In a world where billionaires preach “equal opportunity” from their glass towers and politicians tweet about “education for all” from their chauffeured cars, the concept of meritocracy is nothing more than a con. We’ve been sold the idea that education is the great equaliser—that if you work hard enough, you can walk through the golden gates of the Ivy Leagues, IITS, and QS-ranked institutions. But the truth? Education is just another luxury brand—available to those who can afford it, while the rest are left outside, peering through the glass.
The global education system has become the exclusive playground of the privileged, and the wealthy have turned it into a hereditary monopoly. In America, “legacy admissions” ensure that children of alumni receive a competitive advantage. It doesn’t matter if they have the intellect of a cheese sandwich—if daddy donated to the campus library, their admission letter is practically pre-signed. In India, the game is slightly different but just as rigged. The elite pump their wealth into elite schools, international curricula, and overpriced coaching centres. Their kids get access to personalised tutors, professional counsellors, and exclusive extracurricular experiences that make their college applications gleam. By the time they hit 18, their portfolios are adorned with foreign internships, research papers, and letter-perfect essays written by consultants.
Meanwhile, the small-town student from a tier-3 city, whose potential could outshine that of any legacy kid, receives the classic rejection email: “Thank you for applying. We regret to inform you…” They’re stuck with outdated textbooks, overburdened teachers, and no exposure to the “world-class experiences” that look so dazzling on applications. They are left competing with nothing but sheer effort in a race where privilege has already bought a head start. Being born in a metro city automatically gives you a head start in the education race. Students from tier-1 cities like Delhi, Mumbai, and Bangalore have access to:
- Elite schools offering the International Baccalaureate (IB) and Cambridge curriculum.
- Global counselling firms that polish their applications to perfection.
- Exchange programs, global competitions, and leadership conferences.
Meanwhile, a student from a tier-3 town might be the school topper but has no idea what an “extracurricular activity” even means. Their applications lack the finesse and frills that make Ivy League committees swoon. And the worst part? When one or two of these small-town kids make it to an IIT or a top-ranked university, the elite parade their success as proof that the system works. “If they can do it, so can you!” they proclaim, weaponising exceptions as excuses to ignore the millions left behind.
But what the world conveniently forgets is the 1:1 million ratio—for every handful of underprivileged students who make it, there are millions who don’t, not because they lack talent but because they were never given the tools to compete. Instead of fixing the broken system, we celebrate the exceptions as though they’re the rule. The success of a few is used as a bandage to cover the stabbing wounds of systemic failure, and the privileged get to pat themselves on the back for “creating opportunities” that never truly existed.
Then there’s the issue of “reservation vs. general category”—a debate designed to distract from the real inequality: class privilege. The affluent general category student, with access to premier coaching, cries foul when an underprivileged, first-generation learner from a marginalised community secures a spot. The irony? That same privileged student will happily pay their way into a private university if they don’t make the cut, leaving the “merit talk” at the door.
And for those lucky enough to make it through the door? The struggle is far from over. Take IIT graduates, for example—the supposed cream of the crop, destined for six-figure salaries and corporate glory. But what the brochures don’t tell you is that many of them leave with crushing debt and no jobs. Despite the brutal competition to get in, IITs and other top-tier colleges are increasingly seeing plummeting placement rates, with many graduates either unemployed or accepting low-paying, unrelated jobs. The very system that demanded years of relentless sacrifice offers nothing in return. The education bubble bursts, and the students are left holding the bag.
But let’s rewind a little—getting in itself is a blood sport. The education system has turned into a Hunger Games spectacle, where millions of students rub their souls raw, sacrificing their youth in pursuit of a degree. Students in India spend 12-15 hours a day studying for entrance exams, often sacrificing their hobbies, social lives, and even their mental health. Coaching centres, especially in towns like Kota, have become academic slaughterhouses, churning out burned-out students at assembly-line speed. And yet, most of them still won’t make it. Scoring 98% in an exam isn’t enough anymore—not when the competition is so inflated and the seats so few.
And while the masses compete for crumbs, the coaching industry cashes in, turning education into a for-profit business model. Wealthy students pay for “premium batches” with smaller classes, top-tier faculty, and insider tips—while poorer students are herded into overcrowded, poorly managed sessions. The rich literally buy better “merit” while the rest are left in the dust.
Then, there’s the invisible cost—the one no one talks about until it makes the news. The mental health toll of this vicious system has become catastrophic. Students, particularly in India, are dying by suicide at alarming rates. Kota, the so-called “coaching capital,” reported over six student suicides in the first 22 days of 2025 alone. The situation has grown so dire that coaching centres installed ceiling fans with collapsible rods to prevent hangings. Let that sink in: rather than addressing the root of the problem, they chose to make it harder for students to end their lives. That’s the level of apathy we’re dealing with.
But this crisis is hardly limited to India. Around the world, students are crumbling under the weight of unrealistic expectations, crippling debt, and social pressure. The academic rat race strips young people of their self-worth, convincing them that if they can’t make it into the “right” college, they’re failures. The burden of proving oneself—of being good enough, smart enough, or rich enough—leads to depression, anxiety, and tragically, in many cases, suicide. Yet, the system marches on, shrugging off these deaths as mere collateral damage in the pursuit of “academic excellence.”
Even those who dare to seek education abroad face the same classist hurdles. Sure, foreign universities preach diversity, but the fine print reads: “diversity with sufficient bank balance only.” Studying overseas is a financial gamble, requiring tuition fees that often rival a down payment on a house. For middle-class students, this means drowning in student loans and dreaming of a salary that may never come. The education loan industry, of course, is more than happy to oblige. They’ll lend you the money—at the small cost of your future. You’ll graduate with a six-figure debt that will cling to you for decades like a parasitic twin.
The “education for all” lie becomes more absurd when you realise that even after entering elite institutions, students from underprivileged backgrounds are still fighting a losing battle. The lack of social capital—the exposure, networking, and mentorship that privileged students inherit—continues to haunt them. Degrees don’t automatically grant access to opportunity. In reality, they merely accentuate the class divide: the rich graduate into family-backed startups and cushy corporate roles, while the rest slog through unpaid internships, low-paying jobs, and mounting debt.
And it’s not just about the financial divide—it’s the emotional and mental cost too. Students spend their most formative years in a relentless cycle of competition, sacrificing experiences that make life meaningful. Friendships, family moments, and hobbies become collateral damage in the war for a seat at the table. By the time they either make it or break, the damage is done. Burnout, depression, and disillusionment are common souvenirs.
But here’s the kicker: it doesn’t have to be this way. Countries like Finland and Iceland have proven that higher education doesn’t have to cost a kidney and half your soul. In Finland, university education is not only free, but they’ll even pay you a stipend to support your future endeavours. Iceland follows a similar model, with higher education treated as a public good rather than a commodity. These nations have demonstrated that accessible education is possible; yet, the rest of the world continues to act as if student debt and exorbitant fees are simply the cost of ambition.
Of course, before anyone dares to call this a bitter rant from someone who couldn’t make it, let me stop you right there. This isn’t written out of sour grapes. It’s not because I didn’t get into a top university or because I lacked brilliance. In fact, it’s precisely because I am brilliant—and I see through the scam. My rage isn’t about personal failure; it’s about the millions of students like me who are made to feel that they’re not good enough when, in reality, it’s the system that’s designed to make us fail. This article exists so that the next time a kid from a small town, without privilege or connections, sits with their rejection letter, they’ll know: it’s not you. It was never you. It was always the system.
In the end, higher education has become an auction where the highest bidders win, and everyone else is left scrambling for scraps. The rich buy their future, the middle class rents theirs with loans, and the poor are locked out altogether. The system isn’t broken—it’s working exactly as intended: a well-oiled machine designed to sustain privilege.
So, the next time you hear someone say, “If they can do it, so can you!”—just smile politely and ask, “Do you accept payments by cheque or direct bank transfer?” Because in the grand con of higher education, the only currency that counts is privilege.