The Cycle of Silence I take my seat in the quiet hall. Silence feels alive here: breathing only between a hundred held breaths. Not one of the hundred speaks: their stillness almost serene, like a painting moments before it shatters. They all look calm though. I, on the other hand, look anything but calm. My fingers tremble slightly, as I place them on the small desk in front of me, and nervousness courses through me. This is a government exam, but apparently our future relies heavily on it. And me being… me, I tried revising for every single topic they sent out from the hundred-point list. Pulling me out of my thoughts, I hear a noise. Loud, since no one else talks or even moves. I’m seated somewhere in the middle row, so from afar, I can see a teacher making her way to each one of us, handing out the papers. Her hair is twisted into a bun so tight it looks painful; each strand pinned with military precision, a crown of beautiful chaos she doesn’t seem to notice. After what seems like an eternity, she finally reaches me, and hands me mine. I smile up at her, which mostly comes out as a grimace because I’m so anxious. She doesn’t reply though. Not even a small lift of her lips. Nothing. That’s… strange. She walks away and I finally look at the thick exam paper in front of me. “Begin now,” comes a voice—the teacher. She’s already reached the table at the far corner. And then comes the ruffling sounds of everyone opening their papers all at once. I read through the first question. Then the second. Then the third. None of them make sense! I glance up, scanning the room, but everyone just keeps swirling their pens on their papers, writing something I only wish I could see. Looking back at the questions in front of me, they are impossibly difficult, have no literal meaning, and have no answers that seem to fit. I suddenly raise my hand, glancing at the teacher. She doesn’t look at me, but somehow knows my hand is up. She only says, “Keep going,” which does nothing but build my frustration, since no one else around me seems bothered. So, with nothing else to do and no better choice, I answer the questions. “Answer” is hardly the word I would use but nothing makes sense right now. I feel like it’s been hours since I started the test. The clock in front of all of us has been ticking. The pencils and pens scratch and whisper against the paper, and the air hums its low, endless tune: an orchestra of order, playing through my unravelling mind. My sense of claustrophobia has only been increasing, however. Hours have passed. And no one else seems concerned! Every other student continues to write, completely absorbed in their work. Their pens move in unison, like synchronised dancers tracing madness in ink. But when I finally look at the clock, it’s only 3:30 pm. Just 30 minutes since I started the test. Naisha Mehta 10D Full Story:
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