Beyond the Examination Hall

The Ink and the Soul

The story follows Denzil, a student reflecting on his examination experience in 1970. The excerpt describes the exam hall atmosphere and the behaviours of other students, highlighting their individual anxieties and coping mechanisms. Denzil’s own thoughts about his essay on Colombo and his anticipation of the holidays are also depicted, illustrating his mixed feelings of accomplishment and boredom. The excerpt concludes as Denzil submits his paper and imagines the freedom that awaits him.

As I stepped out of the examination hall, my body felt like a battleground — exhausted, yet triumphant. My fingers, stained with the dark ink of a thousand thoughts, resembled the rich tea that flowed through our village veins. My lips were parched, my throat as dry as the white sand that swirled in our front yard. But amidst the fatigue, a spark within me burned bright, a testament to my unwavering determination.

Before leaving, I had paused at my desk, gazing around the hall. Each student was a unique melody in the symphony of examinations. Lakshman, lost in his thoughts, scribbled on his desk like a solitary figure on a vast veranda. Gamini, a machine fueled by adrenaline, poured his thoughts onto paper, his face a picture of intense focus. Rohan’s gaze was fixed on the roof, his chin occasionally grazed by the gentle scrape of his pen. Bertram, in his world, scanned his answers with a mix of hope and doubt.

The hall was alive with sounds — nibs scratching, papers rustling, chairs scraping against the wooden floor, and throats clearing. The tension was thick, broken only by the soft coughs and murmurs of students lost in thought. I wondered, what was the point of lingering? I’d wrapped up my final answer by two thirty. Two questions and a three-hundred-word essay, done. A spark of satisfaction flickered within me, but revisiting my work felt like a chore. I rarely bothered with revisions, a habit born of impatience or confidence — I couldn’t quite say.

The essay was a breeze, a mere formality. My pen had danced across the page, weaving a tale of Colombo’s streets, Pettah markets, Fort buildings, and its people. I’d counted my words, a habit born of precision, and found I’d hit exactly 300 words. But what was the point of it all? Why write about the capital, anyway? The question lingered, a nagging doubt, like the faint scent of frangipani on a summer breeze.

I caught Mr. Ratnayake’s eye and pretended to be busy with the foolscap paper. Despite my usual aversion to revisions, I thought I might as well do a cursory check. I read a few lines and imagined what I would do during the holidays. I glanced at the clock again, thinking it must be nearly three. Only two forty-five — another fifteen minutes to go. I saw three or four boys giving up their papers and leaving, and felt a pang of happiness.

I briskly folded the paper and wrote on the flap:

English Language

Denzil Jayasinghe

Grade 10B

St. Benedict’s College

Colombo 13

The familiar ritual of writing my name and details felt like a comforting embrace, a reminder that this chapter was closing, and a new one was about to begin. With that, I stood up, handed in my paper, and stepped out of the examination hall, my body feeling like a battleground — exhausted, yet triumphant.