Silence in the Staff Room: Unveiling Hidden Struggles from Marksheets to Suicide Notes

“Education is the most powerful weapon which you can use to change the world."

– Nelson Mandela

India loses a student to suicide every 42 minutes, and by the time you finish reading this article, another life might be gone. In the silence that follows, teachers are left holding both the marksheets and the burden of what could have been. What is a teacher supposed to do when a grade becomes a gravestone? When a child's future collapses under the weight of a number? Why do schools sometimes become battlegrounds, where the enemy is the very system meant to protect students? How do teachers manage being both frontline fighters and silent witnesses to institutional violence? In India’s education system, success is often viewed as a straight line, and anyone who stumbles risks being quietly erased, sometimes fatally. Every year, as board or entrance examination results are announced, there's a noticeable spike in youth suicides. For teachers, this isn’t just statistics; it’s often someone they taught, scolded, encouraged, or watched slowly disappear behind a wall of pressure. Marksheets reflect more than just academic achievement—they become charged documents of judgment. The emotional burden placed on teachers is immense; a bad grade haunts not only the child but also the educator. Colleagues gossip, management questions, parents complain—all contributing to the relentless pursuit of “results,” often at the expense of fostering in-depth learning or emotional maturity. Many teachers report sleepless nights during exam season, not because of syllabus completion but due to anxiety over what a student might do if they fail. From a psychological perspective, constant academic pressure triggers a “chronic stress response” in students. When a child’s self-worth hinges on marks, exams are perceived as life-or-death scenarios, leading to anxiety, disrupted sleep, and fear of failure. Most schools lack trained counselors, and where they do exist, seeking help is often seen as a sign of weakness. Mental health, like physical health, requires care—if a student had a fever, we’d help them rest and recover; similarly, students feeling hopeless or overwhelmed need support. Preparing students solely for exams isn’t enough; we must equip them for life.

"If a child can't learn the way we teach, maybe we should teach the way they learn."

– Ignacio Estrada

Schools celebrate academic excellence with banners and parades, yet there’s no ritual for grief—no acknowledgment of the quiet boy who used to draw in margins or the girl who stopped attending class before results day. Mental health workshops are often just ticked off as formalities. Teachers, too, aren’t immune; many experience burnout—emotional exhaustion caused by long-term stress and helplessness. Talking about vulnerability is taboo, and seeking therapy remains rare. Most cope by silent endurance, hiding tears, or cracking jokes about “another batch, another drama.” The silence in staff rooms isn’t ignorance but a survival mechanism, a code developed over years of emotional overload—an unspoken way to function despite tragedy. Yet, this silence has a heavy cost, breeding isolation, exhaustion, and normalizing tragedy. Until the system shifts from punishment to support, from fear to empathy, the silence in staff rooms will persist. We need more than NEP jargon or last-minute helplines; we need genuine listening spaces. Success must be redefined—not as a high-stakes race, but as a journey of growth. Teachers must be allowed to be human—tired, worried, healing. As the bell rings and another period begins, life continues in the corridors of every school. Behind each quiet face is a memory of a name that will never be called during roll call again.

Somewhere, a lingering question remains: what if we had listened sooner? Perhaps one day, silence in the staff room will signify peace, not grief, because education should ignite a fire, not burn one out.