Between the Hall Ticket and Hope!

The world was still half-asleep when I opened my eyes at 4:00 AM. A silence surrounded me, not the scary kind, but one that made me feel the weight of the day ahead. I packed my bag gently, as if not to wake the dreams that still lingered in the room. Hall ticket. Aadhar card. Pens. Notes. A few sets of question papers I had solved before. Everything carefully arranged like soldiers before a war.

Amma handed me a cup of tea. She didn’t say much, she didn’t need to. Her silence carried more blessings than words ever could. I closed my eyes for a moment and prayed, not for marks, not for passing, but just for the strength to remember what I had worked so hard to learn. Just that. Nothing more.

Appa stood ready near the gate, like always. He’s not a man of big speeches either, but I saw it in his eyes, the faith he had in me. We stepped out into the chill of the early morning, and as we left home, Amma’s voice followed us with a simple “All the best.” That alone echoed louder than any crowd.

We reached the bus stand. No crowds yet, just quiet roads and the dim light of a street lamp stretching over the shelter. My heart thudded, not from fear, but from hope, from the sheer weight of how far I had come.

We stood there, just Appa and me, at the quiet bus stand, waiting. No fancy cars, no rush, no spotlight. Just us and time moving slowly. The clock ticked louder than usual, and my mind ran faster than the bus wheels ever could. I kept glancing down the road, my heartbeat syncing with every shadow that looked like a bus. But it wasn’t.

Appa stayed calm. Of course, he did. He’s weathered more storms than I can count. I don’t think he even checked the time. He just stood beside me, like a tree, steady, rooted, quietly offering shade without asking for thanks.

Finally, the bus came. No announcement, no hurry. Just the soft screech of tyres and a small cloud of dust. We stepped in. And somehow, the window seat was waiting for us. No scramble, no chaos. Just space, for me, for my thoughts.

The breeze kissed my face as the bus began to move. It whispered rest, but my heart was loud with equations, names, years, dates, acts, authors, phonetics... everything I had stuffed into my mind over the months. I closed my eyes, but sleep never came. Only prayers did.

Two hours later, the bus stopped. We had arrived.

But the journey within me? That was just beginning.

We finally reached Fatima Michael College of Engineering & Technology, a name I’d seen on my admit card a hundred times before, now standing tall before my eyes. The air was fresh, the trees swayed softly as if welcoming me, and the campus... it had a calm that settled the chaos inside my chest.

I was the fifth person to enter the gates.

The watchman greeted me with a wide, fatherly smile, as though he knew the storm I had crossed to get here. His smile alone felt like a blessing. I smiled back, nervously clutching my hall ticket and Aadhaar card as if they were golden tickets.

We hadn’t had breakfast. But hunger stood no chance against adrenaline. My stomach was quiet, but my heart? Loud.

Within twenty to twenty-five minutes, the silence of the college disappeared. It filled quickly, students rushing in, voices rising, feet scuffling across the tiled floor. I stood still in the middle of it all, like the calm eye of a storm.

Then, the invigilators arrived, wearing their seriousness like uniforms. But they were kind. One staff member guided me through a corridor and into a vast open hall, where rows and rows of computers awaited us like silent judges.

The room buzzed with anticipation.

I found my place, rested my bag, and inhaled deeply. This wasn’t just a room. It was the gate. To a future I’d dreamed of. To a version of me I’d fought to become.

I handed over all my belongings to Appa, my bag, my books, my notes… everything. It was just me now. Me and the weight of all my preparation. With only my Aadhaar card, hall ticket, and a pen in my hand, I stepped forward into the exam hall. At exactly 8:00 am, I was assigned a seat.

I sat down, my hands trembling slightly as I placed the two documents in front of me like sacred offerings. I closed my eyes and prayed, not for a miracle, not for marks, but simply to remember everything I’d worked so hard to learn. Just that.

At 9:00 am, the room stirred with clicks and buzzes. The exam portal opened, and we were asked to verify the details flashing on our screens. For a moment, my heart eased. Everything matched. My name, the photo, the roll number, it was all in order.

But peace is a fleeting guest.

An invigilator approached me with a stern face and kind eyes. He picked up my hall ticket and Aadhaar card and began comparing them. And then… she frowned.

"Your name here and here… they’re not exactly matching."

My heart stopped. Just for a second. But it was enough to spiral.

I leaned forward and stared at the two names. One had "Swathi M.", the other "Swathi Madhavan".

It was me. It was clearly me.

But in a world ruled by systems and verifications, a name was no longer just a name. It was a gatekeeper.

My lips trembled as I tried to explain. He hesitated. Looked around. Called someone else.

Those few minutes felt like hours caught in a pressure cooker. I could hear my own heartbeat louder than the whispers in the room.

What if they don’t let me write?

What if all these months lead to nothing?

What if a name, a single extra word, ruins my dream?

I looked outside the glass door, where Appa sat patiently, unaware of the storm brewing inside me. His face was calm, as if his presence alone could will the world to be kind to me.

I closed my eyes again, whispering the same silent prayer.

And waited.

I didn’t know what was happening. One minute, I was praying before the screen… and the next, everything crumbled.

Just ten minutes after the exam began, the invigilator returned. This time, with finality in his tone.

“Your name in the Aadhaar and the hall ticket doesn’t match. You need to stop the exam.”

I blinked. Once. Twice. It didn’t register.

I thought I misheard.
Stop the exam?
Stop?

I felt the earth give way under my chair. My hands froze on the mouse. The questions were still blinking on the screen, as if mocking me, “Didn’t you work for us?”

My throat closed up. I wanted to speak, to explain.
“It’s me... it’s just the initial... I swear it’s me.”

But rules don’t listen to voices soaked in sincerity. They only listen to letters. Matches. Proofs.

And suddenly, my months of sacrifice, all my silent mornings, my sticky notes, my scribbled margins, my sleepless nights, my Appa’s calm patience, stood there, helpless. Like me.

I looked around. Everyone else was answering. Typing. Solving. Breathing.

And I was being asked to walk away.

I felt hot tears sting my eyes, but I blinked them back. Not here. Not in this room.

I stood up slowly, like someone waking from a dream that just turned into a nightmare. I stepped away from the screen. Away from the exam I thought would change everything.

Back to where Appa waited. Still smiling, not knowing his daughter had just been unwritten by a missing syllable.

Swathi Madhavan.

Swathi M.

Just a missing syllable. Just a little abbreviation. But in that sterile, silent exam hall, it became a wall that stood between me and everything I had worked for.

When the invigilator told me there was a mismatch between my Aadhaar and hall ticket names, I froze, not out of guilt, but sheer disbelief. “Is that it?” I wanted to ask. “After all this... is this how I’m going to be disqualified?”

I wasn’t prepared for this twist. How could I be?
I triple-checked my syllabus, not my surname.
I solved papers, not bureaucracy.

They asked me to step aside, and I did, with legs that barely moved. My mind started crumbling. I kept thinking about every single page I studied, every question I revised, and how it might all go wasted over an initial.

I sat down, silently. Powerless.

They asked me to wait for a while, “maybe half an hour,” someone said. Half an hour felt like a whole year sitting there in limbo, while others were typing, answering, breathing normally.

Then, like a soft light in a tunnel, the officials finally came back and said, “Give us a declaration form. Then you can write the exam.”

That’s when I realized… I had already lost something.
Hope.

The exam hadn’t even begun for me, yet I already felt exhausted. Shattered.

But I told myself, “Swathi, you didn’t walk through storms just to turn back now.”

So I sat down. Logged in. Held back my tears and pulled together every bit of courage I had left.
No, I wasn’t at my best.
But I showed up.

And sometimes, that is bravery too.

The exam was over.

Not with the triumph I had imagined, not with the proud tears I thought I’d shed, but with a strange stillness. I walked out of the hall with a heart that had been bruised by fear, confusion, and disappointment. My dad stood waiting near the gate, just like he always did, calm, warm, steady. The sight of him felt like the first drop of rain after a dry summer.

“I wrote it, Appa,” I said softly.
And then the dam broke.
Every little detail spilled out of me, the name issue, the wait, the fear of being disqualified, the helplessness I felt, the courage I gathered in the last second to stay and finish.
He listened. He didn’t interrupt. That’s the kind of love my dad gives, quiet, patient, always absorbing.

We walked to a small hotel nearby and ate lunch in silence. The food didn’t taste like much. My mind was numb, my heart heavy. I stared at the plate, but all I could think was, "Did all my hard work just slip away for a technicality?"

As we took the bus back home, I leaned my head against the window. The wind hit my face gently, as if it too was trying to comfort me. I didn’t know whether to cry or sleep. All I knew was that I had given everything I had, and though I felt like I had nothing left, somewhere deep inside me, I hoped… just a little… that it would all be worth it.

And maybe, just maybe, that little hope was enough to keep me going.