Love Part 1

My ears still go red when I recall the insult in dad’s voice. “Seriously? A girl?”

I was showing dad my ‘result report’ of the year final exam. I stood fourth, and it was the fourth consecutive time I’d done so. To put it bluntly, I sort of felt great in being the fourth-position-holder every time. The number ‘four’ had earned a special place in my heart over the past three years of junior high school. It was so awkwardly special that I never even thought of moving further with my position in the merit list.

However, the first time ever I gave it a thought was the day dad reviewed the result report. He talked with me about areas I needed to work on and areas where I did good—like the ‘91’ in biology whereas 99 was the highest marks and the ‘100’ out of 100 in math—in a quite pleased tone. Obviously, he couldn’t be that much fed up with my regular fourth position.

When he was finished with the talking, he dropped the card in his lap and asked, “So, who’s the first boy this year?”

“It’s not a boy, actually,” I replied. “It’s a girl. Her name’s Nidhi.”

That was when dad furrowed his brows and twisted his nose, as if putting on all the insult in the world, and uttered that epic remark. All I had to reply that expression was an awful smirk.

He didn’t say anything more and left my room, smiling and shaking his head.

Dad’s words, I don’t know how and why, had hit the deepest parts of my insides. Of course! I thought. He’s absolutely right. How could I let a girl be the topper in my class? Why didn’t I think of this before?

Mr. Belayet interrupts my thoughts as he makes his way into the class carrying an elastic-bound bundle of answer-scripts. My breathing picks up an abrupt pace. Beads of sweat accumulate above my upper lip, something that happens to me every time I get way too excited.

Unlike most of my peers, I love these ‘answer-script-showing-days’, when the teacher comes in, calls the students one by one, and announces the marks while giving away the scripts. It was Mr. Belayet’s turn today to show the math scripts of the first term-end exam—which is happening right now—and I didn’t have even a little doze last night anticipating this.

Except for math, the scripts of all other subjects have been shown within the last two days. Out of those seven subjects, I got the highest marks in four and it was Nidhi, of course, who got the highest in the rest. My total mark so far is 667 out of 700, and Nidhi’s is 669. Nobody else in the class is anywhere close to Nidhi and me. So, it’s all touch-and-go.

Mr. Belayet drops the giant bundle on the table, sits on the chair, takes the elastic off the bundle, and the entire class goes silent. There is tension in the air, nerve-wracking tension. My eyes are fixed right on Mr. Belayet, but I can tell without even turning around that everyone has their breath held tight.

Mr. Belayet clears his throat, and says in his typical rumbling voice, “Well, I’m not at all satisfied with your performance. The questions were so easy, and yet you got such poor marks!”

A tide of buzzing permeates the class only for a moment, and then silence returns. God, I can’t breathe!

“I’m going to call the names now.” A brief pause. “Mahin Jahan.”

Everyone turns to look at Mahin in the second bench who springs out of his seat and dashes towards Mr. Belayet. After reaching the table, he stretches his hands forward.

Mr. Belayet, while taking the first script from the bundle and putting it Mahin’s feeble hands, says, “58.”

There and then suppressed cries escape most of the mouths in the class, including mine. What? 58?

Mahin swivels around and walks back to his seat. It’s the look on his face that says it all.

Mr. Belayet definitely wasn’t joking when he’d said the marks were poor. Among the twenty people or so who were called after Mahin, the highest mark was only 78. Not even a single ‘A’ grade so far. My heart has been thumping probably in its fastest pace and loudest beats ever for the last couple of minutes.

No need to panic. You can do it. You will do it. Nidhi will be nowhere close to you. Besides, she hasn’t even got her script yet, right? So why be scared now?

“Tawsif! You’re called, buddy!”

My senses jump back to reality as Mustafiz shakes my shoulder. I get up and literally run to the table at the front of the class.

“Where have you been, huh? I called you at least thrice and still got no response!” Mr. Belayet says.

I try to mutter something, but the words, whatever they were, cease halfway in my mouth.

Mr. Belayet takes a script from the top of the bundle in his hand and casts an eye over it. There’s just a hint of smile at the corners of his mouth; the expression is too subtle for me to decipher. I keep my face impassive outside, but I’m all gulping and shivering inside.

After a moment or two, he hands the script over and mouths, “Congratulations.”

The word ‘congratulations’ sounds too good to believe right now. Turning around, I finally gather the courage to look, and see the marks written in red ink. 100!

“YES!” I jump and punch into the air. Finally, full marks in math!

A second later, when I’m no longer flying high, I notice countless dilated eyes looking straight at me, some glinting with laughter and some with annoyance. I grasp my mouth in embarrassment and rush back to my seat.

The game ain’t over yet! I tell myself. You still have to find what Nidhi got.

“Fariha Afrin Nidhi.”

Another paroxysm of excitement surges through my veins. I didn’t expect Mr. Belayet would call her right after me. I turn at the girls’ benches and search for her.

She’s in the third bench, slowly rising to her feet and coming out of the bench, making her way through the other three girls sitting there. Then she starts walking in long strides, her face incredibly pale.

As she reaches the table, Mr. Belayet hands her the script after saying, “79.”

Grave silence falls when she turns around and walks back. I feel all my excitement and severe palpitation ebbing away abruptly.

Nidhi’s mark came like a bombshell in the class. Surely nobody expected her to get anything less than 90. She’s pretty good in math. In fact, it’s always been one of her strengths.

I see her flopping into her seat. She holds her script in front of her, perhaps still unable to the numbers written over it. Her eyes water, and a tear slowly rolls down her cheeks. Tamanna, the girl sitting to her right, reaches over to her and pats her back. This little act of sympathy turns out to be too generous for her to bear as she hides her face behind her hands and bursts into tears.

Mr. Belayet keeps on calling names and my peers continue making for the table and returning with their scripts, but I’m utterly oblivious to all that. My senses are through and through engaged on her—her silent weeping and sniffing—and everything else in the world has lost value.

I’m supposed to be celebrating. I’m supposed to be happy since all the effort I made for the last couple of months has proven successful. I should be proud of myself now that back in home I can tease dad all I want. I can say now, “See, dad, I’ve done it! There’s no first girl anymore!” But yet, I feel low, as if the achievement of being the topper for the first time ever is a nothing.

Something deep, something very intricate is happening to me. Something deeper than just pity.