Shrill at the best of times, our daughter becomes possessed by demons when it comes around to her semester exams. There’s a sharper ring to her voice, doors get banged, meals are demanded and rejected at the oddest times, and orders issued to discipline us into adherence to her timetable and manner of things. “For two hours, I must not be disturbed,” the non-negotiable diktat is curtly delivered from her room.
Peeping in before shutting the door, I’m a little overwhelmed. “But you’re talking on the phone with your friends,” I point out. “To ask them how much they’ve studied — though, of course, they all lie and say they’re not studying at all, which is what I say too,” she sighs at the perfidy of the world. “Should I get out your books?” I volunteer at the sight of her clutter-free desk. “My notes are on my laptop, dad,” she shrugs theatrically at the old-worldliness of my ways — “See.”
The monitor is open to Facebook. I look at my daughter enquiringly. “That’s to keep up with what everyone else is saying when they’re not studying.” At my mystified look, she answers, “It’s gauche to say you’re actually reading, that’s so vulgar, though you know everyone is really revising notes.” She opens a link to a PowerPoint presentation on some economic theory complete with tables and numbers, “There, see, it’s all here.” “And this?” I point to another link. “That’s a movie,” she says, “for when I need a break,” which, as I discover, is every time there’s a lull in her telephone conversations, or when her fingers are tired checking on what everyone in the group is not cramming.
Before the first paper though, there’s a tantrum. “I have nothing to wear,” she tells her mother. My wife waves towards the cupboards full of clothes. “To wear for the papers, mom,” my daughter speaks slowly, as if talking to an imbecile, “I have nothing that’s suitable to wear for appearing for a test,” so to keep peace at home, and to ensure she manages to study when she’s supposed to be not studying, her mother takes her shopping for an exam wardrobe.
All the while we’re home, we’re on tenterhooks. My wife and I can’t talk any more because our conversation disturbs her. If she catches us whispering, she’s annoyed because, in the universe she inhabits, everything revolves around her — so, of course, we must be saying nasty things about her behind her back, else why are we murmuring to each other in undertones and looking guilty to boot? Permission to switch on the television is not granted, the rustling of magazine pages disturbs her, our mobiles need to be switched off. If we go out, we’re callous; if we stay in, we’re interfering and overbearing.
She wants mango, toast, cheese, chocolates, cup noodles, grapes, ham, fried eggs, custard; she hates jelly, ginger biscuits, pineapple cake, ice-cream, boiled eggs, pasta, chilli-chicken; she wants a sandwich; she can’t bear a full meal — but, hello, has no one thought to feed her, she has an exam she’s not studying for, remember? In the fridge, there’s a tray with cold coffee, nimbu-paani, orange squash, iced tea, aam-panna, eyeing all of which she says rhetorically, “Is it too much to ask for strawberry milkshake” — rolling of eyes — “is it?”
When the landline rings, my wife sshhes it into silence. Our daughter’s friend is on the line, wanting to speak to her. “She’s studying beta,” my wife informs her, “let me check if she’ll take your call.” Later, she’s admonished by our daughter, “Don’t you get it, when I’m studying for my papers, remember that I’m actually not studying! And now,” she turns away, “I’m going back to my room to not study.”