In a world of relentless pressure and fragile dreams, we are failing our youth in the most tragic ways. The stories of students pushed to the brink by outdated discipline and crushing expectations are not isolated—they’re a deafening alarm. Nowhere is this more evident than in Kota, Rajasthan, India’s coaching capital, where the pursuit of academic glory has become a graveyard of hope. Yet, amidst this crisis, beacons of change like Ila Upadhyaya, the principal of Army Goodwill School Pahalgam, and teachers like Rayees Masroor show us a better way.
Consider the gut-wrenching case of Zeeshan, an 18-year-old NEET aspirant from Jammu and Kashmir. In May 2025, he took his life in his Kota paying guest room, unequipped with the anti-suicide devices meant to protect students. He was the 15th student to die by suicide in Kota that year, and the second in May alone. Just months earlier, in January 2025, another J&K student, a medical aspirant, ended his life in Kota, overwhelmed by the weight of repeated NEET failures. These young dreamers, chasing careers in medicine and engineering, faced not just academic stress but a system often devoid of empathy.
Then there’s Nouman, a 14-year-old from Kashmir Harvard School, whose story shakes us to the core. His “crime”? A few tattoos—marks of a teenager searching for identity. Instead of understanding, his school allegedly stripped him in front of others, wielding shame as a disciplinary tool. Humiliated and broken, Nouman ended his life, leaving his sister—his guardian after their mother’s passing—to speak for him. She bravely shared how he was treated like a criminal for self-expression, his pain ignored by those meant to nurture him.
These tragedies expose a broken approach. We’ve clung to outdated notions of discipline, blind to the reality that today’s kids face unprecedented challenges: cutthroat academic demands, the relentless scrutiny of social media, and a desperate need for emotional support. Yet, we still lean on public shaming and corporal punishment, mistaking fear for respect.
But hope exists. At Army Goodwill School Pahalgam, Principal Ila Upadhyaya redefines what it means to guide. Her social media blogs reveal a leader who sings with students like a peer, shares evening snacks with newly admitted boarders, and grapples with them like a friend. In a boarding school where students often feel isolated, far from home in a lonely state, Ila Upadhyaya becomes a mother, sister, and friend—easing their fears and building trust. Similarly, Rayees Masroor, a government school teacher from Kupwara, seeks new adventures for students, sparking excitement and growth through exploration. We need more educators like Ila Upadhyaya and Rayees Masroor—mentors who prioritize connection over control.
National educationists have long warned against harsh discipline. Dr. APJ Abdul Kalam, India’s beloved visionary, said, “Educationists should build the capacities of the spirit of inquiry, creativity, entrepreneurial and moral leadership among students and become their role model.” Where is the moral leadership in humiliation? Renowned educationist V.P. Niranjanaradhya urges, “Education must nurture, not crush; it should ignite curiosity, not extinguish hope.” Their words demand a shift to empathy-driven guidance.
The evidence is clear. The American Psychological Association shows positive discipline—restorative practices, emotional coaching, and reflective dialogue—reduces behavioral issues and boosts mental well-being far more than punitive measures. A 2024 directive from Madhya Pradesh’s Directorate of Public Instruction banned corporal punishment, mandating teacher training in alternatives. Yet, the situation remains dire. Every school needs counselors—perhaps a young teacher or even a peer student—trained to understand behavior psychologically and educate staff on addressing issues with care. A counselor could have seen Zeeshan’s despair or Nouman’s pain, offering a lifeline before it was too late.
Kota’s crisis mirrors a broader failure. In 2024, the city saw 17 student suicides, down from 26 in 2023, thanks to measures like spring-loaded fans and stricter hostel protocols. Yet, six students died in the first 22 days of 2025 alone. Academic pressure, isolation, and harsh discipline turn dreams into despair. We’re not shaping futures; we’re shattering them.
Discipline isn’t the villain. Done right, it builds character. But there’s a chasm between guiding and destroying. A teacher berating a child isn’t teaching—it’s bullying. Parents demanding perfection, blind to emotional tolls, aren’t protecting—they’re pressuring. The fallout lingers: anxiety, depression, and, for some, a final escape.
Imagine a different path. What if Nouman’s teacher had asked about his tattoos, sparking a dialogue about identity? What if Zeeshan had a counselor to voice his fears? Schools must be sanctuaries, not battlegrounds. Teachers and parents need training in mental health literacy, trauma-informed care, and emotional intelligence. Counselors—whether professionals, young teachers, or trained peers—must be standard, proactively addressing struggles. When educators cross into abuse, consequences must be swift.
Dr. K.P. Krishnan, a leading Indian educationist, wisely noted, “The true aim of education is to awaken a child’s potential, not to break their spirit.” We must heed this. Replace ego with empathy, humiliation with understanding, shame with support. Restorative practices and accessible counseling save lives. Kota’s “Kota Cares” initiative reminds us over one crore students have been shaped here. Let’s shape them with care, not crisis, with leaders like Ila Upadhyaya and Rayees Masroor lighting the way.
The deaths of Zeeshan, Nouman, and countless others are a call to action. If we keep equating control with care, we’ll lose more children to silence. The choice is ours: discipline that uplifts or a legacy of loss. Act now—because the next child we fail might be one we can’t bring back.
