Anureet caught herself listening to her guest’s monologue a
bit dispassionately, “Mrs Gill, what did you do to get your son into a
university like Princeton? It has been my daughter’s dream for the longest
time. I know I would be imposing on your time but if you could help with the
essays and the LORs, you will know just the right words, your vocabulary is so
good.”
An inexplicable silence mushroomed in the predominantly
white living room. The guest waited for a response, just like a devotee
expecting a revelation. Anureet drew circles in the thick Persian rug with her
pepper pearl toe nail. Seconds dragged and the anxious mother resumed, “Her
school has agreed to co-operate fully. They told us to draft the letters of
recommendation and the teachers will sign them. My daughter’s extracurricular
accomplishments are virtually non-existent; she has been a bit of a nerd. How
do you suggest we make up for it? I can get some certificates issued, what do
you think?”
Straightening up with a deep breath, Anureet began in a
deliberate tone, “Most of my family was against sending Rohan for under
graduation abroad. In retrospect now, they may have been right. An emotional
distancing happens, kind of willy-nilly; you miss out on major chunks of each
other’s lives.” It was clear that the fired up parent would not be dissuaded
off her track, “But what about the financial aid application Mrs Gill? Did you
submit accurate and authentic papers?! I am paying some fifty thousand rupees
to have professional admissions counsellor dress up her application, the
acceptance rate is so scary.”
“You know, we send our children so far away from home, all
by themselves in an unfamiliar culture, there are challenges we should think of
and prepare them for,” Anureet made another attempt. “But Mrs Gill, what is
there in our country worth staying on for, there is so much favouritism,
corruption and unprofessionalism, at least out there, it is her merit that will
get her places.”
“Take some time, give it more thought,” Anureet’s note of
caution
Anureet had to smile. It took her back to her days of
sweating over FedEx packets and the cumbersome labels. The whiteboard over
Rohan’s study table used to be plastered with document lists and deadlines.
Graded analytical essay, senior secondary forms, teacher evaluations,
transcripts, art portfolio, TOEFL and SAT exams, it was all a breathless whirl,
followed by that interminable wait to hear back.
“How does Rohan like it there? He must be really making the
most of an Ivy League education. Lucky you to be such a proud parent,”
Anureet’s visitor began gathering her folders to back out of the room towards
the front gate. The hostess followed, coughing and clearing her throat to get
out some more advice but in vain, the caller’s rosy spectacles were firmly in
place. In the still dread that ensued, Anureet pulled out the orange and black
envelope from under the mantel for the sixth time. It was from the Academic
Integrity Office of the university, informing that Rohan had been found guilty of
plagiarism. He was being suspended from Princeton for one year, with censure
having been added to his punishment for being dishonest with them. There would
be a note on his transcript saying as much.
“Mum, Mum…hello, are you there?” Anureet jumped at the sound
of his disembodied voice emanating from her face down Galaxy Tab. She fumbled
the gadget open, heart heavy with grief. There he was, the pride of their family,
reduced to tears. “I am sorry Mum, I know what all has gone into my coming
here. We have this Honor Code we sign during our orientation. I believe I have
indulged in “unpermitted collaboration”. I have breached the culture of
academic integrity here.”
“But how, what happened,” his mother spluttered, “You are
telling us now!”
Rohan’s voice dipped and climbed, “Mum, a friend told on me.
We are morally obliged to report perceived unfairness. The exams here are not
proctored. I told them that in India, students
score more for reproducing verbatim from notes and books rather than
paraphrasing. But they say ignorance is no excuse! What would you call my
superhuman admissions effort if not collaborative Mum? I am sorry but I am
coming home for the remainder of this term and the next year!”
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