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For most students, an exam hall is as much a psychological space as a physical one defined by pressure and fear, where emotions shape performance even before the first question is read. Yet our exam culture focuses on papers, invigilation and schedules while neglecting the hall’s emotional climate, turning exams into ordeals to endure rather than opportunities to show understanding.
Over decades of teaching, I have tried to soften this emotional terrain without weakening academic seriousness. One small but deliberate way has been through the instructions printed at the beginning of my examination papers. These are not mere procedural notes. They are crafted lines that combine clarity with wit, and regulation with psychological intent. Thousands of students have encountered them over the years, and many of them, I suspect, would recognise these words even today and perhaps, smile.
Some of these instructions aim first to reframe the emotional space of the exam. When students read, “There may be several beautiful options in your life available but unfortunately all the questions here are compulsory,” the line does more than provoke amusement. It briefly lifts them out of the narrow pressure of the moment and gestures toward a wider human reality. At the same time, it gently accepts the constraint of the paper. Humour here becomes a cognitive tool: the exam is not an enemy, but a finite challenge that can be approached with composure rather than panic.
Other instructions reinforce discipline, but without hostility. A reminder that “socialisation of any kind… or use of a cellphone is strictly prohibited” is not framed as surveillance, but as purpose. It signals that the examination hall is not a social arena; it is a space of individual responsibility. Silence here is not punishment. It protects fairness, concentration, and the dignity of effort.
Ethical seriousness, too, can be communicated without coldness. The instruction, “Cheating is a sin and the one doing so will not only be expelled from the examination but will also burn in hell,” is deliberately exaggerated. It almost always produces suppressed laughter. Yet the moral message beneath the humour is unambiguous. Integrity is presented not merely as compliance with rules, but as a personal stance. The wit ensures the line is remembered; the ethics ensure it is respected.
Some instructions are quietly pedagogical. When students are told, “Understanding the question is a part of the examination… I am not free to answer your queries except for some inadvertent typographical error,” responsibility is shifted back to them. This is not a denial of guidance; it is an invitation to intellectual independence. It communicates that interpretation itself is an academic skill, and that thinking is not merely recalling.
Similarly, the reminder that “stories are good, but I don’t like to read stories while assessing the answer. The depth of your answer is more important than its length” challenges a deeply rooted misconception. It affirms that clarity, structure and conceptual grasp matter more than the quantity of words produced.
Perhaps the most human of these lines is the one that advises those who have not attended lectures, or have slept through them, to “pray for themselves.” Beneath the humour lies a truth no educational system can escape: learning cannot be improvised. Preparation is cumulative. No examination hall can substitute for sustained engagement.
Educational psychology explains why such an approach matters. Humour lowers stress responses, improves attention and enhances memory and problem-solving. When students feel emotionally safe, their cognitive resources are freed. They read more carefully, think more clearly and write more coherently.
These instructions deepen rather than trivialise examinations, reshaping the exam hall from a place of fear into one of composed, dignified effort. Students perform best not when they are frightened, but when they are respected, and sometimes a single well-crafted sentence can make that difference.
