The Exam I Am Destined to Fail—Or Am I?
Biswanath Bhattacharya
January 24, 2026
My greatest miscalculation, I now concede, was entering law college at a moment in life when memory had already begun its gentle retreat. The legal language refuses to linger, the sections slip through my grasp like water through open fingers, and the case laws scatter before I can gather even a handful. Only the broad ideas remain—clear, distilled, almost serene—as though my mind now seeks essence rather than detail. I watch my own struggle with a quiet, almost affectionate disbelief.
There was a time, not so long ago, when learning still bent to my will. Nearing sixty, I completed my MBA from the renowned ICFAI University with 93 percent marks—achieved in barely forty‑five days of study. It felt effortless then, as though my mind still carried the sharpness of youth. But gone are the days when knowledge arrived at my doorstep without resistance, ready to be mastered.
And yet, if one were to judge me by my interactions with my gracious teachers, by the clarity of my class responses, or by the neat logic of my assignments, no one would ever imagine I am destined to fail. That is the irony that trails me like a loyal companion. I still prepare with earnestness—using the night and the afternoon before the exam as best as I can, hoping some miracle of retention will occur. And who knows, perhaps my handwriting—now gloriously illegible—may even work in my favor, shielding the examiner from discovering how little I truly recall.
The exam ahead now rises before me like a mountain I once would have climbed without hesitation. There was a time when confidence was not something I summoned; it simply lived within me. I cleared the civil service exam in a span so brief it felt like a small legend of my own making. I believed that same fire still glowed, that I could call upon it again. But age has its own statutes—unwritten, unyielding—and I am learning them slowly, one humbling day at a time.
I blame no one for this faltering but myself. Not the teachers, not the syllabus, not the years that have gathered behind me. I asked my granddaughter, half‑seeking comfort, whether I would pass. Her answer was blunt, honest, and free of any cushioning: “You will fail. You have not read at all.” In her candor, I heard the truth I had been avoiding—spoken with the disarming innocence only the young possess.
And so I stand here, already knowing the verdict before it is delivered. Failure is almost certain—perhaps even remarkable in its magnitude. Yet there is a strange, unexpected calm in admitting it. I tried, even if belatedly, even if imperfectly. Life has granted me victories far greater than this modest academic defeat, and I refuse to let this single stumble define the sum of my years.
(Tripurainfo)
more articles...