Board exams in India were never meant to be monsters.
Yet somewhere between the chalkboard and the admit card, between a child’s first day of school and their board timetable, we quietly built a demon together.

In this Knowledge Garden piece, I want to walk into that demon’s shadow with you not as a policy analyst, but as a fellow traveller. I want to sit with the emotional trauma a child and a parent live through in board season; to ask why, in the age of NEP 2020, Holistic Progress Cards and AI, we still hang a teenager’s worth on three hours in a crowded hall; and to imagine how an ancient African wisdom Ubuntu might help India walk a different path towards 2047.

Because if there is one conviction that anchors this article, it is this:

And that truth is deeply, beautifully Ubuntu: “I am because we are.”

Every year, around late January, I start recognising a particular kind of silence in Indian homes. It is not the peaceful silence of a lazy Sunday afternoon. It is a tight, suspended silence like a house holding its breath.

In one such home, a Class 10 student named Aarav wakes up at 4:30 a.m. His room is a battlefield of bright sticky notes, past‑year papers, and motivational quotes he no longer believes. His mother tiptoes in with a glass of milk and the inevitable question: “Beta, how much syllabus is left?”

She does not mean to cause harm. But she is carrying her own invisible exam. It is not on paper; it is written in her fears.

Indian clinical material is blunt about this: exam season is a period of heightened psychological stress not only for students but also for parents, whose anxiety can directly fuel children’s stress responses. Research shows that elevated parental anxiety correlates with higher cortisol (stress hormone) levels in students, which impairs concentration, memory and problem‑solving.

Aarav’s father has begun coming home later, not because of extra office work, but because he is afraid he will say the wrong thing and trigger an argument. His younger sister tiptoes around, sensing that the house has been rearranged around an invisible god called “Boards.”

A JIPMER information sheet on exam stress notes, almost casually, that “often in our Indian setting the entire family goes through stress when a child has to take board exams.” It warns that even supportive parents can unknowingly pressurise children as expectations pile up.

In another city, in another lane, this scene is repeating in a thousand variations.

The tragedy is not that exams are important. The tragedy is that we have built a system where a family stops breathing so that a piece of paper may live.

A few days before a Class 12 maths exam, I once found a student sitting alone in a school corridor, staring at nothing. When I sat down next to her and asked, “What are you most afraid of?” she answered without hesitation:

“Not on the paper, sir. I’m afraid of after. Of everyone’s faces, their questions, their judgement.”

Her words echoed what research has been telling us for years. Large studies on board‑exam students in India report that:

In a mixed‑methods study of Grade 10 students in Pune, parental pressure emerged as a significant predictor of test anxiety, cutting across socio‑economic and school types. Narratives collected in that study describe how the “year of board examinations brought changes in parents’ behaviour” heightened emphasis on studies, repeated instructions to “focus,” and tensions between mothers and fathers about what is “enough.”

Psychiatrists and mental‑health professionals note that exam seasons often see spikes in anxiety, self‑doubt and negative self‑talk among students. They also remind us of the darkest statistic of all: failure in academics is a leading cause of suicides among young people in India.

When I sit with that child in the corridor, I realise this:

Her fear is relational. It is about “we,” not just “me.” And that is exactly where Ubuntu enters the conversation.

Before we dive deeper into Indian board exams, I want to invite a voice from another continent into this conversation.

Ubuntu is an ancient African philosophy that is often summarised as:

At its heart, Ubuntu says that a person is a person through other people; that our humanity is not an individual possession but something we co‑create. It emphasises interconnectedness, mutual respect, compassion, and shared responsibility.

African scholar Lovemore Mbigi, in his “Collective Fingers Theory,” describes five core values at the heart of Ubuntu:

Ubuntu teaches that “no one is completely alone,” that it benefits everyone when one member is content and healthy, and that empathy (ukuzwelana) caring about how others feel is at the centre of human life.

What happens if we hold our board‑exam culture up to the mirror of Ubuntu? What do we see about survival, solidarity, compassion, respect and dignity in our homes, schools and exam centres?

In much of the Ubuntu literature, survival is described against the backdrop of collective struggle, colonialism, poverty, displacement. Communities survive by sharing, cooperating and refusing to abandon one another.

In Indian board‑exam culture, survival takes on a different, but equally intense, shade.

For many students, especially from low‑income or first‑generation‑learner families, a good board result feels like a lifeline out of generational hardship. Class 10 and 12 marks strongly shape stream choices, college access and perceived career opportunities. Families believe and not without reason that a few digits on a marksheet can alter the trajectory of their children’s lives.

In one study, students reported that board scores would influence their choice of subjects, college and career, regardless of curriculum or school type. When survival feels tied to marks, failure begins to look not just like a setback, but like an existential risk.

In such a context, the whole family goes into survival mode:

This is where Ubuntu offers a radical reframe.

Ubuntu’s notion of survival is deeply collective: “I cannot have all while you have nothing; let us share.” Applied to exam culture, this could mean:

When survival is reframed through Ubuntu, board exams stop being a lone battle and become a shared mountain the community climbs together.

Solidarity in Ubuntu means more than sympathy. It is an active responsibility to stand with others, to “abandon exclusively being of service to myself” and act for the betterment of the whole.

Now, picture a typical Indian board‑exam class in January.

Rank lists. Coaching classes. Whispered comparisons. Parents quietly ask teachers, “How many students in this batch are likely to cross 90%?”

Even when teachers and schools try to create a supportive environment, the structure of high‑stakes competition pulls everyone towards silent comparison. Peers share notes but hide their true fears. Parents worry together in WhatsApp groups, but each night, the real question is still: “Where will my child stand?”

Psychologists point out that parents often benefit from talking to other parents and “finding solidarity” helps them cope with their own stress. But right now, much of that solidarity is built around exchanging tips to optimise scores, not around protecting children’s mental health as a collective priority.

An Ubuntu‑inspired solidarity during board season would look different:

Under Ubuntu, a child’s failure is not their private shame; it is a shared concern. One person’s pain diminishes the whole. One person’s healing strengthens the whole.

What would board exams feel like if every child knew, deep down, that even if they stumble, the community’s arms will not withdraw?

Compassion in Ubuntu is not abstract kindness. It is a felt sense of being touched by another’s suffering, combined with a commitment to act. It says, “Your tears are not an inconvenience; they are a call to my humanity.”

During board season in India, everyone sees the tears. But we often respond with fear‑based fixes:

Clinical resources on exam stress urge parents and teachers to acknowledge children’s feelings, normalise anxiety, and avoid minimising their fears. Yet under pressure, many of us slip into advice mode or panic mode.

An Ubuntu‑grounded compassion would look like this:

Research on Ubuntu in social and educational contexts emphasises that compassion and empathy are foundational for just and inclusive communities. In Ubuntu, caring for others’ well‑being is not optional; it is what makes one fully human.

Now imagine if every child sitting for boards had experienced months of such compassion. The exam would still be challenging. But it would no longer be a solitary terror. It would be a difficult climb undertaken with companions.

Respect, in Ubuntu, is not hierarchical deference. It is “horizontal respect” , the idea that every individual, by virtue of their humanity alone, is entitled to respect from all others. It insists that a person’s worth is not contingent on achievement, wealth or status.

Our exam culture often violates this principle without meaning to.

When board results are announced, we sometimes:

Studies on parental pressure in Indian board exams describe how some parents express dissatisfaction repeatedly, glueing children to study tables, and unintentionally sending the message that their worth is conditional. Guidance notes warn that this dynamic can deeply affect self‑esteem and emotional regulation.

Ubuntu asks a different question: can we respect a child’s inherent worth even when they “fail” by the system’s standards? Can we address poor performance without stripping them of dignity?

A classroom shaped by Ubuntu would:

Respect in Ubuntu is not earned; it is recognised. Our assessment systems must catch up with that truth.

Dignity is Ubuntu’s insistence that every person must be treated as fully human, never as an object to be controlled, used or discarded.

Now let us walk, slowly, into an exam centre.

At the gate, students stand in line. Bags are kept far away. For security reasons, this can make sense. But when procedures are not sensitively designed, the experience can cross the line from safety into humiliation.

Reports from previous years tell of instances where girls were allegedly forced to remove clothing layers to prove they weren’t hiding chits, or were touched inappropriately during frisking. In one high‑profile case, the state education minister ordered an inquiry and promised corrective action, emphasising that such methods were not authorised.

Alongside these extremes, there is a more everyday erosion of dignity:

Security is essential; exam integrity matters. But Ubuntu asks us to design security with dignity, not against it.

This could mean:

If education is truly about human development, then the way we treat students at the point of assessment is not a minor detail. It is a moral test.

Against this backdrop of fear, Ubuntu and trauma, NEP 2020 appears almost like a manifesto for a different civilisation. It explicitly calls for a shift from rote memorisation to competency‑based learning and assessments, with a strong focus on holistic development, flexibility and joy in learning.

Key elements include:

Under PARAKH’s guidance, NCERT has created Holistic Progress Cards (HPCs) for foundational, preparatory and middle stages, with secondary on the way. These HPCs:

In many ways, HPCs are Ubuntu in action:

And yet, as of now, most students and parents still whisper the same question: “But finally, how many percent?”

Until universities, employers and society at large begin to trust and use this richer evidence of learning, HPCs risk becoming beautiful but marginal documents. For Ubuntu to fully enter our assessment systems, the sun must shift from the board‑marksheet to the holistic narrative of a learning journey.

At the same time, India is energetically stepping into the AI era. National initiatives like the India AI Impact Summit emphasise real‑world AI impact in sectors including education. Casebooks highlight AI deployments that personalise learning, support teachers and improve assessments.

Research and pilots show that AI in Indian education can:

Future‑of‑assessment analyses argue that AI can help move us from sporadic, high‑stakes exams to continuous, nuanced, formative feedback ecosystems.

But as Ubuntu reminds us, the question is always: In service of whom? Of what values?

AI can serve fear:

Or AI can serve Ubuntu:

In Ubuntu terms, AI should extend our compassion, deepen our respect, and protect dignity, not threaten them. The algorithms must be nested inside a human philosophy, not the other way around.

Given all this, it is tempting to say: “Fine, let us start AI courses from Class 3. That will make our children AI‑ready.”

Policy documents and vision papers on Viksit Bharat 2047 indeed emphasise early integration of coding, AI and digital literacy. Future‑of‑work analyses insist that lifelong learning and digital comfort are key to a resilient workforce.

But a simple Ubuntu‑infused question troubles me: What is the point of AI literacy without human literacy?

NEP 2020’s broader thrust is towards critical thinking, creativity, flexibility and personalised learning. Teacher‑education frameworks for 2047 stress that educators must be prepared to nurture not just content mastery but ethical reasoning, empathy and holistic development.

If a child can operate an AI tool but:

then we have produced something other than an AI‑ready human.

Ubuntu would argue that true readiness for 2047 is relational readiness: the ability to learn with others, not just faster than others; the capacity to use powerful tools in service of shared flourishing, not just personal gain.

So no, an AI course from Class 3 does not, by itself, make a child AI‑ready. What will prepare a child for 2047 is a schooling experience where:

That is an Ubuntu‑NEP‑AI triangle worth drawing in every classroom.

By 2047, policy thinkers imagine an India that is prosperous, technologically advanced and globally influential. Education is clearly identified as the spine of that vision.

But Ubuntu pushes us to ask: what kind of consciousness will fill that future India?

A nation is, in many ways, the sum of its inner conversations. If our children internalise that:

then even if we succeed economically, we will have built a fearful, brittle society.

If, instead, our children absorb a different grammar:

then India 2047 can be both developed and deeply humane.

This is where the five Ubuntu values can act as a compass for our journey:

Only then will our investment in AI, NEP, HPCs and reforms truly bear fruit.

All of this can sound lofty unless it lands in concrete practice. So let me end with a few shifts, some systemic, some deeply personal that can begin today.

In the end, all our reforms, technologies and policies circle back to a simple, piercing question:

Is it their wealth? Their power? Their skill? Their knowledge? Their creativity?

In a world changing faster than any curriculum, each of these can become outdated or misaligned. What remains, what grows richer with time, is a person’s willingness and ability to learn not only from books and screens, but from relationships, failures, injustices and joys.

That capacity to keep learning is deeply relational. Ubuntu would say:

“When your learning helps me grow, and my growth enriches you, we both become more fully human.”

Board exams, in that light, are not unimportant. But they are not sacred either. They are tools, timelines, structured opportunities to demonstrate and refine learning. They deserve seriousness but not fear worship.

The real exam, as we move towards 2047, is the one we are writing together:

If we can, then the demon we built around board exams will slowly dissolve. In its place, a new presence will emerge not a monster, but a mirror.

A DARPAN in which each child can see themselves not as a percentage, but as a living, learning, luminous node in a vast human web: