I have taught mathematics for over thirty years, and if there is one pattern I’ve observed repeatedly, it is this: Indian parents often want their children to live the dreams they themselves could not. The ambition is rarely subtle. It arrives in phrases we have all heard: “You must sit for the IIT entrance,” “Medicine is the only noble career,” “Get a government job—it’s secure.” These statements are so common they have become cultural wallpaper, surrounding every Indian teenager as they grow.
The obsession with engineering and medicine is particularly striking. Every April, as the IIT-JEE or NEET exams approach, I see the same anxious faces—children carrying the weight of not just their own futures, but the expectations of their entire family tree. I’ve met fathers who gave up their own ambitions of IIT years ago and now pour that unfinished desire into their sons. I’ve met mothers who proudly announce, “My daughter will be a doctor,” even when the daughter’s true interest lies in art or literature. These choices are rarely discussed with the child as partners. They are announced as destinies.
One of my brightest students, Karan, had a gift for music. He would solve math problems with one hand and hum ragas with the other. When I suggested to his parents that they encourage this gift, they laughed it off. “Music is fine for a hobby, but his real test is IIT,” his father said. For years, Karan’s life became a treadmill of coaching classes, mock tests, and endless comparisons with cousins and neighbors. He eventually got into an engineering college, but years later, when I met him, he told me quietly, “I still feel like I abandoned myself.”
For daughters, the weight is even greater. In Indian society, the phrase “padhai toh sab kar lete hain, but kaam bhi toh karna chahiye” is often repeated like a mantra. The idea is that if a girl has been educated—especially at great financial and emotional cost—she must work after marriage, otherwise all that effort is considered wasted. I once heard a mother say to her daughter-in-law, “Bacche toh sab paal lete hain. You must work too.” The underlying belief is that motherhood is ordinary, not enough. A degree must translate into visible income and recognition to be validated.
But why is the pressure to prove one’s education so much heavier on women? Partly because of the sacrifices parents make in raising daughters in India. Many families still feel they must justify every rupee spent on a girl’s education, as though her future career is the only acceptable repayment. A son is often allowed the freedom to “explore” because his value is rarely questioned. A daughter, however, must work doubly hard—first to “justify” her education, and second to “balance” her household duties once married.
One of my former students, Meera, dreamed of opening a small school for underprivileged children. Teaching was her passion. Yet her father insisted she prepare for the IAS exam. “Do you know how much I’ve sacrificed for you? You cannot waste it on a small school,” he said. To him, the idea of his daughter pursuing a humble but meaningful path was unacceptable. She had to aim for prestige, for scale, for the “big” dream that he once nurtured for himself. Meera confessed to me, “Sometimes I feel like my life is not my own. It’s just a repayment of my father’s missed opportunities.”
This is the cultural weight of parenting in India. Success is not always defined by what the child loves, but by what makes the family proud in the eyes of society. A child who cracks IIT or becomes a doctor earns not only applause but also validation for generations of sacrifice. Relatives beam, neighbors congratulate, and parents finally feel that their own youthful ambitions have been fulfilled by proxy.
But what about the child’s own heart? What about the quiet longing that is silenced each time she is told, “You must do this because we couldn’t”?
I once taught a girl named Ananya, who loved writing. She wrote poems that startled me with their depth, often scribbled in the margins of her math notebooks. But her parents had a singular vision: engineering, then MBA, then a secure job. Her mother, who had long regretted giving up her own career after marriage, often told me, “My daughter will not waste her degree like I did.” To her, literature was a distraction, not a dream. Ananya grew up believing that to be a “good daughter,” she had to erase parts of herself.
The tragedy is not that parents dream big for their children. The tragedy is that they rarely ask what the child dreams for herself.
“A child is not a debtor. A parent’s sacrifice is love, not a loan demanding repayment.”
As a teacher, I’ve also seen the other side. A student whose parents allowed her to pursue history instead of engineering flourished as a historian and teacher. She now writes books, speaks at conferences, and glows with the joy of living authentically. Her parents, initially ridiculed by relatives for “wasting” her potential, now beam with pride—not because she followed their dreams, but because she lived her own.
This is what I wish more parents understood: education is not currency to be encashed later. It is nourishment for the mind, a shaping of character. If that education allows a daughter to be a thoughtful mother, a compassionate teacher, or even a fulfilled homemaker, then it has served its purpose. Not every dream must end in an office or an exam result.
What can we do differently? Parents must first learn to listen, not prescribe. Ask children what excites them, instead of announcing careers at family gatherings. Separate your own regrets from their journeys. Respect so-called “small” dreams. In India, running a bakery, becoming a teacher, or choosing to parent full-time is often dismissed as “less,” yet these paths can carry as much meaning as being an engineer or doctor. And above all, redefine success. Success does not only mean IIT, IAS, or income. Success can also mean balance, joy, or peace of mind.
The cultural obsession with visible achievement has made us forget that the ultimate goal of parenting is not to create replicas of ourselves. It is to raise individuals who are free to walk their own paths, even if those paths do not impress the neighbors.
So perhaps the most radical, most loving words an Indian parent can say are these: “I want you to live your life, not mine.”