When I saw her Cry, I am a Believer!

Some people discover their calling in life through passion. Some through prayer. Others through years of careful planning.

I discovered mine....and to make the long stort short it is  "For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." Jeremiah 29:11

And to make the short story long, keep reading!

The Genius Who Never Studied

Until the ninth grade, I had attended more schools in more towns than I care to remember. Changing schools was practically my tradition. Some collected stamps. Some collected antiques. I collected transfer certificates.

But wherever I went, one thing remained constant. I was considered a brilliant student. And I must confess, and please excuse my modesty, I agreed wholeheartedly with that assessment.

Very early in life, I had discovered a remarkable secret: if I paid attention in class, I could get excellent marks without opening a textbook at home. While other children struggled with homework, revised their lessons, and burned the midnight oil, yours truly enjoyed life. And the irritating part, at least for my classmates, was that it worked! I was almost always among the top three in my class.

Then, at the end of ninth grade, while I was home for summer vacation, my progress report arrived by post. I eagerly tore open the envelope.

487 out of 500!

Excellent! But along with that report, I noticed another document in the envelope.

TRANSFER CERTIFICATE.

Oh, for heaven's sake! Not again! Apparently, God had decided that my education needed to be conducted as a traveling circus.

My mother was a very busy woman, and before I could even ask where I was going next, a gentleman working with her informed me that I would be attending the local government school. A few minutes later, the headmaster of Bargur Government High School arrived to collect my transfer certificate.

And just like that, my next academic adventure began. Little did I know that my days as a genius were numbered.

The Year My Brain Took a Vacation

Tenth grade was a disaster waiting to happen. A new school, a different medium of instruction, different teachers, an unfamiliar syllabus, and a boy who had never developed the habit of studying independently. I didn't even buy all the necessary textbooks. I drifted through the year without properly understanding what I was supposed to learn.

But here's the most extraordinary part. I had become academically hopeless without realizing it! My confidence remained completely untouched by my ignorance. I suppose that's a special kind of talent.

When the examination results were published in the newspaper, my classmate Jones came running.

"Vish! Only three of us passed! You, Venkataramani, and me!"

"Wonderful!" I exclaimed. "How many marks did I get?"

"Marks will come next week."

No problem. I was expecting at least 475. After all, I had scored 487 the previous year. Surely a few marks might disappear here and there, but nothing dramatic.

For the next week, I walked around announcing my success to anyone unfortunate enough to cross my path. "I passed!" You would have thought I had topped the entire state.

Then came the marks. Jones arrived looking positively ecstatic.

"Vish! You're second in the school!"

Second? Well, that was disappointing, but I could live with it.

"Did Venkataramani come first?" I asked.

"I don't know. But you scored more than me!"

"How much did you get?"

"223!"

I stared at him. "Stop joking, Jones. Tell me your actual marks."

"I'm serious! I got 223! Twenty-five more than I expected! And you got 237!"

237!? Out of 500!?

For a moment, I wondered whether the examination board had accidentally published my telephone number instead of my marks.

Then, being the mathematical genius I was, I corrected Jones. "By the way, that's fourteen marks more than you!"

Imagine that. My academic career was lying in ruins, and I was still correcting other people's arithmetic. Some habits die hard.

But the real disaster was yet to come.

The First Tears

My mother walked into the room just as Jones announced cheerfully, "Aunty! Vish is second in the school! I'm third!" And off he went, leaving me to face the consequences.

My mother looked at me. Her eyes were already wet.

"The principal called," she said softly. "He told me your marks are very low."

"I'm sorry, Ma."

I had never felt so small. But instead of scolding me, she said something that broke my heart.

"It's my fault, Son. I shouldn't have changed your school in your final year. A different town, different teachers. You would have done much better if I had left you where you were."

She wiped her eyes and walked away. I stood there speechless.

This was my mother. A woman who had lost her husband while still young. A woman who had faced the world, worked overseas, and carried responsibilities that would have broken many others. She was fearless, educated, dignified, and fiercely independent.

And I had made her cry.

Not because I had failed an examination, but because she thought she had failed me. That hurt far more than the 237.

Now, I know what some of you are thinking. "Vish, you promised us a story about when you discovered your future. Hurry up!"

Patience, my friends. The interval is over. The second half is about to begin. And trust me, Clint Eastwood himself would have approved of the climax.

The Girl Who Scored Twice My Marks

A week later, my mother announced that we were going to Madras. I was to join St. Gabriel's School for higher secondary education.

Before we left, Jones and Venkataramani told me they were both joining the science group at their respective schools.

"What about you, Vish? Science?"

"Of course... probably... we'll see."

In those days, science was the prestigious choice. Bright students took science. Future doctors and engineers took science. Accounting? Well, accounting was what people talked about when the science seats were full. At least, that was the general attitude.

In Madras, my mother took me to my aunt's house to get my mark sheet attested. My aunt was a gazetted officer, and she welcomed us warmly.

"Oh, Akka! Vish is joining higher secondary? My daughter is joining too! She scored 474 out of 500! She wants to take science and become a doctor!"

My mother looked at me. I looked at the floor

474!? Exactly twice my marks. Even my wounded mathematical brain could work thatout.

My aunt asked for my mark sheet. I handed it over. She looked at it and burst out laughing. Then she called her daughter.

"Come here! Look at this!"

My cousin examined my marks and joined the laughter.

"He scored almost 250 marks less than me!"

"Not 250," I corrected her. "237."

She looked at me suspiciously. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. Exactly half."

She went looking for a calculator. I wanted to tell her that although my examination marks were questionable, my ability to subtract was still functioning perfectly.

My aunt turned toward my mother.

"I'm sorry, Akka. I thought Vish was a very good student. What happened?"

The way she asked, you would have thought somebody had died.

And once again, my mother defended me.

"He's a smart boy. I made a mistake by changing his school. His marks don't reflect his ability."

Her eyes filled with tears again. And mine followed.

I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me. Preferably somewhere far away from Madras, my aunt, her daughter, and that wretched mark sheet.

But we still had to meet the principal.

The Principal, the Mother, and the Rubber Stamp

Father Jagathrayan sat behind his desk at St. Gabriel's School. My mother sat opposite him, and I stood beside her. Near the entrance, several parents waited for their turn, watching the proceedings with growing interest.

Father examined my application.

"Mrs. Cornelius, Mr. Earnest told me you were coming. He mentioned that you wanted the science group for your son. But..."

That one word—but—was enough. My mother leaned forward.

"Father, please."

"Mrs. Cornelius, with these marks, I simply cannot admit him to the science group."

"Father, he's a very intelligent boy. I made a mistake by changing his school. Please give him a chance."

Father was sympathetic but firm. "If I give him science with these marks, I'll have to answer to many people. And frankly, I think your son will struggle."

"No, Father! He's my son. I know him. He won't struggle. He's a good student!"

And then my mother began to cry. Not quietly. Not discreetly. She began to sob.

The parents waiting near the entrance turned to look. My mother tried to continue speaking, but her voice kept breaking.

"Father, please... it's my fault... he's a good boy..."

And I stood there, watching the strongest woman I had ever known pleading for me.

Suddenly, the marks didn't matter anymore. Science didn't matter. The school didn't matter. All I could see was my mother.

I thought of the young widow who had refused to surrender to tragedy. The woman who had worked so hard to raise her children. The woman who had crossed oceans to provide for us. The woman who had never allowed us to feel that we were missing anything. And now she was sitting before a stranger, crying because she believed her son deserved a chance.

I couldn't bear it.

And I began to sob.

Not because I wasn't getting science. Not because my marks were poor. But because I had made my mother cry.

There we were, mother and son, both crying our hearts out in front of a school principal, with a small audience of parents watching from the doorway.

If somebody had played a violin in the background, we could have sold tickets.

Father Jagathrayan, to his credit, remained remarkably composed.

"Mrs. Cornelius," he said gently, "I believe you. I believe your son is intelligent. But who says intelligent children must study only science? Why not Accounts?"

My mother looked horrified.

"Accounts? But Father, all his friends and cousins are taking science!"

"Mrs. Cornelius, you know better than that. Let him study accounts. He can become an Auditor."

My mother looked at me again. Her tears continued.

"Father, please give him..."

And that was when something changed inside me.

I had no idea what science would do for my future. I had no idea what commerce would do either. But I knew one thing with absolute certainty.

I never wanted to see my mother cry like that again.

I interrupted.

"Ma, I don't want science."

She stopped and looked at me.

"I want to become an Auditor."

Father Jagathrayan did not waste another second. He grabbed his rubber stamp.

THUD!

Down it came on my application.

I suspect he was relieved to end the emotional performance before the entire waiting room joined us in tears.

And just like that, my future was decided.

We walked out of the office with a little card in my hand.

VISH — ACCOUNTING GROUP.

But I walked out carrying something else too. A promise to myself.

I would study. I would work hard. And whatever happened, I would never again make my mother cry over my education.

Outside the school, my mother was still apologizing.

"I'm sorry, Son. I tried everything. He simply wouldn't give you science."

"That's okay, Ma. I'll become an auditor."

She smiled weakly.

And then I asked the question that probably should have been asked before Father stamped my application.

"Ma, can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"What exactly is an auditor?"

Looking Back

Life has a strange sense of humor. A boy who had spent his childhood avoiding textbooks ended up choosing a profession built around books. Account books, that is.

A boy who couldn't even score half the marks in his tenth-grade examinations decided to enter a profession where getting the numbers right is rather important. And a boy who didn't know what an auditor was would eventually build his professional life around accounting and auditing.

I sometimes wonder what would have happened if Father Jagathrayan had given in to my mother's tears and admitted me to the science group. Would I have become an engineer? A doctor? A scientist? Or would I have spent the next two years discovering exciting new ways to fail physics and chemistry?

We'll never know.

But I do know this.

That day, I thought my mother was fighting to get me into the science group. Looking back, I realize she was fighting to make sure one bad examination didn't become the definition of her son.

She saw potential where others saw only 237 marks. She beleived in me when there are no earthly reason to beleive. She saw a boy who, at that particular moment, didn't have much evidence to support his own confidence. And when the world looked at my mark sheet and laughed, she looked at me and said, "He's smart. I know my son."

What a gift that was.

As children, we sometimes mistake our parents' tears for disappointment. Only much later do we understand that those tears often come from a love so deep that our failures hurt them more than their own.

I went into that principal's office hoping to get a science seat. I walked out with a commerce seat, a promise to my mother, and the beginnings of a career.

My mother wanted the world to give me a chance. I wanted to give my mother a reason to smile.

And somewhere between those two wishes, my future took shape.

I have forgotten many things from my school days. Lessons, formulas, examination questions, even the names of some teachers. But I have never forgotten my mother sitting in that chair, defending me through her tears. Nor have I forgotten the sound of Father Jagathrayan's rubber stamp hitting my application.

Funny, isn't it?

One sound broke my heart.

The other changed my life.

And both happened in the same room.

P.S. Now, if I were you, I would have one burning question: “Why on earth did your mother change your school in the tenth grade, of all years? Wasn't that the most important year of your school life?”

Come on, my friends! You laughed at my 237 marks, watched my mother cry, and witnessed the birth of an auditor who didn't even know what auditing was. But nobody thought to ask WHY she changed my school in the first place?

I'm beginning to wonder whether you were paying as much attention to this story as I was paying to my textbooks!

Anyway, if even ONE of you asks me that question, I might just write a sequel.

And who knows? The sequel might be even more  meaningful than the original!