Lost aspirations amid illusory success

EVERY year around this time, when board exam results occupy the mental landscape of young students and their parents, we witness the way an aggressively hyper-competitive and obsessively judgmental society valorises ‘success’ and stigmatises ‘failure’. Yes, the ‘toppers’ become instant celebrities; brand-conscious schools and profit-making coaching centres love to sell their success stories; and television channels further mythologise them as they speak of their ‘focused’ study, self-discipline and hard work. But then, amid this euphoria of success, we also hear about suicides, depression and shame.

Unhappiness is not limited to those whom the system has declared as ‘failures’. Even the pampered ‘achievers’ remain unhappy.

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In fact, those who have ‘failed’ (in the age of inflated marks, even those who get less than 90 per cent marks do not make their parents and peers happy) are stigmatised, and often seen as irresponsible and intellectually dull. Their parents feel embarrassed as their neighbours and colleagues show undue interest in board exam results. And these young students who have just begun to see the world are compelled to carry the burden of ‘failure’. There is hardly anybody who bothers to talk to them, understand the experience of humiliation they pass through, and make them understand that the complex and inexplicable trajectory of life does not depend on whether one has got 499 marks out of 500 in the board exams.

And what is really ironic is that seldom do we bother to know about the hollowness of the ‘success’ stories. What do these ‘toppers’ with 99 per cent marks seek to do? Or, how do they look at the world? Or, for that matter, what do their parents expect of them? As a teacher and keen observer of human existence, I have been waiting eagerly for a ‘topper’ surprising me by saying that she/he wants to become a theoretical physicist, a mathematician, a historian, or for that matter, a social activist like Medha Patkar, a filmmaker like Satyajit Ray, or a literary figure like Amrita Pritam.

Even though I continue to wait, I have not yet found any ‘topper’ acquiring the courage to see beyond the standardised, routinised and ‘safe’ trajectory. I am tired of hearing the same answer: ‘I wish to become a computer engineer, a doctor or an IAS officer.’ There is nothing wrong in these useful careers. However, when the uniformity of aspirations — often driven by peer pressure, parental ambition, middle-class obsession with ‘good’ jobs, and these days the market-induced neoliberal logic of material wealth and social capital — transforms all these young ‘toppers’ into parrots repeating the same formula, striving for the same goal, and feeling hesitant to think of any other option, there is reason to be worried about.

This uniformity is unnatural (you do not study science only to become a computer engineer; or for that matter, you do not study history, sociology and psychology only to become an IAS officer); it abhors the autonomy and uniqueness of a young aspirant (even a science student might have the undiscovered talent and aptitude for music, painting and literature); and above all, it transforms these ‘toppers’ into sophisticated ‘products’ — a bunch of conformists destined to live with the mythology of ‘placement and salary packages’. Accept it: the never-ending practice of giving and accepting dowry in an instrumental marital alliance, the normalisation of capitation fee in many medical/engineering/management colleges, and social conservatism amid ornamental modernity — these are inevitable consequences of this blind conformity.

Think of the other consequences of this societal neurosis. From the all-pervading presence of coaching centres and Ed Tech companies to the mushrooming growth of private medical/engineering colleges; or from middle-class parents selling their property and land, or taking bank loans to send their children to these life-killing chambers, to young aspirants living with perpetual stress and fear — the madness is everywhere. Even if every middle-class parent spends a huge amount of money, not every child can get admitted to an engineering/medical college; and even if thousands of young graduates from Bihar, Uttar Pradesh and Odisha take shelter in Delhi’s Mukherjee Nagar, visit IAS coaching centres frequently, and spend sleepless nights while reading the ‘notes’ on general studies, history and sociology, not everyone can become what they have mythologised while growing up in small towns: a District Magistrate with a huge bungalow, or a Superintendent of Police demonstrating the aura of state power. The inevitable consequence of this madness is the loss of meaningful/productive years, the death of the spirit of wonder and experiments with truth, and eventually, a sense of fatigue, cynicism and inferiority that would continue to haunt them.

Are we, then, creating unhappy people? We must ask this question. If you are never encouraged to look at yourself with authenticity, if you have always tried to see yourself through the eyes of others, and if you are compelled to do what does not truly fulfil you, you remain alienated. And alienation is the negation of inner fulfilment, creativity and happiness The fact is that this unhappiness is not limited only to those whom the system has declared as ‘failures’ — those who could not become, say, computer engineers, doctors or IAS officers. We require courage to admit that even the pampered ‘achievers’ remain unhappy. You can be ‘successful’, ‘powerful’ and wealthy — yet discontented and alienated. And the mythology of ‘good living’ through the seductive logic of conspicuous consumption or the glamour associated with your official status cannot heal this wound. Even if you pretend to be happy and successful, you remain empty inside. How can there be happiness if, to take a striking illustration, one who could have become a great historian finds herself working as a customs officer at the Indira Gandhi International Airport?