The Grade Point Average to most IBA-eans (Students of IBA)is the God of all numbers. They kill their social lives to spend more time immersed within the grey and white world of pirated text books; steal every ounce of time to read that one extra chapter; drink those two extra cups of strong coffee to toothpick those eyelids awake; lose out on the best of day dreams, that I may add you can only get in a thoroughly boring math or psychology class; reduce themselves to Grade-begging fakeers to get that one little mark – I could swear upon something sacred, that the fakeer skills possessed by the multi-talented student body of IBA could outdo those of professional beggars outside Kaybees any day.
However, to me the GPA is a thoroughly “irrational” number that for the past three semesters has failed to do justice to my intelligence. I REFUSE to admit that it has been MY fault that my GPA has consistently been in the lower “bounds” of my class’s collective GPAs. It is not my fault that studying fails to interest me and grades do not mean more than mere alphabets to me. It is not my fault that reading off books and copy pasting, the exact text book words, in test papers is not my best ability. I am not at fault when the spirited, uninhibited side of me takes over me in class and compels me, with its intense energy, to pass comments that may not always be appropriate in a setting where words that stray off the text book path are highly unappreciated. And it is CERTAINLY not my fault that the world of academics categorizes people and their intelligence by how close they are capable of getting to the number 4.0.
As an individual I am often found relating my GPA dilemma to classmates and I find that none of them are able to relate to me.
Only the other day I was telling a fellow classmate (who works for the local handkerchief industry) about how utterly impossible it is for me to concentrate in a class where the teacher is droning on endlessly about random theories and formulae, when I found him hyper ventilating and staring at me in absolute shock as if my words had been blasphemous to the concept of education.
“Kanwal!” Maaju said, his mouth hanging open, handkerchief against nose. “How can you not want to listen to the sacred words of our oh-so-knowledgeable teacher?”
“Maaju,” I said trying to reason and calm down his hyperventilation. “I’m not insulting the teachers. It’s me! I find it hard to concentrate in class when the teacher is reading off the text book and not adding the value of personal knowledge and hands-on skill to our class room experience.”
“You might have noticed that there is full usage of hands-on skill Kanwal,” said Maaju in his usual Miss-know-it-all way. “The teacher is using the white board AND her text book with her hands. No wonder your GPA is so low!”
I completely lost it at that point.
“I’m not even going to try explaining to you the meaning of hands-on, my handkerchief loving friend,” I said. “You are absolutely devoid of any knowledge beyond that of your rote learned Human behavior definitions. The only thing YOU’RE good at, is saying “Sir marks ki scaling kar dain”. No wonder your GPA is so abnormally high!”