Not failing an exam was a virtual badge of honour I wore proudly until my 10th grade at school. Even the best students eventually had to face the grueling English exams of Mr. Michael Vernum, which typically had a 15% pass rate in internal tests. The highest mark one could expect was usually around 50 out of 100. So yes, there was a reason I was so proud of never failing a single exam until then.
But then I failed for the first time—in my 11th-grade Physics exam. The academic standards at home were quite high. My brother, just a year older than me, consistently ranked among the top three in his class. My dad was furious and deeply worried.
He was a firm opponent of private tuitions, believing they focused more on helping students chase grades than offering real education. He was convinced that schools were more than enough to provide what we needed at that age. But the moment I failed, his worry overtook his values. He was worried I was failing at the wrong time in life. Marks were crucial—they paved the way to Engineering in a reputed university. So he decided I needed to start private tuitions for 12th grade.
To his surprise, tuitions for 12th grade started two years in advance, when students entered 11th grade itself. By the time he looked, we were already six months into the new batch. While he got me enrolled in Physics and Maths without much hassle, Chemistry proved to be a challenge. Mr. Laxmanan, a well-reputed teacher, didn’t accept mid-term enrollments. But my dad was convinced he was the best person for the job—known not just for producing good results, but for expecting a level of discipline that exceeded the pursuit of marks.
Every morning at 7:30, my dad would stand outside his office. That was when the morning tuition batch ended and Mr. Laxmanan returned to his office. Each time, he politely declined, saying it was against his policy.
As a 16-year-old, the last thing I wanted was a strict tuition class that began at 6 a.m., especially one that required cycling 5 kilometers every day and crossing a massive bridge. But my dad was relentless. And eventually, his relentlessness paid off.
After weeks of waiting outside, Mr. Laxmanan finally made an exception and agreed to enroll me. To this day, I don’t know whether it was my dad’s persistence or his quiet desperation that changed his mind. But for me, one thing stood out more than anything else—how far my dad was willing to go, even bending his core beliefs, if it meant doing what was best for me.
And that changed something in me.
From that point on, I followed every rule Mr. Laxmanan had. Not because I suddenly became a model student. Not because I had a burning desire to top the exam. But because I didn’t want to let my dad down.
Eventually, I did score 100% in Chemistry board exams. Everyone including Mr. Laxmanan said it was because I was disciplined. That I worked hard. That it was a result of consistency and focus. But deep down, I knew the truth: I wasn’t disciplined for the sake of the marks.
I was disciplined because I had a reason that mattered to me.
And that’s what we often overlook.
Discipline isn’t about being rigidly consistent. It’s not about waking up at 5 a.m. every day or hitting every milestone with robotic precision. It’s about knowing why you care in the first place—the reason behind the effort.
So the next time you find yourself falling short—struggling to stay consistent, feeling lazy, losing steam—don’t just remind yourself of what you’re chasing.
Ask yourself why you’re chasing it. What are you fighting for? Who are you doing it for?
Once the “why” becomes real, the discipline often takes care of itself.