Beyond the marksheet

Bivash Modi

(modi.bivash@yahoo.in)

Every year, as board examination results are declared across the state, a familiar ritual unfolds. Toppers beam from newspaper front pages, their scores printed in bold, their smiles carefully framed. There are celebratory dances at home, sweets distributed among neighbours, and a sudden surge of “inspirational” interviews. For a brief moment, these young achievers become the face of success.

It is a heart-warming sight—and rightly so. Hard work deserves recognition. But somewhere between the applause and the headlines, a quieter question often gets lost: what happens five or six years down the line? If life were as straightforward as a marksheet, perhaps the story would end there—neatly arranged in descending order of percentages. But life, as most of us eventually discover, is far less obedient to such formatting. Take the case of a class topper everyone once admired—whose timetable was more disciplined than a military routine. Fast forward a few years, and you might find them grappling with career uncertainty, unsure of what truly excites them beyond the familiar comfort of exams. Meanwhile, that “average” student—often overlooked in school assemblies—might be quietly building a fulfilling career, having discovered their passion somewhere between trial and error and a few spectacular failures. It almost sounds like the plot of a coming-of-age film, doesn’t it? Except the story is not fiction—it is life, unfolding in countless homes around us. The truth is, marks measure performance in a very specific moment under very specific conditions. They reward memory, speed, and a certain kind of discipline. What they do not measure, however, are qualities that later prove decisive: resilience when things fall apart, adaptability when plans change, creativity when solutions are not in the textbook, and emotional strength when the world refuses to follow a predictable pattern. And yet, as a society, we continue to place disproportionate weight on this single metric. The result? It’s a quiet but growing pressure on young minds to equate their worth with numbers. Success becomes narrowly defined, and anything outside that definition begins to feel like failure.

Curiously, we rarely create the same level of excitement around conversations that truly matter. How often do schools or colleges host discussions on dealing with failure? On navigating uncertainty? On choosing a path that may not come with instant validation? These are the real examinations of life, and unlike board exams, they do not come with a fixed syllabus or a model answer sheet.

Even our everyday interactions reveal this bias. When results are announced, the most common question a student hears is, “How many marks did you score?” Rarely do we ask, “What did you enjoy learning?” or “What kind of person do you hope to become?” Perhaps it is because numbers are easier to compare than dreams. The media, too, plays a powerful role in shaping this narrative. While topper stories make for compelling headlines, there is an entire universe of equally important stories waiting to be told—stories of perseverance, unconventional career paths, late bloomers, and those who dared to redefine success on their own terms. Imagine the impact if these narratives were given the same prominence.

None of this is to suggest that marks do not matter at all. They do—up to a point. They can open doors, create opportunities, and reflect effort. But they are not the destination; at best, they are one of many milestones along the way.

As a society, perhaps it is time to expand our definition of success. It’s to celebrate not just the rank holders, but also the risk-takers. Not just the high scorers, but also the curious learners. It’s to recognise that a meaningful life is not built in a single examination hall but over years of exploration, setbacks, reinvention, and growth. Because in the end, marks are just a moment. Life is the real examination—and it does not declare its results in a single day.

Maybe the next time results are announced, we can still celebrate—but with a little more perspective, a little less pressure, and a lot more empathy.