"Examination is a great botheration to the population of this nation. Hence, the only solution is the abolition of this abomination!
yours truly,
Adi seshan!"
We don't know who Adi Seshan was or when he lived. Like the savant Adi Shankara, Adi Seshan's precise position in the annals of human history is yet to be determined. But, we need little confirmation that he was a tormented spirit and examinations in particular contributed to his pained state of mind, which he vocalized so eloquently!
Examinations in India are not new. Though we would like to lay the blame at the feet of Lord Macaulay, examinations existed in ancient times. We hear that Kanchipuram had many centres of learning called ghatikas (or ghatikaa-sthaanaas). A lot of research has gone into the origin of the term- ghatika, which has ghata or pot as its root. Was it an institute which specialized in pot-making or perhaps teaching the ghatam (clay-pot used as percussion instrument) or did it churn out the Harry Potters of those days? We can take pot shots all right, but we're told that the term had a lot to do with the style of examinations conducted. To keep the examinations fair and square, all the questions were written on chits of paper and dropped into a pot. The student picked up one such chit from the pot (ghata) and answered it. Probably, the term pot-luck originated from this system. Hence, the word ghatika for these centres of learning.
Examinations come in different flavours- written, viva-voce, open book, multiple-choice, quiz, "surprise-test" and "practical" exams. Some examinations are etched in our memory; they hang on like the proverbial monitor-lizard and refuse to leave us- this one was a practical exam in the Electronics Laboratory.
The details have been thankfully blurred by unforgiving time- it involved setting up an elaborate circuit on a "bread board" and have the output displayed using an "oscilloscope". Some of us were challenged in this activity. To us, the resistors with their red-green bands, the quaint-looking capacitors and silvery transistors were but colourful toy-pegs to be inserted in various slots on the board, connnected or soldered to wires and have that entire tangled mass finally hooked to the oscilloscope.
The three of us were particularly pleased with our progress this time. For once, the oscilloscope answered our ardent prayers and displayed the most delightful waveform! Professor Sinha surveyed our creation with childlike curiosity. Nattily dressed in a tweed overcoat, corduroy trousers with suspenders, he twirled his pipe around his mouth. "Indeed! Most interesting!" he remarked, while we were cocksure and beamed with more than usual pride.
He carefully removed one of the resistors and commented, "Aapka output ab bhi aa raha hai!" (the oscilloscope still shows the same output). It was difficult to react to that comment- a little unsure whether it would be correct to say, "Sir, that's expected" or "Sir, we can't believe it either!". Thankfully, he didn't wait for an answer. Next, he stepped back a bit, knitted his brows, surveyed the bread-board like a chess player... and with precision, selected a capacitor for a change and kept it away. "Aap ka output ab bhi aa raha hai!" he casually mentioned and got back to more work.
One by one, many resistors were removed; several transistors lay prostrate outside the board and the bread board looked sparse and particularly uncomplicated. "Dhyaan deejiye! Aap ka output ab bhi aa raha hai!"- ("May you please note- the output still hasn't changed!") Clearly, something was amiss and we sensed it. Our creative invention elicited attention from all the adjoining benches and soon, quite a crowd gathered. We shuffled our feet, cleared our throat, wiped the sweat from our brows, but clearly, there was no escape. Professor Sinha was still his meticulous self.
Suddenly, Sinha was transformed into a fiend and seized with a fit of rage, dug his nails into the bread-board and in one brutal sweep- uprooted the entire remaining contents and flung it away. The oscilloscope still wouldn't budge and mocked us further by displaying the same pattern. Looking at us straight in the eye, he thundered- "Aap ka output ab bhi aa raha hai!"
He shook his head in disbelief. Our expertise or the lack of it rendered him incapable of finding appropriate words. He stormed out of the hall and asked his apprentice to take over!
"It happens; don't take it too seriously!" Krishna tried to console us. There were several theories on what went wrong- Kamlesh felt that we had "shorted the two wires of the oscilloscope" so that the oscilloscope was cocooned in its own world and hence displayed the regular sinusoidal waveform that was its trademark signature!
Some practical exams leave us practically dumb in speech and numb in mind!
yours truly,
Adi seshan!"
We don't know who Adi Seshan was or when he lived. Like the savant Adi Shankara, Adi Seshan's precise position in the annals of human history is yet to be determined. But, we need little confirmation that he was a tormented spirit and examinations in particular contributed to his pained state of mind, which he vocalized so eloquently!
Examinations in India are not new. Though we would like to lay the blame at the feet of Lord Macaulay, examinations existed in ancient times. We hear that Kanchipuram had many centres of learning called ghatikas (or ghatikaa-sthaanaas). A lot of research has gone into the origin of the term- ghatika, which has ghata or pot as its root. Was it an institute which specialized in pot-making or perhaps teaching the ghatam (clay-pot used as percussion instrument) or did it churn out the Harry Potters of those days? We can take pot shots all right, but we're told that the term had a lot to do with the style of examinations conducted. To keep the examinations fair and square, all the questions were written on chits of paper and dropped into a pot. The student picked up one such chit from the pot (ghata) and answered it. Probably, the term pot-luck originated from this system. Hence, the word ghatika for these centres of learning.
Examinations come in different flavours- written, viva-voce, open book, multiple-choice, quiz, "surprise-test" and "practical" exams. Some examinations are etched in our memory; they hang on like the proverbial monitor-lizard and refuse to leave us- this one was a practical exam in the Electronics Laboratory.
The details have been thankfully blurred by unforgiving time- it involved setting up an elaborate circuit on a "bread board" and have the output displayed using an "oscilloscope". Some of us were challenged in this activity. To us, the resistors with their red-green bands, the quaint-looking capacitors and silvery transistors were but colourful toy-pegs to be inserted in various slots on the board, connnected or soldered to wires and have that entire tangled mass finally hooked to the oscilloscope.
The three of us were particularly pleased with our progress this time. For once, the oscilloscope answered our ardent prayers and displayed the most delightful waveform! Professor Sinha surveyed our creation with childlike curiosity. Nattily dressed in a tweed overcoat, corduroy trousers with suspenders, he twirled his pipe around his mouth. "Indeed! Most interesting!" he remarked, while we were cocksure and beamed with more than usual pride.
He carefully removed one of the resistors and commented, "Aapka output ab bhi aa raha hai!" (the oscilloscope still shows the same output). It was difficult to react to that comment- a little unsure whether it would be correct to say, "Sir, that's expected" or "Sir, we can't believe it either!". Thankfully, he didn't wait for an answer. Next, he stepped back a bit, knitted his brows, surveyed the bread-board like a chess player... and with precision, selected a capacitor for a change and kept it away. "Aap ka output ab bhi aa raha hai!" he casually mentioned and got back to more work.
One by one, many resistors were removed; several transistors lay prostrate outside the board and the bread board looked sparse and particularly uncomplicated. "Dhyaan deejiye! Aap ka output ab bhi aa raha hai!"- ("May you please note- the output still hasn't changed!") Clearly, something was amiss and we sensed it. Our creative invention elicited attention from all the adjoining benches and soon, quite a crowd gathered. We shuffled our feet, cleared our throat, wiped the sweat from our brows, but clearly, there was no escape. Professor Sinha was still his meticulous self.
Suddenly, Sinha was transformed into a fiend and seized with a fit of rage, dug his nails into the bread-board and in one brutal sweep- uprooted the entire remaining contents and flung it away. The oscilloscope still wouldn't budge and mocked us further by displaying the same pattern. Looking at us straight in the eye, he thundered- "Aap ka output ab bhi aa raha hai!"
He shook his head in disbelief. Our expertise or the lack of it rendered him incapable of finding appropriate words. He stormed out of the hall and asked his apprentice to take over!
"It happens; don't take it too seriously!" Krishna tried to console us. There were several theories on what went wrong- Kamlesh felt that we had "shorted the two wires of the oscilloscope" so that the oscilloscope was cocooned in its own world and hence displayed the regular sinusoidal waveform that was its trademark signature!
Some practical exams leave us practically dumb in speech and numb in mind!
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