Date: March 2, 2009

Time: 4:30 AM

Location: Aritra’s Bedroom, Dakshin Barasat

The alarm clock buzzed sharply, shattering the fragile veil of sleep that had barely settled over Aritra. His eyes snapped open, pupils dilated in the dim predawn darkness. The ceiling above was a familiar canvas of cracks and faint stains, but today, even the mundane felt heavy with significance.

Today wasn’t just another day.

It was the beginning of the West Bengal Higher Secondary Board Examinations—the moment thousands of students had been dreading, preparing for, and dreaming about.

For Aritra, however, it was something more profound. This wasn’t just an exam. It was a battleground where he’d face not only complex questions but the ghosts of his past life—the failures, regrets, and missed opportunities. The stakes were higher than any grade could capture.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, feeling the cold floor beneath his feet. A brief shiver ran through him—not from the chill but from anticipation. His heart beat steadily, not with fear but with a calm intensity, like a warrior stepping onto the battlefield with the knowledge of every tactic the enemy might employ.

The faint glow of dawn crept through the curtains as he mechanically went through his morning routine. The rituals of brushing his teeth, splashing cold water on his face, and adjusting his neatly ironed school uniform were all performed with clockwork precision. His tie was slightly crooked, but he didn’t bother to fix it. It wasn’t the tie that mattered today.

In the kitchen, his mother was already awake, bustling quietly as she prepared a simple breakfast of luchi and aloo tarkari, her face etched with a mixture of pride and anxiety. His father sat at the small dining table, sipping tea while reading the newspaper, though his eyes barely moved across the words. The tension was palpable, woven into the silence between them.

“Eat well. You’ll need the energy,” his mother said softly, placing the plate before him.

Aritra nodded, offering a faint smile. The food tasted bland, not because it lacked flavor but because his mind was already elsewhere—revising formulas, recalling historical dates, rehearsing essays.

By 6:30 AM, he was ready, his bag packed with pens, admit card, and a bottle of water. His father accompanied him to the local station where they’d catch the train to Bahuru High School, the designated exam center. The platform buzzed with students in identical uniforms, clutching books for last-minute revisions, their faces pale with anxiety.

Aritra stood among them, silent, observing.

The train arrived with its familiar screech, and soon, Aritra found himself crammed into a compartment filled with the nervous chatter of fellow examinees. Some recited notes under their breath; others huddled in groups, frantically quizzing each other.

Aritra stared out of the window, the rushing landscape a blur. His mind wasn’t occupied with the pages he’d studied but with a single, powerful thought: “I’ve done this before. I know how this ends. But this time, it will be different.”

The train ride felt both too long and too short. By the time they reached Bahuru, the station was swarming with students from different schools, all heading toward the large, imposing building that was Bahuru High School. Its weathered walls stood like silent witnesses to the countless dreams that had been forged—or shattered—within them.

The school grounds were chaotic, filled with clusters of students revising till the last possible second. Aritra walked through them like a ghost, unaffected, his mind sharp and clear.

Time: 10:00 AM

Exam Hall: Room 204, Bahuru High School

The invigilators, two middle-aged teachers with bored expressions, lazily distributed the question papers. The room smelled of chalk dust, old wood, and faint nervous sweat—a combination that would be etched into Aritra’s memory forever.

As the question paper landed on his desk, he took a deep breath before flipping it over. His eyes scanned the questions swiftly.

Essays, comprehension passages, grammar exercises—all familiar territory.

He smiled slightly. The questions were eerily similar to the ones he had practiced, perhaps not word-for-word, but close enough to ignite confidence.

While others around him frantically scribbled, erasing mistakes, flipping pages back and forth, Aritra’s pen moved with the grace of a seasoned warrior wielding a blade. Every word was deliberate, every sentence crafted with precision.

By the time the bell rang, signaling the end of the first exam, Aritra sat back, his answer sheet filled meticulously, his mind already shifting focus to the next subject.

But the day wasn’t over. The real war had just begun.

The day after the Bengali exam arrived faster than Aritra anticipated. Sleep had been elusive, though it wasn’t nerves that kept him awake. His mind was a well-oiled machine, tirelessly flipping through pages of calculus formulas, probability theories, and matrices. The faint glow of his study lamp had been his only companion through the night as the world outside his window drifted into slumber. Morning crept in silently, painting the sky with faint streaks of orange, but to Aritra, time felt like a blur—a continuous loop of numbers, theorems, and strategic problem-solving techniques etched into the corners of his consciousness.

He dressed in silence, the crisp folds of his white shirt and neatly ironed trousers feeling almost ceremonial, like armor before battle. His mother handed him a simple breakfast, her eyes filled with quiet concern. She didn’t say much, but the way she gently placed an extra sweet in his tiffin spoke volumes. His father accompanied him to the station again, their footsteps echoing in sync with the steady rhythm of Aritra’s heartbeat. The train ride to Bahuru High School was quieter than the previous day. The chatter of students was subdued, replaced by the silent flipping of revision notes and occasional whispers of last-minute formula revisions.

As they arrived, the familiar sight of Bahuru High School greeted him—a building that had now transformed in his mind from an ordinary institution into an arena where he would face his most formidable opponent: the mathematics paper.

The exam hall was abuzz with hushed voices, students exchanging anxious glances and hurried notes. Aritra settled into his seat, the wooden desk cool beneath his palms. The invigilators entered, carrying stacks of question papers, their expressions indifferent, oblivious to the storm brewing in the hearts of the students. The papers were distributed swiftly, the rustle of pages filling the room like the calm before a storm.

Aritra stared at the sealed paper before him, his pulse steady, his mind sharp. As the invigilator’s voice echoed through the room—“You may begin”—he flipped the paper, his eyes scanning the first few questions with practiced precision. Within seconds, he realized this wasn’t an ordinary paper. It was brutal. The kind of paper that shattered confidence, broke spirits, and made even the brightest students question their preparation.

Complex calculus problems stared back at him, their intricacies twisted in ways he hadn’t anticipated. Probability questions that seemed deceptively simple unraveled into layers of mind-bending logic traps. Matrix problems stretched beyond conventional patterns, demanding an understanding that only came from deep conceptual clarity.

Around him, the tension in the room was palpable. Pens hesitated mid-air, students exchanged panicked glances, and the faint sound of suppressed sighs echoed through the silence. Some began flipping pages desperately, hoping the next section would offer mercy. It didn’t.

But Aritra didn’t panic.

His grip on the pen tightened slightly as a small, confident smile curved at the corner of his lips. This was what he had trained for—not just the easy victories, but the grueling battles. The ghosts of his past life whispered faint reminders in the back of his mind—mistakes made, lessons learned, strategies perfected.

His mind worked like clockwork. Each question was dissected methodically, its layers peeled back to reveal the underlying logic. He approached complex integrations with the elegance of a composer writing music, the equations flowing seamlessly, each step a note in a larger symphony. Probability questions became strategic games, their outcomes calculated with precision. Even the toughest matrix transformations felt manageable as he visualized patterns others might miss.

While others scribbled furiously, their handwriting growing messier with rising panic, Aritra’s sheet remained neat, every number deliberate, every diagram precise. Time passed unnoticed as he immersed himself in the dance of numbers and logic.

By the time the final bell rang, signaling the end of the exam, the hall was filled with visible exhaustion. Some students rested their heads on their desks, others exchanged bewildered looks, whispering phrases like “Impossible!” and “What kind of paper was that?”

Aritra calmly put down his pen, reviewing his answers one last time. A strange calm settled over him, not because he believed he had aced it, but because he knew he had given it everything. As he walked out of the exam hall, the buzz of post-exam discussions grew louder. Students gathered in small groups, comparing answers, debating over question difficulties, and sharing their frustrations.

But Aritra didn’t join them.

He walked past the clusters of students, his mind already shifting gears. The war wasn’t over. Physics was next—the subject that had haunted him in his past life, the subject that had once been his downfall.

This time, it would be different.

Date: March 4, 2009

Time: 4:00 AM

Location: Aritra’s Bedroom, Dakshin Barasat

The alarm clock buzzed softly, though Aritra didn’t need it. He had been awake long before it rang, lying still in the dim glow of his bedside lamp, his mind already racing through equations, laws, and principles of physics. The faint hum of the ceiling fan above was the only sound in the room, mingling with the soft rustle of papers scattered across his desk.

Today was the Physics board exam—the subject that had once been his Achilles' heel in his previous life. But not this time. Not after countless hours spent mastering concepts that once felt like foreign languages. He had solved hundreds of problems, dissected every possible question pattern, and written derivations until the ink from his pen ran dry. Today, he wasn’t just prepared; he was determined.

Aritra went through his morning routine with mechanical precision—quick shower, light breakfast, and one last glance at his notes. His parents wished him luck, their faces a mix of pride and silent worry. They knew the weight of these exams, even if they didn’t fully understand the battles Aritra was fighting inside his mind.

The train ride to Bahuru High School felt different today. The usual chatter of students was replaced with tense silence. Some clutched their textbooks tightly, muttering last-minute formulas under their breath. Others stared blankly out of the windows, their minds lost in a sea of definitions, diagrams, and derivations. Aritra sat quietly, his gaze fixed outside, though his thoughts were deep inside the corridors of motion, energy, and waves.

As they arrived at the exam center, the school grounds buzzed with nervous energy. Groups of students huddled together, flipping through notes, exchanging frantic questions, and trying to mask their fear with forced confidence. But Aritra walked past them, his steps steady, his mind sharp.

The exam hall was eerily quiet as Aritra took his seat. The wooden desks, scratched with the faint carvings of past students’ boredom or rebellion, stood in neat rows. The invigilators distributed the question papers with indifferent expressions, oblivious to the silent storms brewing inside each student.

Aritra placed his pens neatly on the desk, his admit card beside them. As the invigilator’s voice echoed through the room—“You may begin”—he flipped the paper, his heart steady, his mind alert.

Within seconds, he realized this wasn’t an ordinary paper. This was brutal.

The questions were twisted versions of familiar problems, designed to trap, confuse, and overwhelm. Derivations that should have been straightforward were framed in ways that made even the brightest students pause. Numerical problems stretched beyond the usual complexity, demanding not just knowledge but deep understanding.

Around him, the tension was palpable. Some students froze, their pens hovering mid-air. A girl in the front row bit her lip nervously, her eyes darting between the question paper and her blank answer sheet. Another boy beside Aritra flipped through the pages desperately, hoping the next section would be kinder. It wasn’t.

Soft whispers of frustration filled the room—muted gasps, the faint thud of a forehead meeting the desk in despair, the frantic scribbling of students trying to salvage whatever marks they could. Sweat beaded on foreheads despite the cool morning air.

But Aritra remained calm.

His pen moved with precision, tracing equations and diagrams with confidence. Where others saw traps, he saw patterns. He dissected complex problems with ease, breaking them into simpler parts, solving each with the clarity that came from not just studying physics, but understanding it.

His classmates’ expressions told stories of their own. One boy clenched his jaw, scribbling furiously as if speed could compensate for uncertainty. A girl two rows ahead stared blankly at her paper, her pencil tapping rhythmically—a subconscious cry for focus. Another student ran his fingers through his hair repeatedly, a gesture of mounting panic.

Time seemed to stretch and compress all at once. The ticking clock on the wall was both a relentless reminder and a distant echo.

As the final bell rang, signaling the end of the exam, a collective sigh swept through the room—relief for some, despair for others. Students slumped in their chairs, their faces pale with exhaustion. Some glanced around, trying to gauge how others had fared, while others packed their bags silently, eager to escape the weight of the past few hours.

Aritra reviewed his paper one last time before handing it in. Every question answered, every calculation double-checked. As he stood up to leave, he glanced around the room, his eyes meeting those of his classmates. Some looked defeated, others dazed, but Aritra walked out with quiet confidence.

The battle was over, but the war wasn’t. Two more exams awaited.

And he was ready.

Date: March 6, 2009

Time: 4:15 AM

Location: Aritra’s Bedroom, Dakshin Barasat

The faint glow of dawn had just begun to creep over the horizon, casting long shadows across the quiet streets of Dakshin Barasat. Inside Aritra’s room, however, the light was already on. His study lamp flickered softly, illuminating the neat stack of books on his desk—Organic Chemistry, Physical Chemistry, and pages upon pages of handwritten notes, all dog-eared and worn from endless revisions.

Today was the Chemistry board exam, and despite the exhaustion lingering from the previous physics battle, Aritra’s mind was sharp, his focus unshakeable. He sat in silence, staring at the notes spread before him, though he wasn’t really reading them. His mind was already replaying reaction mechanisms, balancing complex equations, and reviewing the periodic trends that had been etched into his memory through sheer repetition.

Breakfast was a quiet affair. His mother placed a plate of roti and boiled eggs in front of him, her face lined with concern, though she didn’t voice it. His father, sipping his tea, occasionally glanced at Aritra, as if trying to gauge his son’s state of mind. But Aritra had built walls around his thoughts, impenetrable even to those closest to him.

The journey to Bahuru High School felt like a ritual now. The familiar rattle of the train, the subdued murmurs of other students, the sight of textbooks clutched tightly in trembling hands—it was all part of the background. Aritra stood still amidst the chaos, his mind as calm as a placid lake, undisturbed by the ripples of fear that surrounded him.

The Exam Hall: Chemistry Day

The exam hall was filled with the faint scent of old wood and chalk dust, mingling with the nervous energy radiating from the students. The invigilators moved methodically, distributing the question papers with indifferent expressions, their voices echoing slightly against the bare walls.

Aritra sat at his assigned seat, his pens lined up neatly, his admit card resting beside them like a silent token of identity. When the papers were finally placed on his desk, he closed his eyes for a brief moment, drawing in a deep breath, then flipped it over.

His eyes scanned the questions swiftly—organic synthesis, reaction mechanisms, thermodynamics calculations, and the dreaded numerical problems from physical chemistry. The paper was challenging, but not unpredictable. The complexity lay not in the questions themselves but in the way they were structured—designed to test both memory and application.

Around him, the room reacted in waves.

Some students’ faces lit up with relief as they tackled the easier sections first, while others furrowed their brows, lost in the labyrinth of chemical reactions. A girl sitting diagonally in front of him chewed the end of her pen, flipping back and forth between pages, her eyes darting frantically. A boy two rows behind let out an audible sigh, slumping in his seat as if the weight of the exam had physically pressed down on his shoulders.

But Aritra’s face remained unreadable.

His pen moved swiftly, writing with a fluidity that only comes from deep understanding. He navigated through organic mechanisms with ease, detailing every electron shift, every reagent’s role, every subtle nuance of reaction conditions. Physical chemistry’s numericals were dissected with precision—formulas recalled effortlessly, units meticulously checked.

The invigilators strolled lazily between the rows, occasionally pausing to glance at the answer sheets, but their presence was barely noticed. The real invigilator was the ticking clock on the wall, its steady rhythm a reminder that time was both a friend and a foe.

As the final minutes approached, the tension in the room reached its peak. Students scribbled furiously, erasers worn down to nubs, pages filled with frantic handwriting—some neat, some chaotic. A boy to Aritra’s right seemed to be on the verge of tears, his hand trembling slightly as he attempted to finish the last question. Another student sat back, defeated, his paper half-empty, staring blankly at the ceiling as if searching for answers there.

But Aritra remained composed.

He reviewed his answers one final time, ensuring every calculation was precise, every explanation thorough. As the bell rang, signaling the end of the exam, he put down his pen with the quiet confidence of someone who knew he had conquered yet another battle.

Outside the exam hall, the usual post-exam chaos erupted—students exchanging answers, debating over tricky questions, some celebrating, others on the verge of breakdowns. But Aritra walked past them, his mind already shifting to the next challenge.

Two more exams to go.

Date: March 9, 2009

Time: 4:30 AM

Location: Aritra’s Bedroom, Dakshin Barasat

The morning air was heavy with anticipation. Aritra’s room, filled with the faint scent of old books and ink, seemed quieter than usual. His study materials were stacked neatly, untouched since the last exam. Today’s focus wasn’t on scribbled notes or last-minute revisions—it was on clarity, on staying calm amid the mental storm.

Today was the Mathematics board exam, a subject that demanded precision, not just understanding. The kind of precision where one small error could derail an entire problem.

Aritra didn’t bother flipping through textbooks that morning. His confidence wasn’t born from arrogance but from the countless hours he’d spent solving problems until patterns etched themselves into his mind. As he washed his face with cold water, he stared into the mirror—not out of vanity, but as a silent ritual, grounding himself before battle.

His parents’ usual morning concern was subdued, replaced by quiet glances and unspoken prayers. His father’s nod and his mother’s light touch on his shoulder were their way of saying, “We believe in you.”

Arrival at Bahuru High School

The familiar journey felt different today. The train station was crowded, yet quieter. Students clutched notes, revising till the last possible second. Aritra stood amidst them, not as part of the crowd but separate, his mind already mapping out matrices, calculus problems, and probability distributions.

At Bahuru High School, tension lingered like a thick fog. Students gathered in small groups, exchanging nervous predictions about the paper. But Aritra walked past them, his focus unbroken.

The Exam Hall: Mathematics Day

The moment he sat at his desk, the noise outside faded. The question paper landed with a soft thud, and when the invigilator’s signal was given, Aritra flipped it over, his eyes scanning quickly.

A brief flicker of surprise crossed his face. The paper was beyond difficult—questions twisted into unfamiliar formats, designed to confuse even the most prepared minds. Complex integrations, differential equations that spiraled into unexpected outcomes, and geometry problems that seemed like riddles wrapped in numbers.

Around him, anxiety exploded.

A boy three seats down tapped his pen nervously, flipping through the pages as panic crept into his expression. A girl beside him stared at her paper, her eyes wide with disbelief. Someone in the back muttered under their breath, frustration evident.

But Aritra thrived in that silence between fear and focus.

His pen moved like an extension of his thoughts, solving each problem with deliberate precision. Complex problems were broken down step by step, the logic unfolding seamlessly. Where others hesitated, he pushed forward, unaffected by the growing tension around him.

Midway through the exam, the atmosphere grew heavier. The sound of frantic scribbling, occasional sighs, and the subtle shuffle of papers filled the room. Some students slouched in defeat, heads resting on their desks, while others fought to salvage what they could.

Aritra, however, remained a constant—calm, focused, unstoppable.

As the final bell rang, he closed his answer sheet, his heart steady. The noise erupted outside the hall—students comparing answers, their voices a mix of relief and regret. But Aritra didn’t stop to listen. He had faced the challenge, and his mind was already shifting to the next.

The Final Exam: English

Date: March 11, 2009

By the time the English exam arrived, the exhaustion of the past few days lingered in the air like a shadow. But Aritra wasn’t just running on energy anymore; he was fueled by momentum.

The exam was straightforward, but after days of intense problem-solving, shifting gears to essays, comprehensions, and grammar felt strange. Still, Aritra navigated through it with ease, his words flowing effortlessly, constructing arguments and analyses with clarity.

As he penned the final sentence, a quiet realization settled in—this was it. The last page, the final bell, the closing chapter of weeks of relentless preparation.

When he walked out of the exam hall, the sunlight felt different—warmer, softer, as if the universe itself was exhaling alongside him.