“The cutoff for government colleges has increased to a tremendous score of 610 marks this year, one of the highest ever. A wave of pride and pleasure streaks across the country, but anxiety and worry prevails due to the same as well” reports an elegantly dressed woman on our national new channel.

“It’s not that easy beta, you have to work a lot harder if you want to get somewhere in life,” says my mother without missing a beat.

My father steps into the house after a week’s trip and greets me with the permanent repetition of “It’s only a matter of two years and you have already used up half of the time. Cutthroat competition hai nanhe, aise hi doctor thodi naa ban jaate hain”.

Anger courses through me, raw and fast, burning any motivation left to study for the day. So I do what I have been doing for the past year; I walk away. I turn my back at the truth of their words yet it chases me until it has strangled my throat and ripped out my heart. I cannot bleed so I do the next best thing: I cry until my lungs give up and my eyes dry out.

I watch the moon bid me a pitiful goodbye almost every morning, the orange hues of dusk make their way into my room, tickling my body with warmth, a frivolous attempt at making me laugh. The melodious chirping, a reminder of another sleepless night, spent in the company of ink and paper.

I give myself a split second, because that’s all I can afford and get back on the grind. As the clock strikes eight I become a part of the footfall, just another face in the crowd of hundreds. Not a friend, a classmate, not even a sixteen year old kid; in this throng I am either a competition or a student, nothing more nothing less.

Overtaxed and used up I reach home at two in the afternoon, already planning out my day with a to-do list and setting an alarm for another coaching class at five. That’s when it strikes me, “Oh my god! I have a full syllabus test this Sunday. Nononono, I haven’t even started.” 

Panic fills my veins, but I compose myself, knowing well enough that I have no time to spare, not even for my emotions. I spend the next few days holed up in a corner of my room, surrounded by colored notes and diagrams.

But the examination hall ends up looking a lot like an emergency room, my answer sheet like a prescription slip and my pen like a saline drip, my classmates resemble nurses and my invigilator seems to have morphed into a doctor.

He looks at me worried and tells me, “You have overexerted yourself. You need to take a break. Remember, you can’t run forever.”

“Just a matter of two years, right?” I ask, slipping into darkness.