A  Chinese proverb has it: For the sake of one good action, a hundred bad ones should be forgotten. My dilemma is that whereas good actions I hardly ever ‘commit,’ a single bad one I can never forget.

On a number of occasions in my life, I now feel, I should have straightaway said “No” instead of “Yes” to save my skin. In 1978, a certain friend of mine in the Education Department asked me, “Would you like to become an invigilator for the LL.B. exams?” In my naivety to exercise ‘total control’ over the would-be custodians of law, I said, “Yes.” I was assured of a ‘hefty’ daily allowance of Rs20.

Laced with an appointment letter, I reached the examination centre with a thudding heart. The very thought of the authority vested in me made me feel both elated and elevated. However, after the tintinnabulation of the bell, as I entered the hall, puffed up with pride, I received an instant shock. Most of the students were old timers, be-spectacled and awe-inspiring. On the other hand, they were visibly relaxed to have a youngster as their invigilator.

Barely ten minutes after the distribution of the question paper, I saw them brazenly taking out carefully written out scraps of paper from their bulging pockets. I must admit, not all of them were involved in this nefarious activity – others preferred to take out books from below the desks. Then they started patiently turning pages to find the answer to the question they were going to attempt first. I was flabbergasted and couldn’t believe my eyes.

Collecting myself I reminded them, in my frail voice, that the bell had already rung and, as such, they should desist from illegal practices. The advice fell flat on them. Hence, I went up to a gentleman who was immersed in copying from the book. I politely asked him,” Would you mind giving your book to me?” Without raising his head, he retorted, “Don’t you see that I am working on it? Better contact some other boy.”

While I was arguing with him, another fellow stood up and yelled to me, “Please don’t disturb us. We are not kids to be supervised like this.”

Gathering my full strength, I shot back, “Gentlemen, I won’t allow any unlawful means at a law examination.”

“Is it your first chance of invigilation at an LL.B. exam?” a voice came from a remote corner.

“Yes,” I replied, “And last also.”

“Good,” he hailed my announcement and advised me, “So, you do your job (of pacing up and down the floor) and let us do ours.”

Utterly bewildered, I sent an S.S.O. to the head invigilator/principal of the college. He came over and thundered, “Surrender your entire written material or face dire consequences.”

The warning did produce some result in that, a few of them immediately disarmed themselves. But, the moment the principal left, they all resumed their routine. When I tried to snatch a book from an examinee, he said to me in a low, condescending tone, “Sir, if it hurts your feelings, I stop it forthwith.” I was about to thank him for his sense of responsibility when, in the very next breath, rising from his seat, he informed me, “I am taking all these things to the toilet and will return after about two hours when done with.”

I nearly pulled out my hair in exasperation and forced him to sit down. My ordeal ended with the third hourly bell. I had succeeded in conducting the examination in a ‘fair manner’ only to the extent that I did not allow them to cheat peacefully. The main sufferers in this hide-and-seek like situation were those few students who were taking the exam with all solemnity. To them, I still feel guilty. An innocent ‘yes’ on my part had dealt them a severe blow. Yet, I had learnt the lesson: it is better to decline the bait than to struggle on the hook.

I remember another unfortunate ‘yes’, when about 20 years ago, I was asked by a PTV producer to write a humorous serial. I started giving him scripts on a weekly basis which were dramatised by a veteran playwright. However, every weekend, when the serial went on air, I felt a mental thud. The final presentation used to be totally different from the script written by me. I was paid Rs750 per episode which I had to spend on my treatment for blood pressure. Off and on, I complained to the producer that his playwright was not dramatising the serial; he was simply traumatising the writer. He always replied that PTV had numerous constraints. I heaved a sigh of relief at the close of the quarter when the serial was discontinued by me.

Last, but not least, I repent an affirmative response to a simple query without precisely assessing its life-long repercussion. I don’t want to elaborate further on this incident because I like to keep my troubles to myself. The only advantage the gnawing experience has yielded is that I have a vast vocabulary now.

— S. M. Moin Qureshi