The Silent Epidemic

Suicide is not just a personal tragedy but a collective failure of our social, educational, and emotional ecosystems.

In classrooms filled with the hum of lectures, among deadline-driven essays and competitive exams, there lies a silence no syllabus prepares us for. It is the silence of youth surrendering to the unrelenting weight of invisible wounds, of students smiling in group photos but cracking alone in their dorm rooms. Suicide, once whispered about in hushed tones, now casts a long shadow over college campuses, coaching hubs and even high schools. It has become the loudest unspoken tragedy of our times.

The numbers are harrowing: according to the National Crime Records Bureau, student suicides in India doubled from 6,654 in 2013 to over 13,000 in 2022. Nearly 10 percent of all suicides last year were by students. A joint study by the University of Melbourne, NIMHANS and several Indian institutions surveyed over 8,500 students across nine states and found that 12 percent had considered suicide in the past year. Five percent had already tried.

Put another way: in a typical classroom of 40 students, five have thought about ending their lives. Two may have already attempted. These are not abstract figures but sons, daughters, classmates and friends - bright young minds cracked open by the unrelenting pressure to perform, to conform, to succeed at all costs.

Historically, we’ve tried to name this torment. The Greeks called it melancholia. Later, we spoke of nervous breakdowns and delusions. Today, we’ve collected these afflictions under the wide umbrella of mental health. And yet, even as our vocabulary has evolved, our attitudes remain tragically archaic. Many families still consider suicide a sin, a shame, a moral failing - anything but a clinical emergency. The tragedy lies not just in the act, but in how long it takes to be recognized as a cry for help.

This denial cuts across religion, class and geography. Whether it’s the austere hallways of the IITs or the coaching factories of Kota, the pressure cooker environment leaves little room for emotional breathing. One survey at an IIT revealed that over 60 percent of students reported severe anxiety or mental stress. Their tormentors are parental expectations, societal benchmarks, the unrelenting demand to be the best version of a child someone else imagined.

As an educator who spends more waking hours with students than with my own family, these statistics are personal, urgent and terrifying. When I read that one in ten Indian students is suicidal, I don’t think of a percentage. I think of faces - of the quiet one in the back row, the overachiever who hides behind a rehearsed smile, the student who suddenly stops showing up. In these moments, being a teacher means far more than finishing a syllabus.

Some strides have been made. Public figures like Deepika Padukone have bravely spoken about their mental health struggles, offering a vocabulary and visibility that helps chip away at stigma. Many institutions have started implementing counselling services and peer mentorship programs. But often, these are token gestures. In practice, the youth who most need help remain unheard and unnoticed.

More than mental health awareness, the need of the hour is mental health integration. A cultural shift. We need to normalize seeking therapy the way we normalize coaching classes. We need schools where counsellors are as accessible as tutors, where students are taught to build resilience, not just résumés. We need to retrain parents to love unconditionally, not transactionally; to raise humans, not just success stories.

Cities like Kota, now synonymous with suicide as much as with IIT dreams, are a case in point. These education bazaars, with their militarized coaching schedules and fierce competitiveness, rarely factor in emotional well-being. The same goes for premier medical and engineering institutes where young people who once topped their districts now buckle under the weight of excellence. Here, failure isn’t a lesson but a death sentence.

Yet, there is hope, tucked into conversations and kind words. Sometimes, all it takes is a late-night chat, a teacher’s gentle check-in, or a friend refusing to let silence win.

To the young people reading this, I want to say: you were the strongest swimmer in a sea of millions to reach your mother’s womb. You were born a fighter. Do not let fleeting pain rob you of a life still unfolding. If the burden feels too heavy, speak. To a teacher. A friend. A stranger on a helpline. Speak because your story doesn’t end here. It shouldn’t.

(The author is an academician, columnist, historian and a strong voice on Gender and Human Rights.)