At three years old, when hands were meant to trace
The boundless shapes of wonder, art, and grace,
A heavy satchel crushed the tender spine,
And curiosity was forced in line.
The playfield vanished into alphabet drills,
Where laughter gave way to mechanical skills.
We traded the sandbox for slate and for chalk,
And learned how to copy before we could walk.
The pen—once forged to be a warrior’s sword,
To carve out dreams no textbook could afford—
Was stripped of power, broken at the core,
And traded for the syllabus we abhor.
They claim to offer space for what we love,
Yet measure wings while clipping them above.
Why bend our steps to suit a single beat,
When Kathak waits to move our restless feet?
Why force the rhythm into western pop,
Where does the soul end and mere repetition stops?
Why offer sports, yet build no depth or drive,
Nor teach the waters where a soul can dive?
If passion were nurtured truly from the start,
We would not seek external rooms for art.
They teach the speeches written to persuade,
The practised essays where all voices fade—
Yet hide the ink that sets a spirit free,
Fearing the power of raw poetry.
And so, the curiosity begins to fade,
Replaced by debts that never can be paid.
Exhausted from within, we bend and fold,
To trade our passion for the templates sold.
The heavy textbooks weigh upon the mind,
Leaving the spark of wonder far behind—
Till interest feels no longer like a choice,
But a heavy burden that silences our voice.
Childhood innocence, crushed before its bloom,
As teenage years succumb to shadow and gloom.
Driven by board pressure and career anxiety,
We are moulded to fit the narrow demands of society.
They tell us to worry, to obsess, to fear—
Demanding we become a Doctor, IAS, or Engineer.
Anything outside this triumvirate they deem useless and small,
Calling those who follow alternative dreams worthless.
They tell us to worry, yet offer no guide,
No career-oriented vision where passions can reside.
Even when education speaks of options to explore,
They lock the gates and bar the wider door.
We pack our bags for coaching hub towns,
Where dreams are weighed in monetary crowns.
In cramped, grey classrooms under flickering light,
We study formulas deep into the silent night.
Batch A, Batch B—sorted by our score,
Branded like cattle at the institute door.
The top rankers get the air-conditioned rooms,
While the rest are forgotten in academic tombs.
The walls are covered in rank-holder posters,
While stress turns students into anxious ghosts.
Mock test every Sunday, rank list on Monday morn,
A weekly ritual where self-worth is torn.
Late-night coffee, cold meals, and burning eyes,
Chasing percentiles under artificial skies.
We forget the colour of the sunset and the rain,
Conditioned to believe that progress requires pain.
At family gatherings, the questions begin to strike,
Comparing children’s marks to see what they are like.
"How much did he score? What is her percentile rank?"
As if a child’s whole value were money in the bank.
Uncles and aunties offer unsolicited advice,
Treating our young youth as a sacrifice.
Friends become rivals in a zero-sum game,
Where helping one another brings a drop in your name.
We stop playing cricket, we put down the guitar,
We hide our sketchbooks inside closet spaces far away.
"Focus on entrance first, hobbies can wait,"
They whisper as they lock up our youth behind the gate.
So we accept the harsh truth and the heavy grind,
Setting all our personal dreams far behind.
We aim for ninety-five plus on board exam sheets,
Fighting day and night for NEET and JEE seats.
And after studying day and night, what is the reward?
Paper leaks happen, and justice is ignored.
Months of pure sacrifice bought by corrupt hands,
While honest labour falls like houses in the sands.
Parents sell their land, their jewels, their meagre savings,
To pay coaching fees and satisfy system cravings.
And when the paper leaks, the news cycle moves on,
Leaving broken families to weep until dawn.
Deserving minds fail to qualify or rise,
While students attempt suicide beneath silent skies.
The ceiling fans in hostel rooms carry heavy weight,
Of young minds pushed beyond their endurance gate.
Those who earn their degrees get no proper jobs or grace,
For the government takes no action in this desperate race. Overqualified graduates queuing for low-tier posts,
A nation turned into an army of wandering ghosts.
In government schools, basic walls crumble and decay,
Without proper buildings, maintenance, or teachers to lead the way.
Children are denied the nutrition they are owed by right,
While underqualified instruction dims their inner light.
They destroy our childhood, only to offer in the end,
A ten-thousand-rupee job for twelve-hour shifts to spend.
This is the harsh reality we are forced to face—
The tragic truth of our education system’s grace.
And what of the teachers trapped inside this machine?
Forced to complete syllabi, forced to keep routine.
Buried in paperwork, registers, and clerical tasks,
They wear the smile that standard instruction asks.
They are not allowed to inspire or teach beyond the page,
Bound by rigid timetables and an administrative cage.
When passion in the educator is systematically killed,
How can a classroom ever be filled with wonder?
They mark the answer sheets with answer keys provided,
Where original thought is marked wrong and divided.
Write what the textbook wrote, word for word, line by line,
For creativity is punished in this strict design.
Must we remain as shadows in their mould,
Our future traded and our spirits sold?
Must every generation walk this path of ash,
Trading their humanity for a system’s cash?
No—we are more than numbers on a page,
More than silent actors on a broken stage.
We are thinkers, artists, builders of the new,
Not mere machines designed to follow through.
Unclench the fist that holds the rigid rule,
And return the spark of wonder to the school.
Let passion breathe, let voices rise and break,
Before another tender heart gives way to ache.
Build schools with libraries that open up the mind,
Where sports and arts and science are equally aligned.
Where a dancer’s discipline is honoured like a math score,
And a poet’s vision opens every university door.
Teach us how to think, not merely what to know,
Give us fertile soil where original thoughts can grow.
Stop measuring human worth by a single exam day,
For a three-hour test cannot define a life’s display.
Eliminate the scams, clean the system to its root,
Give the labour of the honest student its rightful fruit.
Value the government school as much as private halls,
Provide equal dignity within every classroom’s walls.
For true education builds no cage or wall—
It plants a seed, then lets the giant fall,
It lifts the human soul to touch the sky,
And gives a child the wings to learn to fly