ONE HUNDRED PER CENT

‘Theepika … Shamayanthy … Ajanthiny …’ There were no regular classes this morning. Teachers were back in their classrooms to give students the results of their recent district level exams, and show them their marked papers. Geerthika called names as she handed out the papers. ‘Nirojini … Thulasi … Abinaya. Well done, Abinaya: 98 per cent.’

She continued to hand out papers, which she would collect in again shortly. Some of the students barely glanced at their papers, and returned them. Others crowded around their teacher in a ritual she was very familiar with.

‘Miss, miss, I need two more marks for a B. My parents will be angry if I don’t get a B. Can’t you give me two more marks, just two more?’

‘I’ve been through it all very carefully. If you can show me where you think you should get any marks, tell me, and I can look at it again.’ This was usually enough to divert an importuning student, but she was quite willing, if one of them found something debatable, or a point overlooked, as occasionally happened, to award the extra mark.

Abinaya had already looked through her paper. ‘Miss, here are the two things marked wrong. But they’re not wrong, Miss.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You didn’t give me marks for these two. But the question asked which countries they were the capitals of, and they aren’t capitals. That’s what I said, look.’

Geerthika had a copy of the exam paper, and found among the questions Abinaya’s two lost marks. Small blurred photos were followed by the caption “These famous land marks are all in Capital cities. Tell the names of them and which countries are they capitals for.” Abinaya has scored for the Eiffel Tower, the Pyramids of Giza and Big Ben, but her answers for the Sydney Opera House and the statue of Christ the Redeemer identified the landmark and city, and then, for both, simply stated “This is not a capital city” without stating a country.

‘Oh. Yes, I’m sorry. You know I can’t mark those correct. The question asks you for a country.’

‘But Miss, it doesn’t say that. It says we have to write what countries they are the capitals of, but they aren’t.’

Geerthika explained that the marks were only available for the names of the countries. Abinaya repeated her claim, but with a smile, and little insistence.

With all the papers collected, Geerthika made her way slowly along the corridor of the lower secondary block. She was thinking, a little troubled, and not aware of the grey concrete surrounding, stained by years of rain seepage. She was thinking about Abinaya’s answers, and of the lesson in which they had covered this part of the syllabus. She had carefully chalked up the names of each landmark on that part of the wall which served as a board, and written both the city and the country in which each was situated. The whole class should then have copied this information into their books, in order to memorize it. She had told them at the time that these were capitals, and Abinaya, she remembered now, had disputed Sydney as the capital of Australia.

Geerthika recalled the lesson because of the embarrassment of this incident. She had merely done as she always did, in following the syllabus provided, but after a moment’s confusion her response to the challenge was clear. Every school in the district, perhaps all schools in the country, would be teaching the same material, and teaching it in the same way. It would never do to depart from the official syllabus; that could lead to chaos. Nor would it do to have the teacher’s authority undermined by a student. Accordingly, she held fast to her position, and insisted that all students copy down what she was giving them.

Abinaya had not pressed the point, and there the matter had rested, until now. Geerthika had not given it a thought while she was marking. With around 200 papers to mark, there was no time to do more than follow the marking scheme provided by the Provincial Education Department. But that was the point. Questions and answers were all provided by the Department. Everyone responded to the same material. Several students in this class had scored all five marks for this part of the exam, correctly naming each country, all memorized from the lists Geerthika had written for them to copy.

Abinaya was right about Australia, Geerthika knew, and today she had been confident about Brazil too. Such a frustratingly bright and independent pupil, a bane to a teacher. She wouldn’t challenge her pupil over the capital of Brazil: she could probably even find the country on a world map. That left little doubt that her answers to the questions were accurate. Yet Abinaya must have known exactly what it was the questions sought. Was that sufficient to mark her down, when she had given factually accurate answers? Geerthika wondered if she was at fault in rejecting them. All she had done was follow the marking scheme provided, just as she had stuck to the elements of the syllabus in teaching. This was a puzzle she must take higher.

At the midpoint of the corridor there sat a little room, much narrower than the classrooms on either side. Those rooms each possessed what passed as windows towards the street, openings too high to look out of, even standing on desks, as pupils knew from experience, glassless but covered with wire mesh – though whether to keep out birds or to keep in schoolgirls’ missiles was unclear. If this room had a similar opening, it was lost behind mouldering piles of paper that, at the back of the room, reached almost to the ceiling. That back half of the room served as an archive of old exam papers, no, not an archive, a repository, as no one would be able to locate anything in this heap of condemned paper, slowly mouldering to dust, each bundle tied with a length of red tape, without conducting a days-long search.

The front portion of the room served as an office for the section head, Suwasthika. She was sitting at her desk facing the opening into the corridor, a set of class registers and a large roll of red ribbon, ready to tie up the returning exam sheets, before her. In her view, the piles amassed behind her gave her a kind of platform, proof that she represented the weight of a tradition of schooling. Suwasthika’s was a short but imposing presence, always dressed in fine silk sarees, every pleat immaculate, with tastefully matching blouse. Appearance to her was essential. In her position she must embody the responsibilities of her post, key among which was the maintenance of order. The first principle of that responsibility was to lead by example, to demonstrate control in all things. She was convinced girls left alone would rapidly descend into anarchy. Only strict authority could save them from themselves. She radiated that authority, so that as she stealthily stalked the corridors whole classes might be aware of her approach, and fall silent before they saw her. This gave her considerable satisfaction, but so did the occasional miscreant she might spot as she peered over the half wall into a classroom, when she could march in and lift the offender by one ear, to administer a physical reminder of the necessary standards of conduct.

Some of the teachers in her section supported this approach and pursued it in their classrooms, but there were others who lacked sufficient backbone to impose themselves, and consequently invited disturbance. One of these was Geerthika, now entering her little office.

While Geerthika tied the bundle of papers and initialled the return list, she explained her dilemma. Suwasthika was unimpressed. ‘Teachers can’t have students questioning the material they are given. A student’s task is to learn; it is for the teacher to provide the material. It’s a simple enough arrangement.’ She paused, fixing Geerthika with a stern look. ‘So long as we stick to it.’

Still uneasy, Geerthika tried again, fumbling to find the question on the exam sheet, but Suwasthika wasn’t concerned.

‘Are you telling me you didn’t teach them the answers they needed? Surely they were all given to you.’

A fresh thought occurred to Geerthika, one that might be more persuasive in this office. ‘It’s not that. They all had the right answers to learn. But you know, if we can give these two marks she’ll get a full hundred marks. We haven’t had a hundred per cent answer in any of these exams. It would look really good for the school, and for this section especially. And she isn’t actually wrong, after all.’

This was a point worth considering. A little kudos for the section could accumulate advantages. Nothing to lose, and here was something that would appeal to the principal.

Visitors to the principal’s office were struck by a triangular sign on her desk bearing the legend in gilt lettering, and in English, ‘Narasimikhatharadevi Poobalagnanasingham, Mrs, Principal’. To one side stood a large glass-fronted cabinet with cups and trophy shields. Photos on the walls showed numerous sporting and other achievers from the school, always with the principal sitting in the centre of the group, always with the same impassive lack of expression. Only close scrutiny could indicate that the same image had not been photoshopped into each, as the oldest betrayed a few less wrinkles.

The principal carried an air of always having a hundred things on her mind, but Suwasthika wondered how much of this was a carefully constructed cover. Certainly the air of distraction made it difficult for others to gain her attention.

‘I’ve noticed girls hanging around the gates at the end of school waiting to be collected. Some of them remove their ties. I hope you make it plain to your section that this is not acceptable. And I’ve even seen some of them talking to boys. Those boys from St Joseph’s, on their way home. Of course, I shall speak to their principal. A thoroughly bad influence. You do agree, don’t you?’

Suwasthika understood how to appeal to the principal’s concerns, and pressed her point.

‘It isn’t just for my section, of course. I was thinking about the school. Here is a child who has covered every question on the paper. When was the last time we had a full 100%? It would do the school’s image a great deal of good.’

Finally convinced, the principal decided she must raise the issue with the Department, at a coming meeting.

She found Piribaharan’s desk, as usual, entirely clear, and apart from a filing cabinet against the wall nothing in the office showed the nature of the work done here. Indeed it was a replica of his old office in the Motor Traffic Department, but for a slightly larger desk. He intended his next office to contain the same, but in a larger space. Piribaharan was proud of the image of efficiency he felt this projected, but visitors kept waiting, as all those he held to be of more junior rank were, quickly realized that nothing at all was done here.

Piribaharan’s response to the principal was direct. ‘We give instructions. It’s for the teacher to carry them out. They don’t question policy. Leave that to us, we’re the experts. Where would we be if people didn’t follow instructions? Or if we bowed to narrow pressures? We can’t afford to make exceptions for one school. Do you know how many schools come under my authority? Look, your girl obviously knew what she was doing. Would you let pupils come in to your office and dictate policy to you? Of course you wouldn’t. These children don’t need to worry themselves about the capital city of some country they’ll never go to. So the capital of Brazil is that other one, um, Sao Paulo isn’t it, what does it matter?’

Having made sure of her facts before the meeting, the principal started to correct him, but quickly thought better of it, and waited quietly, studiedly attentive.

‘We have an important job to do here, and you, principal, you’re a part of it. This is for the nation, not for some little schoolgirl or her family. When you work out your policies you look to what we tell you for your guidance, don’t you?’

Again the principal decides to keep quiet.

‘Now. There’s a useful saying, that if you play ball to me, I play with you. You’d like me to play with you, wouldn’t you?’

What can the principal say? She weaves her head, vaguely.

‘So that’s it. You come to me with proposals, and I’ll see what I can do. But let’s not bother ourselves about one little girl and a couple of marks, eh?’

At the start of the following term Geerthika takes a quiet moment during a class, when her students should be copying out a set of questions and the expected answers, to approach Abinaya, sitting in her usual place against the far wall. Abinaya has been contentedly doodling a sketch of a Disney princess with big bright eyes, but she hastily stows it under her exercise book as her teacher approaches. Geerthika has been thinking about this moment, and wondering how best to handle it. On the one hand she is disappointed her initiative to get the marks raised didn’t bear fruit, and sorry for Abinaya who might have made a memorable contribution with her top marks. But this regret is easily balanced by the mingled sense of relief and validation, as her own initial response to the exam paper has been upheld. Now that it comes to the moment, she tells herself Abinaya is to be put in her place, and made aware of the ways in which authority works in the world. It serves her right. Geerthika feels a little victory begin to glow within her as she breaks the news.

‘Oh, Abinaya. You can’t have those two marks. The school has checked right up to the Department, and I was right.’ She allows herself a little smirk.

Abinaya is perplexed. What is she talking about? And then it comes back to her. The geography test. She had forgotten all about it. Did it actually matter to Geerthika Miss, has she been worrying about it all this time?