In India, exams are less of an assessment and more of a nationwide festival. Families unite, not for celebrations, but to strategise study schedules for examinee Arjun. Mother Maitryei becomes the Chief Invigilating Officer of the house, monitoring his every move with the vigilance of a hawk. Aunt Prabha, who failed in her school leaving exam, has suddenly become a self-appointed career counsellor, suggesting a whole range of career options from astronomy to archaeology. The neighbours, Iyers and Nairs, start speculating on the potential results of the exams as if they were Test cricket scores. The atmosphere is so charged that even the family dog senses the tension and tiptoes around, lest its barking be blamed for any academic mishaps. Krishna’s sleep is invaded by dancing mathematical equations and the sequential march of Mughal Emperors. Sounds familiar?
Finally, the exams commence. Arjun, armed with an arsenal of pens and a heart full of trepidation, faces each paper with the determination of a worried warrior. Once the answer sheets are submitted, the questions change from “How was the paper?” to “So, what’s the plan now?” as if a 17-year-old should have already cracked the blueprint for life.
We’ve become fluent in subjects but are strangers to ourselves. Our schools teach us algebra and atomic theory, but not how to sit with uncertainty. We’re prepped for breathtaking competitive exams, but not for breakups, burnouts, or boredom. And so, when life throws a googly—like heartbreak, failure, or, worse, patchy Wi-Fi during an online interview—we’re stumped. That’s what our education system often misses. It teaches equations, but not equanimity. Imagine a classroom where students are taught to meditate before they calculate, to reflect before they react, to journal their failures as diligently as they flaunt their victories. Imagine a report card that doesn’t just assess Math, but also Meaning. Students today are digital natives—born with a smartphone in one hand and self-doubt in the other. The constant barrage of images, likes, reels, and rankings doesn’t just entertain; it erodes. Anxiety, alienation, and attention disorders are the real epidemics of our times. The antidote? Stillness. Purpose. Awareness. This is why I believe education must be restructured around an inner curriculum—one that is about reconnecting with purpose, values, and yes, sometimes even silence.
Consider Rahul Dravid, affectionately known as “The Wall.” Not because he was unbreakable, but because he stood firm even when he didn’t score big. Did you know he failed to score a 50 in nearly two-thirds of his 340 international innings? Yet, he’s remembered not just for his centuries but for his character, grit, patience, humility. He once said, “You learn more from failure than from success.”
Let’s give students tools that won’t just get them a job—but help them stay sane in it. Teach them the value of delayed gratification (no, you can’t become a CEO in two quarters), the art of deep listening (without simultaneously scrolling Instagram), and the strength of character over charisma (you can let go of that selfie status on a borrowed superbike).
For parents, it’s essential to recognise that children are not projects to be optimised for success but individuals on their own journeys. Supporting them involves celebrating their efforts, allowing them to experience failure, and guiding them to become compassionate and self-aware individuals.
It’s time we added a new subject to the syllabus—the Self. Because in a world where everyone’s rushing to stand out, no one is being taught how to live within.
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