THE SCHOOL THAT KILLS LIFE TO TEACH LIVING
- Madhukar Dama
- May 10
- 8 min read
INTRODUCTION: A MACHINE FOR LIVING DEATH
Schools are celebrated as places that “prepare children for life.”
But in truth, modern schooling does not prepare a child for life.
It replaces life.
By disconnecting the child from living—breathing, touching, doing, failing, growing, crying, laughing—it offers a manufactured substitute:
A controlled environment of obedience, surveillance, and artificial achievement.
And somehow, through this slow death of the natural child, it dares to claim that it is teaching the child “how to live.”
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SECTION 1: THE DISCONNECTION BEGINS EARLY
The child is born curious, intuitive, embodied, and emotionally vibrant.
But by age three or four, he is trapped in uniforms, time tables, bells, performance charts, and concrete walls.
He no longer touches soil.
No longer hears birds.
No longer climbs trees.
No longer experiments with fire, wind, tools, mud, leaves, or bones.
He no longer listens to his body when hungry or tired.
Instead, he is told when to eat, when to poop, when to talk, when to stop, when to memorize, and when to pretend to smile.
This is not education.
This is conditioning.
A systematic disconnection from life itself.
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SECTION 2: LIFE IS NOT IN THE SYLLABUS
Schools teach about water, but keep children far from rivers.
They teach food chains, but serve plastic-packed sugar garbage in the canteen.
They teach health, but keep children locked indoors with no sunlight.
They teach communication, but demand silence.
They teach democracy, but enforce hierarchy.
They teach environment, but ban digging in the dirt.
In the name of “life skills,” they offer:
Group discussions instead of actual community.
Role play instead of real roles.
Mock drills instead of instinct.
Rubrics instead of resilience.
Exams instead of experiences.
Real life is unpredictable.
But the school fears unpredictability.
So it kills life in order to simulate it.
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SECTION 3: LEARNING IN ABSENTIA
Children are taught the names of things, not their essence.
They draw pictures of animals they’ve never touched.
They write essays on trees they’ve never climbed.
They recite rules of health while eating fried snacks under CCTV.
They write “cleanliness is next to godliness” on toilets that haven’t been cleaned in weeks.
This is not literacy.
It is disembodied information—detached from doing, detached from meaning, detached from being.
They are taught to live in theory, not in touch.
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SECTION 4: THE GREAT HOAX OF LIFE PREPARATION
The system claims:
“We are preparing them for life.”
But what does that life look like?
A cubicle.
A commute.
A screen.
A pension.
A race.
A thousand silent compromises.
A pile of forgotten dreams.
The truth is:
Schools are not preparing children for life.
They are preparing them to tolerate lifelessness.
They are inoculating children against nature, intuition, self-worth, and joy.
They are breeding employees.
They are breeding dependents.
They are breeding future parents who will do the same to their own children.
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SECTION 5: WHERE LIFE ACTUALLY LIVES
Life is not in chapters.
It is in the rotting fruit, the scraped knee, the argument, the apology, the failed attempt, the real hunger, the handmade gift.
It is in mistakes.
In pauses.
In mud.
In questions no one can answer.
A child who grows vegetables, cooks a meal, climbs a tree, comforts a crying friend, takes care of a sick puppy, builds a hut from scratch, or fixes a broken cycle—
has lived more in one week than a school offers in a year.
And yet, such children are called “uneducated.”
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SECTION 6: RECONNECTING THE CHILD
If we truly wish to prepare children for life, we must:
Let them live first.
Let them experience hunger, conflict, fatigue, loss, love, failure, and wonder without shame or structure.
Let them be bored. Let them be wild. Let them be silent.
Let them create value, not just consume it.
Let them touch life with their hands, mouths, feet, and heart.
Let them know life before we dare to teach about it.
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CONCLUSION: A SCHOOL THAT CANNOT TEACH LIFE
No institution built to disconnect can ever reconnect.
No building that walls out nature can ever birth life.
No teacher whose own soul is dead can ever raise the living.
So long as schools refuse to honour the sacred messiness of real life,
they will only produce obedient corpses in clean shoes.
And if you listen closely, during morning assembly,
you might hear the faint cry of a thousand children pretending to be alive.
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HEALING DIALOGUE
“THE EDUCATED BUT UNLIVED FAMILY”
A deep, uncomfortable, real and hopeful journey into a family where every generation has achieved everything — except being alive.
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CHARACTERS
1. Ajji (Rukmini, 82)
Retired Kannada professor.
Memorized thousands of verses.
Respected by everyone, loved by none.
Emotionally shut down after widowhood.
Lives in the past. Repeats phrases like "Back then we were strong."
2. Appa (Ramprasad, 58)
Retired Civil Engineer (IIT Madras).
Built bridges, roads, and colonies.
Cannot build a relationship with his children.
Suffers from diabetes, joint pain, and silent anxiety.
Always checking things—electricity, gas, bills, time.
3. Amma (Savita, 54)
Botany gold medalist turned housewife.
Polite, efficient, emotionally unavailable.
Handles all rituals, guest arrangements, groceries, medications.
Suffers from fatigue, thyroid imbalance, and hidden resentment.
Hasn’t danced or sang in 30 years.
4. Daughter (Megha, 25)
MBA from IIM. Climate tech startup. Lives in Bengaluru.
Independent but anxious. Addicted to speed and digital life.
Craves validation. Doesn’t feel close to anyone.
Reads self-help but hasn’t healed.
Thinks crying is weakness.
5. Son (Nikhil, 20)
Final year B.Tech. Brilliant in coding, dead inside.
Says little. Sleeps late. Eats irregularly. Watches anime and YouTube endlessly.
Hates college but doesn’t know what else to do.
Never hugged his parents. Never got hugged either.
6. Cousin (Sahana, 23)
MA Psychology. Temporary guest.
Gives therapy tips. Has no real friends.
Often angry. Gets panic attacks but hides it.
Thinks everyone is too traditional. Thinks she is too modern.
Emotionally lost, professionally confused.
7. Madhukar (The Healer, mid-60s)
Former scientist. Now lives in a mud house without electricity.
Listens deeply. Asks uncomfortable questions.
Offers no comfort. Only clarity.
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SCENE 1: ARRIVAL AT MADHUKAR’S MUD HOUSE
(They enter the cool mud home. No fans. No chairs. Just floor mats, neem shade, and the smell of earth.)
Madhukar:
Welcome.
You look like a family that’s done everything right.
So… why are you here?
Ramprasad (mildly defensive):
We’re a disciplined family.
We’ve studied. Earned. Built everything.
But there’s… no peace.
No joy.
We don’t feel alive.
Megha (dryly):
We feel like lab rats who got the cheese but lost the soul.
Savita:
We eat on time. We keep the house clean.
But everyone’s tired. Angry. Silent.
Ajji:
They don’t listen to me.
And I have nothing left to teach.
The scriptures have no taste anymore.
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SCENE 2: FIRST CRACKS
Madhukar:
You built everything outside.
But did you ever build a relationship inside?
(Nikhil looks up for the first time.)
Nikhil:
Nobody even knows I exist.
I’ve been in this family for 20 years,
and I’ve never been asked how I feel.
Only: "Did you eat? Did you study? Did you keep your shoes straight?"
Savita (hurt):
I sacrificed my career to raise you!
Madhukar (gently):
Did you raise him?
Or just manage him?
(Silence. Heavy. Real.)
Sahana (blurts):
This family is emotionally handicapped.
We all talk, but no one speaks the truth.
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SCENE 3: THE TRUTH SURFACES
Megha:
I earn 30 lakhs a year.
But I can’t sleep without a podcast playing.
I’ve never looked at the sky and felt awe.
I’ve forgotten how to just… sit.
Ramprasad:
I’ve spent 40 years in deadlines.
Now that I’m retired, I don't know who I am.
I check the electricity bill three times a day. That’s my identity now.
Ajji (voice trembling):
I memorised everything.
But forgot how to cry.
When your grandfather died… I didn’t shed a single tear.
I thought dignity meant control.
But now I feel like I’ve never truly lived.
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SCENE 4: MADHUKAR SPEAKS
Madhukar:
Education taught you everything except how to live.
You were taught how to win debates, not how to listen.
How to obey instructions, not how to follow joy.
How to avoid mistakes, not how to repair after them.
You all became machines in human clothes.
And now the oil is running dry.
(Madhukar points to a neem leaf falling gently to the ground.)
Madhukar:
That leaf dies more peacefully than most humans.
Because it lived connected — to sun, wind, soil.
You’ve lived disconnected — from body, nature, emotion, spirit.
You learned words.
But forgot touch.
You built resumes.
But not relationships.
You mastered control.
But never met yourself.
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SCENE 5: A SILENT COLLAPSE
(Sahana breaks down. Megha walks out and vomits.
Ramprasad holds Savita’s hand for the first time in years.
Ajji starts humming an old folk song she once sang as a girl.
Nikhil lets a single tear roll out.)
Madhukar:
This is not healing.
This is truth.
Healing begins after truth is allowed in.
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SCENE 6: THE NEXT MORNING
They sleep on the floor. No phones. No light. Just breath.
Ajji waters tulsi. Sings to the plant.
Nikhil and Megha make rotis together.
Ramprasad walks barefoot. Doesn’t check his watch.
Savita makes tea with jaggery, laughs softly at a joke.
Sahana picks tamarind leaves. Quiet. Alive. Listening.
Madhukar:
You don’t need therapy.
You need touch, truth, time, trees, tears.
Repeat that every morning.
And stop chasing peace.
Just stop chasing.
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“DEGREES, DEADLINES, DISEASES, AND NOTHING ALIVE”
---
they had degrees.
hung on walls.
printed in gold.
framed in teak.
but the house smelled like antiseptic and regret.
the grandmother knew four epics
but never played with a child.
her throat stored Sanskrit,
but not a single real scream.
the father built cities
but didn’t know where his son’s heart was.
he could calculate load-bearing structures,
but couldn’t carry the weight of silence in his own home.
the mother was a gold medalist in plants
but lived like a bonsai—
trimmed, contained, polite, exhausted.
the daughter knew sustainability jargon
but couldn’t sustain a conversation with her own reflection.
she made pitch decks,
but couldn’t pitch herself into joy.
the son was a robot with a wifi soul.
he coded all night,
but didn’t know how to hug.
he smoked like a ghost in waiting.
the cousin had a degree in psychology
but was afraid of silence.
she quoted Jung
but hadn’t spoken to her own mother in three years.
the house had purified water,
filtered air,
fiber broadband,
but not one real laugh in months.
they prayed.
not because they believed.
but because routine is safer than chaos.
they cooked by recipe
but never by feeling.
they hugged in photos
but never in mornings.
they bought health insurance
instead of health.
they didn’t touch soil.
they didn’t sit under trees.
they didn’t dance.
they didn’t cry.
they didn’t fight properly.
they didn’t make up.
they just moved furniture and called it change.
every wall had clocks
but nobody had time.
they spoke in English
so fluently
they forgot the sound of their own names in their mother tongue.
they knew how to drive,
swipe,
scan,
invest,
and survive.
but not how to sit.
just sit.
and breathe.
they were praised at weddings,
respected at banks,
nodded at conferences,
but no one wanted to sit next to them in silence.
they had nameplates,
but no names.
bank accounts,
but no taste.
self-esteem,
but no self.
and when they finally cried,
it wasn’t grief.
it was the shock of realising—
we lived only in fear,
dressed up as responsibility.
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