Anusha S Rao is the author of How to Love in Sanskrit and likes writing new things about very old things
I recently saw a picture of a bride in Hassan, in Karnataka, still in her bridal attire and writing her BCom examination, on her wedding day. Perhaps we can add to the quote about only two things being certain in the world – death and taxes – with a third: exams.
Exams always seem to be in the news, whether it is the controversies over paper leaks, discrepancies in syllabi, or the photographs of top achievers looking their best, printed in neat little rows on the newspapers of the day. Of course, exam results come with interviews – children seem to score even more each year. Parents gush about how focused, methodical, and impervious to distractions their children are and children, in turn, dedicate their performance to their parents, teachers, and well, you get the gist. Exams have their place as a necessary evil – but far too much significance has been attached to their outcomes. I was always told in school that one had to do well in their tenth standard board exams to succeed in life; after all, the report card is requested as evidence everywhere. What no one mentioned is that the report card is most often used as proof of the carrier’s identity and nobody glances at the marks he or she has scored!
Unlike the kids of our times, Sanskrit poets in the past had far more amusing challenges posed to them. Even relatively recently, in 1885, when Sundararaja Bhattacharya, the Sanskrit poet and the author of Padmini Parinaya, met the King of Travancore, the king suddenly posed him a metrical challenge in Sanskrit – “The moon held Shiva on its head.” We all know that Shiva holds the crescent moon on his head, but when on the earth does the reverse happen? The talented poet responded in the same meter, citing the destruction of the Tripuras by Shiva – the moon became Shiva’s chariot wheel, and so, in effect, it held Shiva on its head.
Legend goes that the king Bhoja had heard so many poems during his reign that he grew tired of them and wanted some original ones for a change. And so, he announced a substantial reward – of a lakh gold coins – to anyone who could present him with a new poem. Unfortunately for the poets who tried to fulfill his wish, the learned scholars in the king’s court were pretty formidable.
One of these scholars could memorise anything by hearing it once, another could do that by hearing it twice, and the third, by hearing it thrice. And so, when a poet dared to approach the court and recite his poem to the king, the scholars would immediately declare that the poem was not new and that they knew it already. Then, the sharpest of the three scholars would recite the poem aloud, having heard it once. This was followed by a rendition by the second scholar, and then the third – thereby demonstrating that the poem was not a unique one. Finally, a poet managed to win the challenge by reciting a new poem in Sanskrit verse – “King Bhoja! You are a virtuous and truthful man. Your father had previously taken a crore’s worth of gems from me. That you should give me that amount back is a fact well-known to all the scholars assembled here. And well, if they do not know of this fact, then they cannot possibly know my poem either, and so you owe me a lakh gold coins.”
The scholars were all taken aback by this ‘poem’, and ultimately, the king had to present the poet what was announced as the reward. This is far from a “poetic” poem, of course, but the poet successfully played and won the game. All this to say, exams are all well and good, but stressful challenges – much like exams – are no good at evaluating anyone’s true worth!