College Admission - A Journey of Perseverance and Hope

     The HSC exams were over, but the tension remained. The months of late-night studies, hurriedly copied class notes, and occasional doubt-filled moments had all led to this point. For many students in Maharashtra, the goal was clear, engineering through PCM or medicine through PCB. For me, it had been a balancing act of hard work and resourcefulness, with tuition only for mathematics in the final stretch.

    The summer break that followed was meant to be restful, but instead, it was marked by anticipation. Then came the mid-July morning when the results finally arrived. In those days, before instant digital access, newspapers held the key to our futures. I rushed to my neighbor’s house to borrow their copy, scanning the tiny printed names and numbers, searching for mine.

I had passed.

    Relief flooded over me, but it was quickly replaced by a quiet apprehension. PCM and PCB scores, 82.6%. Not bad, but not enough to guarantee an easy entry into the top engineering or medical schools. Walking the two kilometers to my junior college that day, I prayed for good fortune before collecting my official marksheet. At home, my mother and siblings rejoiced, their belief in me unwavering, even as I harbored doubts about the stiff competition ahead.

    The next step was clear. Admission forms. LIT (Laxminarayan Institute of Technology, Nagpur, India) for chemical engineering, Government Medical College, and VRCE (Regional Engineering College, Nagpur) for other engineering branches. The process was straightforward, until it wasn’t.

    At the medical college, second-year students loitered outside, eager to engage in the age-old tradition of ragging aspirants. I sidestepped them, feigning nonchalance, careful not to appear as a hopeful applicant. The truth was, I had reservations about my chances there.

    A friend insisted I meet a local politician who might be able to help, but I knew merit ruled over influence. My neighbor, a schoolteacher, then introduced me to her cousin, who had connections at LIT. The possibility of professor-recommended seats intrigued me. I met with the professor, explaining my situation with honesty. His question lingered: Why chemical engineering? My answer was simple, I was trying to make the best of my scores, and LIT seemed like the most viable option. He wished me luck.

    I gathered every necessary document, the HSC marksheet, junior college leaving certificate, and domicile certificate for Vidarbha, knowing that during admissions, anything could be asked.

There was no certainty. Only hope.

    For many students in Maharashtra, the choice was clear, Engineering through PCM or Medicine through PCB. For me, practicality dictated my path. Financial constraints meant my choices were limited to colleges within Nagpur, where I could continue living at home, avoiding extra room and board expenses. It also allowed me to tutor schoolchildren to earn enough for my books and fees.

    Thanks to my scores in the 10th and 12th grades, I had secured the National Merit Scholarship, Rs. 1,000 per year for the next four years. It was just enough to cover subsidized tuition and exam fees, but books remained an expense I had to earn for. Even with this small relief, the competition was fierce, and I wasn’t sure if my scores would be enough.

    The first blow came soon, I wasn’t called for admission to VRCE or the medical college. The dream of studying engineering or medicine seemed to be slipping away. Then, unexpectedly, a letter arrived from LIT, inviting me for an admission interview. My rank was 192 among those invited, with only 44 open-category seats available. The odds were against me.

    Knowing my chances were slim, I tried to secure admission at a local college for basic science, only to find that I was too late. If I didn’t get into LIT, I could lose an entire academic year. There was nothing left to do but hope.

    The interview day arrived. I gathered every document I could, including my 10th-grade marksheet, school leaving certificate, and domicile certificate for Vidarbha. If there was any way to strengthen my case, I would find it. The waiting room was tense. It was actually a fourth-year classroom, filled with students, some with their parents, others alone like me. I scanned the room for familiar faces, spotting only one, a girl I recognized as a classmate but nothing more.

One by one, students were called. The uncertainty gnawed at me. There were only 44 seats. What were the chances that my rank, 192, would even be considered? The odds seemed impossibly low. Then, toward the end of the day, the peon entered the room and called my name. My heart raced, why had so many ahead of me not opted for chemical engineering? The thought lingered as I stepped into the director’s office.

    Three professors and the director himself sat before me, reviewing my documents. They scrutinized my marksheet, my junior college leaving certificate, and my domicile. The professor I had met earlier through my neighbor’s cousin asked if I could prove that I had studied in Nagpur longer than just junior college. Relief washed over me as I handed over my 10th-grade marksheet and school leaving certificate. The proof was accepted.

    No further questions. I was the 43rd student admitted out of the 44 available seats.

    Walking out of that office, a wave of joy and disbelief swept over me. After months of uncertainty, I had secured admission to LIT for chemical engineering. At home, my family shared in my happiness, their unwavering belief in me now rewarded.

    News spread quickly. Friends dropped by, congratulating me. I opened a box of Pedas, an Indian sweet, sharing the sweets with those who had supported me. Then, as always, came the inevitable skeptic. A stranger asked which engineering branch I had chosen, and when I answered “Chemical,” he dismissed it as a lower-tier degree. He didn’t understand the gravity of what this meant for me, that in four years, I would be an engineer, able to earn a livelihood and support my family. There would always be those who failed to see the brighter side. His words didn’t matter.

    I was focused on my next steps. I would study hard, earn well, and perhaps even pursue higher education.

    That evening, my neighbor, the schoolteacher, stopped by, smiling as she congratulated me. Then, she offered me an opportunity, two middle school students needed tutoring, each paying Rs. 40 a month. I accepted instantly. It was a small but meaningful start.

A new chapter had begun. The struggle had been worth it.