The Weight of a MarkSheet

I still remember the day I got my 12th class result. I was sobbing because I knew those marks were not enough to secure a seat in Delhi University in the course of my choice.

And then there was my Dad — happy, proud, glowing with excitement. For him, these were “first class” marks. What more could a parent want? He distributed sweets in the neighbourhood along with xerox copies of my marksheet. Yes, you read that right! It wasn’t the Facebook era, so my father literally distributed photocopies of my marksheet in our lane.

He was celebrating his daughter’s achievement. But I still remember how exposed I felt when my marks became public conversation. I felt as if my identity had escaped my control. A marksheet was no longer a mere document. It had become reputation.

There is a peculiar cruelty in how Indian society treats marks. A child who scores 95 becomes “bright.” A child who scores 65 becomes “average.” Somewhere in between, millions quietly learn to measure their worth using red ink.

Perhaps that is where the damage begins. Once a society starts attaching self-worth to marks, children stop learning for curiosity. They begin learning for survival.

Today, years later, I watch the same system collapsing under its own weight year after year. NEET paper leaks, recruitment scams, On-Screen Marking controversies, students claiming answer sheets are not even theirs... the same society that told students “one mark can change your life” now casually tells them the system itself may be compromised.

Imagine the mental toll. A teenager spends two years, or even more, isolated inside coaching factories pausing vacations, hobbies, and joy itself. Then one morning, news breaks that the paper leaked, or that evaluation systems malfunctioned, or that ranks may not reflect merit at all.

What exactly are children supposed to believe after this? That marks define them? Or that marks depend on luck, access, corruption, softwares, and institutional competence?

The tragedy is not merely corruption. The tragedy is emotional overinvestment. We built an education culture where a 17-year-old believes life is permanently damaged by one exam. No civilization should place that much emotional burden on children.

This does not mean effort is meaningless. Hard work matters. Discipline matters. Knowledge matters. But marks are, at best, an imperfect snapshot taken on one particular day, under one particular system. They cannot measure kindness, imagination, resilience, storytelling, emotional intelligence, or the ability to survive failure without becoming bitter.

I have seen some toppers spend adulthood terrified of losing validation because when  self-worth is built entirely on performance, life becomes one endless examination hall.

As children, we were told that marks decide our future. As adults, we slowly discover that relationships, health, character and adaptability decide happiness, peace, trust, and survival.

Marks may open a door, but they cannot walk your life for you.

The real lesson our generation must teach the next one is this: study seriously, work hard, and respect learning, but never confuse a number with your identity. Systems fail. Question papers leak. Evaluation methods break. And after all that, you still remain a human being far bigger than the marks printed on paper.

The Banyan Tree - II

Dear Banyan Tree,

I didn’t notice this before... or didnt think of it this way. 

Your endurance is not through rigidity, but through continuously creating new connections to the ground.

While most trees rise away from the earth, you keep returning to it. Again and again. You are strange that way... you dont just grow upward. You keeping sending roots back to the earth, holding on from many places at once.

Perhaps life asks the same of us.

We survive not by remaining unchanged, but by learning where to bend, where to hold on, and where to create fresh anchors for the soul. Sometimes those anchors are people. Sometimes memories. Sometimes faith, rituals, routines, or quiet conversations with ourselves. Relationships are like your roots too. They may begin from one simple connection, but over time they grow into many things — friendship, responsibility, shared history, silence, distance, care. Different forms, yet all quietly holding the same life together.

Today I looked at you differently. And, I looked at life differently too.

We are often told to find one purpose, one soulmate, one core identity. But perhaps life was never meant to stand on a single trunk alone.

A life depending on only one thing becomes fragile. When that one connection breaks, everything feels shaken. Resilience is about creating many roots into life. We are held not by one thing alone, but by many anchors, our family, our work, old friends who knew us years ago, new friends, small daily rituals, books that understand us, memories we return to, and the private promises we keep to ourselves.

And when one part of life goes through a drought, the other roots quietly keep us alive. Growth, then, is not about leaving the earth behind to chase the sky. It is about a continuous, sacred return to the ground.

We survive by bending. We endure by expanding. We live by trusting the gravity that pulls us back to what matters. 

It Was...Just A Puddle

A toad and a mouse came upon a puddle of muddy water while they were walking together one summer afternoon. “Puddles are good,” said the toad. “I can lay in them and cool off on hot days, and that makes me feel happy.” “Puddles are bad,” said the mouse. “If I fell into it my fur would get wet, and that makes me feel upset.” 

But the puddle was not good or bad; it was simply a puddle, regardless of how the toad or the mouse chose to feel about it.

Have you been noticing this lately?

In random conversations… with colleagues, friends… even during those chai breaks or casual chats.

No one says it directly. But it’s there.

That slight pause before someone says, “Yeah… work is going fine.”

That half-laugh after talking about appraisals.

That quick subject change when the conversation gets a little too real.

Last week, someone mentioned they got a  good increment.

Everyone said the usual things, “Party kab?”, “Well deserved!” They smiled. Said thanks.

Then, almost as an afterthought, they added—

“Pata nahi… kuch feel hi nahi hua.”

It was said casually. But it stayed.

Another conversation - A friend talking about their new role, bigger team, onsite movement.

On paper, everything had moved forward.

But somewhere in between the updates, they said— “Same hi hai yaar… bas pressure aur badh gaya.” And then they laughed it off. We all do that. 

For years, the plan is clear.

Study well. Get a good job. Grow. Earn more. Upgrade life. And to be fair, it works.

You do upgrade things. Your phone, your house, your travel plans, your food choices.

Life looks better.

But conversations haven’t upgraded in the same way. Somewhere, they’ve become quieter. A little more… surface-level.

Because every now and then, if you sit long enough, the real sentences start slipping out—

“Bas chal raha hai…”

“Pata nahi kya chahiye…”

I’ve probably said ‘bas chal raha hai’ myself more times than I’d like to admit.

And then I read this article. About a guy from Bengaluru. Seven years in corporate life.

Four job switches. Multiple hikes—big ones.

On paper, everything had gone right.

And yet, he said he still felt… empty.

Maybe work is like that puddle. We keep expecting it to feel a certain way. Fulfilling. Exciting. Meaningful. And when it doesn’t… we call it empty. But maybe the emptiness isn’t coming from the job, or the salary, or the routine. Maybe it comes from the gap

between what we expected to feel…

and what we actually feel. Maybe the goal isn’t to avoid puddles or to stay stuck in one puddle.. Maybe it’s to stop expecting them to feel like something they’re not

So what do we do with that?

Maybe not chase another version of the same puddle. Maybe not label it too quickly. Maybe just understand our own lens a little better.

What makes something feel meaningful to me? What drains me? What quietly feels right, even if it doesn’t look impressive?

Because the world around us might not change dramatically. But the way we experience it can. And maybe that’s where things start to shift. Not outside. But in how we see what’s already there.