Yuva, Apparently: What It Means to Be Young in India

We are called changemakers, innovators, leaders and nation-builders

In India, this language becomes even grander because we have one of the largest youth populations in the world. Hundreds of millions of Indians fall between the ages of 15 and 29, and we are frequently presented as the country’s greatest demographic advantage.

In PowerPoint presentations, we are practically unstoppable.

In real life, however, we are often stopped by barricades.

The recent protests at Jantar Mantar made me think about what it means to live in a country that proudly calls itself youth-led but does not always respect young people enough to let them protest peacefully. We are celebrated when we achieve, innovate or represent the country, but often treated as inconvenient when we question the systems we are expected to inherit.

I felt rage because I could not do more, guilt because I believed I had not done enough, and anxiety about remaining in a system that can exhaust you before it allows you to participate in changing it.

Perhaps that is one of the defining contradictions of being young in India: we are repeatedly told that the future belongs to us, yet we spend most of the present asking for permission to enter it.

Being young here often feels less like shaping the future and more like constantly preparing for it. There is always another entrance examination, another degree, another internship, another application form and another deadline that supposedly determines the direction of your life.

I have appeared for multiple entrance examinations, and before each one, it has never felt like I was carrying only my own dream into the examination hall. I am carrying my family’s aspirations, sacrifices and expectations, along with two transparent pens and an admit card that has already been checked seventeen times.

I am the first person in my family to complete postgraduate education and the only one to pursue higher studies. I know that should make me feel proud, and sometimes it does. But pride is rarely the only emotion present. It sits beside pressure, fear and an invisible responsibility to ensure that everyone’s sacrifices eventually mean something.

Higher education, then, stops being only about curiosity or learning. It becomes a survival project.

Private institutions promise opportunity through polished websites, tall buildings and fees large enough to become a separate source of psychological distress. Yet the education offered can remain painfully mediocre. Government institutions may be more affordable, but affordability alone does not make education accessible.

Who has the time and resources to prepare for competitive examinations? Usually, those with stable housing, food, internet access, coaching, family support and enough money to attempt the examination more than once. These advantages are rarely mentioned in conversations about merit, but they quietly shape who gets to succeed.

We are repeatedly told that success comes from hard work. However, we need to remember that people do not grow in isolation. Our confidence, behaviour, opportunities and coping capacities are shaped by the environments around us. A person cannot simply “work harder” their way out of structural inequality.

And then there is the internet.

Our generation was not simply introduced to it; many of us were practically raised by it. Digitisation has made education, information and communities more accessible. It has allowed us to question inherited beliefs, find people with similar experiences and organise across cities.

At the same time, it has created a strange and relentless exhaustion.

We are expected to remain informed but not overwhelmed, ambitious but not anxious, politically aware but not “too political,” productive but also mindful. We are advised to reduce screen time while being asked to study, work, network, protest, apply for jobs and build careers online.

The same interconnectedness that exhausts us can also bring us together. It can turn individual frustration into shared language. It can bring young people from across India to the protest centre of Delhi.

Maybe that is what being yuva means today.

Not being fearless. Not having all the answers. Not carrying the nation effortlessly on our backs.

Perhaps it means being tired and still caring. Feeling disappointed and still participating. Questioning the systems we inherited while trying to imagine something more just.

The burden of being young in India is heavy. But so is the possibility.

And maybe hope begins when we stop treating young people as symbols of the future and start respecting what they are saying in the present.