Date: March 2, 2009
Time: 4:30 AM
Location: Aritra's Bedroom, Dakshin Barasat
The alarm buzzed, piercing through the fragile silence of dawn. Aritra's eyes snapped open, the cracked ceiling above greeting him like an old adversary. Today wasn't just another day; it was the beginning of the West Bengal Higher Secondary Board Examinations, the day that could redefine everything—or nothing. For Aritra, it wasn't about marks anymore. It was about redemption, a chance to rewrite not just answers but the regrets etched into the chapters of his past life.
Sliding out of bed, he felt the cold floor against his feet—a jolt that grounded him. His routine was mechanical: brush, wash, dress. The white shirt and grey trousers weren't just a uniform today; they were armor. His tie hung slightly crooked, but he didn't care. Perfection wasn't in the details of fabric but in the pages he was about to fill.
In the kitchen, his mother served luchi and aloo tarkari, her eyes betraying the worry her words didn't voice. His father sat silently, the newspaper in his hands forgotten, his mind clearly elsewhere. They exchanged few words, but the silence said enough: "We believe in you."
By 6:30 AM, Aritra stood at the station with his father, surrounded by a sea of identical uniforms, the air thick with tension and last-minute revisions. The train ride to Bahuru High School was a blur of nervous chatter and scribbled notes. Aritra stared out the window, not seeing the landscape but the possibilities ahead. "This time, it will be different," he thought, the ghosts of past failures fading into the distance.
10:00 AM - Exam Hall, Bahuru High School
The exam hall was a battlefield disguised as a classroom. Wooden desks lined up like soldiers, invigilators distributing question papers with robotic detachment. Aritra's heart didn't race; it marched. When the signal came, he flipped the paper. Essays, comprehensions, grammar—all familiar foes. His pen danced across the pages with precision, turning anxiety into ink, doubt into neatly structured paragraphs.
Around him, chaos brewed—papers flipped, pens scratched, erasers crumbled under pressure. But Aritra was an island of calm in the storm, his mind sharp, his focus unwavering. When the bell rang, he leaned back, his answer sheet a testament to more than just knowledge. It was proof of resilience.
March 3, 2009 - Mathematics
The day of reckoning. Mathematics—the subject that could make or break even the brightest minds. The morning passed in a haze of formulas mentally rehearsed over a cup of lukewarm tea. As Aritra entered the hall, the atmosphere felt heavier, thicker with unspoken fears.
The question paper hit his desk like a gauntlet thrown. He flipped it, his eyes scanning the battlefield. It was brutal. Complex calculus, twisted probability, matrix puzzles designed to break spirits. Students around him paled, pens hesitating mid-air, the silence punctuated by the occasional gasp of despair.
But not Aritra. His pen moved like a blade, cutting through the complexity with surgical precision. While others drowned in numbers, he swam through them, finding patterns hidden beneath chaos. The clock ticked, indifferent to the struggle, until the final bell released them from their mathematical prison.
March 4, 2009 - Physics
The subject that haunted him in his past life. But this time, he was armed with more than just formulas; he had mastery. The paper was designed to intimidate, with twisted concepts and multi-layered problems. Despair echoed around the room—students slumping, sighing, some giving up halfway.
Aritra thrived in it.
His answers weren't just correct; they were confident. Derivations flowed smoothly, numerical problems bowed to his logic. By the end, he wasn't just done—he was victorious.
March 6, 2009 - Chemistry
The day started with the bitterness of anticipation and the metallic taste of determination. Organic reactions, thermodynamics, stoichiometry—the paper was a labyrinth, but Aritra navigated it with ease. Students groaned, flipped pages in frustration, their panic almost tangible.
But Aritra had long left fear behind. He wrote with the ease of someone who wasn't fighting the paper but dancing with it. When the final bell rang, he was the last to leave, his heart light, his mind free.
March 9, 2009 - English
The final frontier. After days of numbers, laws, and reactions, words felt almost too soft, too simple. But Aritra embraced the change. Essays flowed, comprehension questions unraveled with ease, grammar rules obeyed like well-trained soldiers.
When he penned the final sentence, a strange calm settled over him. Not the relief of finishing, but the quiet satisfaction of conquering. As he walked out, the world seemed brighter, the air lighter.
The war was over.
And Aritra Naskar had won—not just against the exams, but against his past.