YOU ARE PREPARING CHILDREN FOR LIFE OR FOR THE JOB & MARRIAGE MARKET?
- Madhukar Dama
- 3 days ago
- 7 min read
A brutal, honest essay for every parent, teacher, and policy maker.
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INTRODUCTION
You say you want your child to succeed.
To be “settled.”
To live a good life.
But look closely—
Are you preparing them to live freely, bravely, and truthfully?
Or are you just grooming them for the market—
The job market
and the marriage market?
Because your child is not being raised.
They are being branded.
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HOW YOU PREPARE THEM FOR THE JOB MARKET
1. You teach obedience, not curiosity.
So they sit for hours, follow orders, fear mistakes—perfect for corporate slavery.
2. You prioritise marks over understanding.
So they learn to score, not to solve. To cram, not to question.
3. You expose them to coaching centres, not nature.
So they see the world as a competition, not a place to belong to.
4. You discourage risks and hobbies.
So they avoid the unknown—no artist, farmer, wanderer is born.
5. You reward them only when they win.
So they think life is a medal race. No medal = no worth.
6. You don't let them fail.
So they never learn how to rise.
7. You mock alternative paths.
So they’re afraid to try anything not on the ‘approved’ list—doctor, engineer, IAS, MBA.
8. You make them fear poverty.
So they will do anything to stay employed—even if it kills their soul.
9. You buy them things to soothe your guilt.
So they become lifelong consumers, not creators.
10. You never show them how to grow food, repair things, or live with little.
So they will forever depend on salaries and cities.
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HOW YOU PREPARE THEM FOR THE MARRIAGE MARKET
1. You shape their looks and language.
Fairness creams. Politeness training. Accents. English-speaking classes.
2. You hide their weaknesses.
As if marriage is a deal and flaws are discounts.
3. You create a résumé, not a real person.
Good school, good job, good photos, zero depth.
4. You judge partners based on salary, caste, and looks.
So love becomes transaction.
5. You shame divorce, sing praises of compromise.
So they stay trapped in toxic homes.
6. You raise boys to expect service, not partnership.
And girls to offer service, not selfhood.
7. You scare them with 'what will people say?'
So they never ask, ‘what do I want?’
8. You never model healthy relationships.
So they think control is care, fear is respect.
9. You teach marriage is the end goal.
So they stop evolving after a ring.
10. You see your child’s marriage as your prestige.
So they live for your image, not their inner voice.
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WHAT REAL LIFE DEMANDS (BUT YOU NEVER TAUGHT THEM)
How to sit alone with pain and not panic.
How to start a fire and cook from scratch.
How to fix a broken tap, a broken heart, a broken dream.
How to care for elders, children, soil, and self.
How to walk away when something is wrong.
How to say no.
How to stay when things are hard but worth it.
How to ask for help.
How to live meaningfully with little.
How to die with peace.
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CONCLUSION
You say, “We did our best.”
But the truth is—
you built a machine, not a human.
Your child knows Excel, but not empathy.
They can earn money, but not make meaning.
They can marry, but not build a home.
They can impress, but not belong.
So ask again—
Are you preparing them for life?
Or for a market that will use them up and call it success?
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HEALING DIALOGUE: “WE THOUGHT WE WERE RAISING CHILDREN, BUT WE WERE JUST GROOMING PRODUCTS”
A modern Indian family of three generations visits Madhukar at his off-grid home near Yelmadagi. They are proud of their achievements—degrees, jobs, and marriages. But now, they are confused, exhausted, and silently grieving their own children’s emptiness. What begins as a defense becomes a reckoning—and finally, a return.
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CHARACTERS
Madhukar – 43, once a renowned professor, now lives simply with his wife Savitri and daughters Adhya and Anju.
Nagaraj – 70, retired principal of a government school.
Sudha – 67, his wife, former Sanskrit teacher, proud of her family’s “discipline.”
Prakash – 45, their son, works in a PSU, highly respected in his office.
Manisha – 42, his wife, homemaker, believes in “raising good children.”
Tanvi – 16, their daughter, recently diagnosed with depression and body image anxiety.
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PART ONE: THE PRIDE
(The family sits on the veranda. Birds call. Smoke from cow dung cakes rises gently. Madhukar pours tamarind water in clay tumblers. Everyone is stiff. Formal.)
Nagaraj: I have taught for 35 years. Thousands of students. Discipline. Culture. We came only because our granddaughter is showing... strange behavior.
Sudha: She has everything—books, tuitions, nice clothes, mobile... We never had any of this. Still she says she’s “empty.”
Prakash: She doesn’t talk to us. She sleeps odd hours. Cries alone. And says, “I don’t know who I am.” We raised her with values!
Manisha: I kept her away from bad company. I said—study well, marry a good boy, have a good life. What did I miss?
Madhukar: You did not miss anything.
You followed the script perfectly.
That’s the problem.
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PART TWO: THE RECKONING
Prakash: What script?
Madhukar: The same one your parents gave you.
“Get marks. Get job. Get spouse. Get children.”
Repeat.
Manisha: But that’s how society works!
Madhukar: Society works by turning people into products.
You’re not raising children.
You’re preparing them for the job market and marriage market.
Tanvi: (softly) It’s true. Everything I do feels like an audition.
Marks to prove I’m smart.
Photos to prove I’m pretty.
Manners to prove I’m worthy.
But... worthy of what?
Sudha: (stunned) We only wanted good for her!
Madhukar: I know. That’s how the machine works.
It tricks you into thinking pressure is care.
That obedience is virtue.
That silence is peace.
Nagaraj: But education brought us here. It gave us dignity.
Madhukar: Dignity isn’t obedience in uniform.
It’s knowing who you are without applause.
Prakash: But without jobs and degrees, how will they survive?
Madhukar: Survive what?
The world? Or the madness you helped create?
Jobs don’t teach self-worth.
Marriage doesn’t fix emptiness.
You’re pushing them into rooms where they’ll forget their own names.
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PART THREE: THE UNLEARNING
Tanvi: I want to live, not perform.
I want to grow food. Breathe without guilt.
Sleep under stars. Cry without shame.
But I don’t know how.
Madhukar: You will remember.
Your body knows.
You are not broken.
You are unlived.
Manisha: I never asked her what she wanted. I just gave her what I thought was best.
Madhukar: And that is how love becomes prison.
To prepare children for life, you must stop protecting them from life.
Prakash: Then what should we have done?
Madhukar:
Let her fail early.
Let her question.
Let her grow bitter spinach, not just bitterness.
Teach her to fix a tap before fixing her résumé.
Talk less. Walk more.
Share your fears. Admit your lies.
Let her see the broken parts of you.
Only then will she grow whole.
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12-MONTH FOLLOW-UP: A NEW BEGINNING
(The family returns. No fancy clothes. Tanvi carries a basket of wild greens. Manisha wears cotton. Nagaraj walks with a cane, but smiles more often. They sit under a jackfruit tree near Madhukar’s home.)
Tanvi: I quit tuition. I joined a local group teaching village kids. We sit under trees and learn together. I sleep better now.
Manisha: I joined her. I realised I didn’t know my daughter at all. Now I cook with her, not for her.
Prakash: I took one day off every week. We leased a tiny plot. I dug with my hands. I wept. First time in 30 years.
Sudha: We stopped commenting on her face. On her choices. On her future. We now ask her what she feels.
Nagaraj: I burned my old report cards. I finally understood—dignity is not marks. It’s meaning.
Madhukar: So... are you preparing her for life now?
Manisha: No.
We are living life with her.
That’s the only preparation that matters.
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“HER MARKS WERE HIGH BUT HER LIFE WAS LOW”
(for every child made into a brochure instead of a being)
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she was born with breath,
not a résumé.
but they wrapped her in
pink towels and projections.
by two, she was compared.
by four, she was corrected.
by six, she was enrolled.
by eight, she was anxious.
they called it love.
but it was branding.
they called it future.
but it was formatting.
her lunchbox was full.
her heart was empty.
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he was born with fists,
not folders.
but they told him:
“boys don’t cry,
boys must win,
boys must lead.”
and so he swallowed
his tears
his doubts
his tenderness
his truth.
by ten, he was loud.
by sixteen, he was lost.
by twenty-two,
he was working
for a company
he hated
to afford
a wedding
he didn’t want
to please
parents
he couldn’t talk to.
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and the parents?
they did everything
except listen.
they bought books,
paid fees,
screamed about discipline,
celebrated job offers,
sent wedding invites,
posted anniversary pictures.
but never once
sat down
and said:
“what do you feel?”
“what do you love?”
“what are you afraid of?”
“who are you beneath
our expectations?”
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we are not raising children.
we are growing advertisements.
height, weight, score, salary.
complexion, caste, culture, cooking.
fit for market.
fit for show.
not for soul.
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they wear medals
like nooses.
they smile
like salesmen.
they marry
like mergers.
they live
like calendars.
they cry
into pillows
while parents brag:
“settled, finally.”
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but deep down,
every child knows
they were sold.
every parent knows
they betrayed.
and every generation
pretends
they’re different
until it’s too late.
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so break it now.
burn the report card.
shred the profile.
step out of the line.
hug without fixing.
cry without hiding.
dig, dance, get dirty.
prepare them not for jobs,
not for markets,
not for weddings,
but for rain,
hunger,
truth,
and silence.
because if they can’t face silence,
they will never know who they are.
and then all you’ve raised
is a well-trained stranger
in your bloodline.
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