Success to failure, UPSC is a family affair

The Print

17 hours ago

But what is not celebrated is the silent effort of an entire support system—a quiet, unpaid workforce made up of family members, friends, and partners.
After all, aspirants live, for lack of a better description, a suspended life built on the edifice of junoon (passion) and self-doubt. But sometimes, it all comes together. The result is announced, and the aspirant's name appears on the list. Those who succeed are elevated to near-mythical status. Their photos decorate newspaper pages and coaching centre hoardings, and they are invited for felicitations and motivational talks.
A couplet by Mirza Ghalib could well serve as the unofficial motto of UPSC aspirants: Ragon mein daudte phirne ke ham nahin qayal; jab aankh hi se na tapka to phir lahu kya hai— I'm not impressed by blood that runs in the veins; if it doesn't spill from the eyes, what kind of blood is it?
A family that aspires together…
It has been said that it takes a village to raise a child. Cliched but true. The same holds for success in the UPSC exam. If UPSC is the Everest of Indian competitive exams, and the topper is the climber, then their family members are the sherpas who make the ascent possible.
The mother, often a school dropout herself, becomes the planner. Relatives are told not to visit, and the TV volume is turned down. The father, already exhausted by the demands of underpaid work, becomes proficient in the mechanics of prelims, mains, optional, DAF (detailed application form), and ethics papers. Siblings absorb any and all friction in silence. Affection is expressed not through words but by consoling oneself: 'Let him focus, we will manage.'
A natural question arises: why do families do this for an exam where the acceptance rate is lower than that of Harvard? The ideal of public service and giving back to society is sine qua non, but sometimes it is only a necessary condition, not a sufficient one.
First, the dream of cracking the UPSC is one that originates in the family, not the aspirant. A good score in Class 12. A local officer who is feted like royalty. A personal experience with socio-economic dysfunction. All these experiences (and more) plant the seed. 'Ladke ko IAS/IPS banana hai'. Whether the child is a doctor or an engineer, the end goal remains the same: to make them a Collector or SP sahab.
Second, the fragility of the Indian middle class, especially in small towns and peri-urban India. This class, often first-generation salaried or self-employed, is perched precariously between two possibilities—either remain stuck in the bog of social anonymity, or achieve an almost unprecedented moment of social reordering. An officer in the family changes the way you are respected at weddings and in society. It symbolises entry into the system.
Third, UPSC is a hedge against chaos. Chaos of what kind? Private sector job layoffs and the inherent risks built into entrepreneurship. And so, the family stakes everything on the UPSC exam.
Also Read: You're wrong about UPSC aspirants. I just got Rank 150 and it's not about money & power
The unseen work of women
What often goes unseen and unspoken is how the exam preparation ecosystem relies heavily on the labour of women.
For male aspirants, their emotional and logistical needs are met by the women around them. It is usually the mother who absorbs the increased domestic workload and tantrums. The sister who takes up an extra tutoring job to ease the financial burden. The partner who becomes the cheerleader and sounding board, without knowing if she will even be part of the future being chased. She watches the aspirant spiral after poor results and walks on eggshells, not because he asks her to, but because she knows that one wrong step might rupture their bond.
And what about the female aspirants? 'Shaadi kab karegi' (When will you get married?) becomes a common refrain. Fathers have to weather relatives' jibes and neighbours' questions about their aspirant daughter's advancing age. A 27-year-old man preparing for his next attempt is seen as 'hard-working', but a 27-year-old woman doing the same is termed 'delusional' or as being 'unrealistic'. While chasing her dream, she quickly learns that agency comes at a price and that society charges women interest.
So while both men and women struggle, these complex gendered dynamics are rarely acknowledged, and often brushed under the carpet by Indian society.
The aftermath of failure
Mostly, the aspirant crosses the age limit or exhausts his attempts, and thus his journey ends in a PDF that does not contain his name.
Usually, one of two things happens.
In the first case, people around the aspirant adjust without recrimination. The father who says, 'Koi baat nahi, naukri mil jayegi' (Never mind, you'll get a job), even when his eyes brim with years of unpaid sacrifice. The mother who pretends she always wanted her son to go into the corporate sector anyway. The friend or partner who says, 'Tune try toh kara, wohi bahut hai' (You tried, it's enough).
But sometimes, those around the aspirant let deflating disappointment curdle into rancid bitterness. The aspirant is branded with pejoratives like nikamma, nakara—a good-for-nothing wastrel. Friends and partners distance themselves emotionally. The aspirant, unless he has steel flowing through his veins, succumbs to a life of self-pity and chasing validation. It is tragic, but also very real.
Undoubtedly, the greater dignity lies with the former—the families and friends who endure and sustain, rather than deflect and blame. There is a strange, stoic heroism to it. As Kipling said: 'If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster, and treat those two impostors just the same… then yours is the Earth and everything that's in it.'
Also Read: A blacksmith's son's grind to a new mom taking the exam 17 days postpartum—UPSC candidates' journeys
Credit where it's due
This article is not a call to stop celebrating toppers, but a call to recognise what success actually costs and who pays for it. Behind every name in the final PDF, there are often three or four people who made innumerable sacrifices, both big and small, for that result.
If we must romanticise the journey of a topper, let us at least be honest about what it truly takes. It is time we gave due credit not just to those who earn the All India Ranks (AIRs), but to those who stood by them and kept the aspirant afloat, in sorrow and in happiness.
Pranav Jain will soon join the civil services and is also a columnist. Views are personal.
(Edited by Asavari Singh)