LIVING IS THE LIFESKILL, NOT EDUCATION
- Madhukar Dama
- 7 hours ago
- 10 min read
Why only instinctive, experiential living prepares you for life—and how formal education often doesn’t.
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INTRODUCTION: THE GREAT MISTAKE
In every town, in every home, in every generation, we ask our children one question:
“What will you become?”
And we clap proudly if they say “doctor,” “engineer,” “IAS,” “scientist,” or some high-status role that fits into the machinery of society.
But we never ask:
“Do you know how to live?”
Because we assume that living is automatic and education will handle everything else.
This is the greatest misunderstanding of our times.
Living is not automatic.
It is a skill.
A lifeskill.
The most important one.
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SECTION ONE: WHAT DOES "LIVING" ACTUALLY MEAN?
Living is not breathing.
Living is not earning.
Living is not achieving.
Living means knowing how to:
1. Maintain the body: food, rest, movement, healing.
2. Maintain the mind: clarity, honesty, boundaries, silence.
3. Maintain relationships: love, respect, forgiveness, detachment.
4. Maintain the environment: growing food, reducing waste, understanding nature.
5. Maintain meaning: knowing what is enough, finding inner contentment.
If someone doesn’t know these things,
but can code, operate machines, write reports, and give presentations—
they are trained, not educated.
They are functioning, not living.
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SECTION TWO: WHAT EDUCATION TEACHES VS WHAT LIFE NEEDS
Modern education is not designed for living well.
It is designed to make us fit into a system that treats life as a ladder, not a garden.
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SECTION THREE: A REAL-LIFE COMPARISON
Example 1: The educated man who couldn’t live
Ramesh, a 37-year-old IIT graduate from Bengaluru, works in a global IT firm.
He earns ₹3 lakhs a month.
He has two cars, one apartment, two credit cards, and constant anxiety.
He doesn’t know how to cook.
He doesn’t know what his body needs.
He doesn't sleep properly.
His 6-year-old child eats packaged food daily.
His parents are sick and dependent on pills.
His wife has PCOD.
He has constipation and early diabetes.
But when his family says, “You’re doing so well!”
He replies, “I feel like I’m dying every day.”
Ramesh is educated, but he doesn’t know how to live.
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Example 2: The living man who was never formally educated
Raju, a 39-year-old farmer in North Karnataka, never studied beyond class 5.
He wakes up before sunrise.
He grows all his vegetables.
He cooks meals for his family.
He built his home using mud and local stone.
He rarely visits doctors.
He treats minor illnesses with herbs and rest.
He walks barefoot.
He sings while working.
He knows when the rains are coming.
He knows which plant heals what.
He sleeps by 8 p.m.
He never memorized Newton’s laws.
But he knows how to live—
and that’s why he doesn’t suffer.
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SECTION FOUR: WHY LIVING IS FORGOTTEN AND EDUCATION IS WORSHIPPED
Because living doesn’t give medals.
Because living doesn’t impress relatives.
Because living doesn’t generate GDP.
Because living doesn’t create dependency.
But education, especially in its formal, competitive, certification-based form—
creates identity, pride, comparisons, markets, industries, and hierarchy.
It separates the “qualified” from the “ordinary.”
And in the process, it makes us forget:
Even a parrot can be trained.
But only a human can live.
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SECTION FIVE: HOW TO TEACH LIVING AGAIN
1. Grow food with your child.
Let them get their hands dirty.
2. Let them fall sick, rest, and recover.
Don’t rush to the hospital for every sneeze.
3. Talk to them about emotions daily.
Teach them how to express, not suppress.
4. Allow boredom.
That’s where creativity is born.
5. Take them to elders, artisans, animals.
Let them learn from life itself, not from a screen.
6. Let them see you fail gracefully.
That’s how they learn resilience.
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CONCLUSION: RETURN TO LIFE
We built universities.
We forgot how to build lives.
We created degrees.
We lost direction.
We measured IQ.
We ignored wisdom.
And now, even PhDs are depressed.
Even engineers are infertile.
Even CEOs are suicidal.
Because education is not the lifeskill.
LIVING IS.
—
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"We Educated Ourselves into Suffering"
A healing conversation with Madhukar the Hermit
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Setting: A humble mud home, at the edge of a forest in Karnataka.
A middle-class urban family from Bengaluru—Ramesh (47), Lakshmi (45), their son Arjun (20), and daughter Kavya (16)—sit before Madhukar, a barefoot hermit who lives without electricity, money, or medication.
They’ve come, not for a solution, but because everything they knew has stopped working.
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Ramesh (father):
“We did everything right, Madhukar. Engineering, job, house, car, schooling, coaching classes… Why does it feel like we’re all dying inside?”
Madhukar (smiling faintly):
“Because you confused training for living. And the more perfectly you followed the map they gave you, the further you went from life itself.”
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Lakshmi (mother):
“But we studied hard, sacrificed pleasures, taught our kids discipline, and focused on the future…”
Madhukar:
“And in doing that, did you ever taste the present?”
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Kavya (daughter, 16):
“I’m always tired. I can’t sleep. I hate school. I’m scared of my own thoughts. But I still study. I can’t stop.”
Madhukar (gently):
“They put fear in you, then praised you for surviving it. That’s not education. That’s trauma disguised as training.”
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Arjun (son, 20):
“I can code. I can crack aptitude tests. But I can’t even cook my own food or say no to a friend who’s ruining my life. I don’t know what to do.”
Madhukar:
“Because you were taught performance, not presence. Output, not honesty. Resume, not resilience.”
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Ramesh (defensive):
“But what else were we supposed to do? We wanted our children to have a better life!”
Madhukar:
“Better life, or better rank? Better soul, or better salary? You gave them the ladder. Not the ground.”
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Lakshmi (teary):
“We never rested. We didn’t even attend funerals properly. Everything was postponed for exams, promotions, or EMIs. Now we don’t know how to stop.”
Madhukar:
“You’ve postponed life. And now, life is postponing you.”
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Kavya:
“I don’t even know what I want. I’m scared to sit quietly. There’s always some deadline, some class, some comparison.”
Madhukar:
“The noise outside has silenced your inside. Sit here tomorrow morning before sunrise. No phone. Just you and the trees. Let life return to you.”
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Arjun:
“What should we do now? Quit everything? Drop out?”
Madhukar:
“You don’t have to quit. But you must stop pretending it’s working. Start learning to live again. Start with food. Grow one vegetable. Cook for each other. Walk barefoot. Speak the truth even when it’s ugly. Rest without guilt. And don’t rescue each other from pain—watch and learn from it.”
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Ramesh (quietly):
“No one told us this. Not school. Not office. Not even our own parents.”
Madhukar:
“They didn’t know either. They were running the same race. You are the generation that must choose whether to end it… or extend it.”
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Lakshmi (nodding):
“We want to end it. Even if it means being called fools. Even if it means giving up comfort.”
Madhukar:
“Good. You don’t need comfort. You need courage. The courage to say—I don’t know how to live, but I want to learn. That’s the first lifeskill.”
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Kavya:
“Can we come back again? Sit here? Learn like this?”
Madhukar:
“Of course. But remember—real learning doesn’t happen here. It happens when you return home and refuse to live like a machine.”
---
They leave silently. No handouts. No certificates. No shortcut tips.
Only the first taste of truth.
A week later, they start eating together without TV.
A month later, Ramesh quits one of his EMIs.
Three months later, Arjun drops CAT prep and joins a natural farming school.
Lakshmi opens up about her childhood pain.
And Kavya begins journaling instead of scrolling.
They are still scared. But they are now alive.
—
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TWELVE MONTHS TO BEGIN LIVING
A family’s slow and painful return from educated suffering to instinctive life
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Family:
Ramesh (47) – father, overworked IT employee
Lakshmi (45) – mother, anxious homemaker with undiagnosed depression
Arjun (20) – son, tech student with burnout and disinterest
Kavya (16) – daughter, anxious, angry, tired teen with identity confusion
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MONTH 1–3: PAIN DOESN’T LEAVE. BUT THEY STOP ESCAPING.
Waking Up to Reality
Ramesh begins waking at 5 a.m. just to sit quietly. At first, he scrolls. Then he stops.
Lakshmi confesses she doesn’t enjoy cooking anymore. She had reduced it to a chore, not nourishment. She starts to experiment again — millet dosa, sabakki ganji, kokum water.
Arjun deletes LinkedIn. Refuses to attend “motivational webinars.” He goes to the terrace every evening to watch birds.
Kavya starts crying suddenly. A lot. She journals secretly. She writes: “I hate everything. But I love silence.”
Daily Experiments Begin
They start eating together. No TV. No phones. Some meals are awkward. But they stay seated.
Kavya is given one day a week to skip school and just rest. It terrifies her at first. Then it heals her.
Ramesh starts saying “I don’t know” more often — at work, at home, with himself.
Arjun plants coriander in a bucket. It sprouts. He touches soil daily.
They all catch a cold. For the first time, they let it run its course — tulsi tea, rest, sunshine. No pills.
Pain Surfaces
Lakshmi breaks down one night. She says: “I don’t know who I am without my family’s needs.”
Ramesh weeps silently. He had once wanted to be a musician.
Kavya writes a poem about wanting to disappear.
Arjun reads it. Says nothing. But he tears up.
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MONTH 4–6: DECONSTRUCTION
Quitting Without Quitting
Ramesh speaks to his manager: “I’ll be reducing my project load. I’ll stay. But I’ll no longer abuse myself.”
Lakshmi throws out 60% of the kitchen items. Keeps only what they use daily. The clutter leaves.
Arjun stops his BTech altogether. Joins an organic farm on the outskirts for 2 months of learning. He’s never slept better.
Kavya refuses a tuitions package. She tells her teacher: “I will study what I love. Even if I get 60%.”
Their House Breathes
Plastic bins go. Indoor plants come in.
They sit on the floor to eat.
They build a mud tandoor in their terrace corner.
No new clothes. No shopping festivals. Only mending.
Arguments and Setbacks
Ramesh snaps when Kavya spills food. She screams: “You said we’d be calmer now!”
Lakshmi secretly orders junk food one evening. Her gut reacts violently.
Arjun smokes one cigarette with a friend. Feels disgusted. Comes home and fasts the next day.
Kavya breaks down during exams. Still scared of being “left behind.”
But they talk. For the first time in years, they talk after fights. They don’t pretend.
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MONTH 7–9: NEW PATTERNS TAKE ROOT
Body First, Not the World
Ramesh begins barefoot walking every morning. His lower back pain reduces.
Lakshmi goes 10 days without tea or sugar. First time in 30 years. Her migraines reduce.
Arjun eats only what he cooks. Millet roti, greens, turmeric water.
Kavya menstruates without pills for the first time in 3 years. She simply rests, applies castor oil, and drinks warm cumin water.
Relationships Get Rearranged
Ramesh stops talking to his brothers who mock his lifestyle.
Lakshmi starts ignoring relatives who shame her for “not buying anything new.”
Arjun finds 2 like-minded friends from the farm. They discuss soil bacteria and composting instead of coding.
Kavya befriends a girl who reads real books. They exchange handwritten letters.
Financial Rebirth
They cancel Netflix, Amazon Prime, and three unnecessary subscriptions.
Ramesh pays off one credit card fully.
Kavya learns to manage monthly pocket money. She buys nothing impulsively.
Lakshmi begins selling herbal hair oil she learned from her grandmother. First 10 bottles sell in her building.
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MONTH 10–12: REBIRTH
The First Festival Without Shopping
Deepavali arrives. They make everything at home — rangoli, diyas, snacks.
Kavya makes cards. Arjun helps Lakshmi grind fresh masala.
No sweets from shops. No LED lights. Just laughter and lamps.
They sit together and read stories aloud from an old Kannada book.
Work, Redefined
Ramesh proposes a slow-software initiative in his company — less code, more sustainability. Few support him, but he smiles.
Lakshmi begins offering weekly classes on traditional cooking to young women. 6 girls attend the first one.
Arjun plans a food forest with his farm mentor. He’ll train rural school children in soil care.
Kavya decides to take a gap year after Class 12. She wants to study Ayurveda. Not for a degree. But to understand life.
They Now Know How to Live
They eat only twice a day.
They fast once a week.
They compost everything.
They walk instead of driving short distances.
They say no with love.
They sleep by 9, wake by 5.
They share chores.
They don’t expect perfection.
They let each other cry.
They still suffer — but no longer in confusion.
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EPILOGUE: FROM EDUCATION TO LIFE
They no longer say: “What will our children become?”
They ask:
“Are we helping them learn how to live?”
And for the first time in years,
they feel rich.
Not in money.
But in mornings.
Not in degrees.
But in digestion.
Not in gadgets.
But in groundedness.
Not in vacations.
But in vibrant silence.
They finally know—
Living was the missing subject all along.
—
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“THE EDUCATED FAMILY THAT FORGOT TO LIVE”
they had certificates.
they had passwords.
they had health cards, insurance cards, ID cards,
but not one of them
had a goddamn clue
how to cook rice without a cooker
or sleep without poison.
they lived in a building
where plants were called decor,
where the sky was scrolled not seen,
where children learned everything
except how to laugh without permission.
the father had a desk
that swallowed him daily.
his back was bent like a question mark
no school ever asked.
the mother knew ten chutney recipes
but didn’t know how to rest
without being called lazy.
she had silenced herself so long
her body started shouting in headaches,
in bloating, in bleeding that never listened.
the son could code like a machine
but couldn’t sit with a tree.
he knew Python, C++, Java—
but didn’t know how to be
a friend
to himself.
the daughter looked perfect on Instagram.
but her soul was a scratched record,
looping:
“not enough, not enough, not enough.”
they were called
educated.
but they couldn’t digest food
without medicines.
couldn’t breathe peace
without a pill,
a podcast,
a productivity app.
then one day
the Wi-Fi died.
and the fan stopped.
and the fridge broke.
and for the first time,
they looked at each other
without a screen
buffering between them.
and silence
crawled back into the house.
first, it stung.
then it healed.
they didn’t quit jobs.
they quit running.
they didn’t divorce society.
they just stopped obeying.
they touched soil again.
learned to sit with hunger.
found that tiredness is holy.
that a banana with salt
is a feast
when you’ve walked 3 km barefoot
with no agenda.
they burned old clothes.
kept just what breathed.
they broke the furniture.
sat on the floor.
they laughed during storms.
and cried without shame.
they found
that freedom doesn’t need
a flight ticket.
just a return to
what was always free.
they taught their daughter
to bleed without fear.
they taught their son
to fail with joy.
they taught each other
that a body isn’t a burden
to be fixed—
it’s a garden
to be listened to.
one year passed.
they had no trophies.
no upgrades.
no shiny updates.
but they had
breath
that didn’t hitch,
eyes
that could gaze,
feet
that didn’t run away
from pain.
and finally,
finally—
they were
uneducated
enough
to live.
—
