All you then say is "Oh Shit." Then after successfully pinning down this victim they scour and proceed to find another prey with a book in hand and a smile on the face. A lethal assassin.

• By now, you're already feeling low and you realise your worst nightmare has come true when you enter the designated classroom. For a moment you wonder whether that water you gulped down nervously from the bottle was in fact a growth potion or whether you've been shipwrecked onto the island of Lilliput because the benches are so small that your arse won't fit. And the space between two columns of tables is so little that it would induce further anorexia in a size zero woman.

• Then there's this morose looking inviligator who is pissed because the only Sunday he gets has been taken away from him. He has the bundle of question papers in his hand. The booklets are sealed not to be opened unless asked. The formulae, the rules everything is whirling up a big tornado in your head leaving everything muddled up by the time the paper is handed out to you.

• Then the test booklet is handed out to you and you begin marking answers on the OMR sheet with the paranoia of shading the wrong circle always affecting your brain. Then when the two hours pass by magically and you realise you've survived the battle, you notice that the person sitting ahead you has shaded more circles than you. Your heart skips a beat. There's a 50-50 chance between getting a +4 and -1. You decide to colour a few circles randomly. The inviligator then snatches the paper away from you.

• You dread to switch on your phone back because once you do there will be incessant calls and messages asking "How'd it go." And you don't know what to say because let's accept it there's a fine line between humility and stupidity and you don't know what perception your reply will create for you in the mind of the caller/texter.

• Then begins the wait for the results. This day's bad and the days preceding the dreaded date are worse because the course of your corporate life depends on those shaded circles. You wait nervously. Then when the actual day of the moment of truth arrives and you've forgotten all about the results, you get a message "The results are out". Your heart skips another beat.

Don't blame heart problems in Indian youth on junk food and bad lifestyle. Blame in on these entrance exams. Really.

Also, it's funny how two hours can decide the course of life of a person. Shahrukh's "sattar minute" from Chak De India anyone?