Of bullies, bravado and the myth of strength

Anahita, my colleague from school (where I also juggled the title of SEN coordinator), was losing sleep over a 9-year-old classroom tyrant. The child bullied everyone like it was a full-time job, and guess what? His parents cheered him on from the sidelines. While other parents complained, his declared that the rest were just raising marshmallows, while theirs was a “strong” boy. But honestly, from what I saw, they weren’t raising a strong child; they were just stuffing him with borrowed arrogance. Cruelty isn’t strength, it’s just insecurity dressed in steel boots. You don’t raise a warrior that way. You raise a balloon, loud, floaty, and full of nothing.

Recently, a report by the Society Against Violence in Education (SAVE), the ‘State of Ragging in India 2022-24’ said that, “It is not to say that the entire India registered just 3,156 ragging complaints in 3 years, these are just the complaints registered at the National Anti-Ragging Helpline. There is a huge number of complaints that are registered directly to the colleges, and also directly to the police if the case is serious.” As per this report, India recorded 51 ragging-related deaths in colleges from 2022 to 2024.

Let’s be honest, no baby pops out of the womb thinking, “Whose life can I ruin today?” They’re not born with a PhD in bullying. That degree is handed over lovingly by parents who think raising a decent human is optional, but raising a streetfighter is a life skill. These are the folks who believe that if their kid becomes a “don’t-mess-with-me” mini dictator, no one will notice how terrified they are of the world. So, they train them well, “Beta, if someone pushes you, push harder. If they cry, great! You win.”

Basically, it’s emotional Jiu-Jitsu taught over breakfast. “Don’t feel small, just make everyone else feel smaller. That’s the family mantra.”

And that’s how we end up with kids who treat classrooms like wrestling rings and treat empathy like it’s a contagious disease.

Let me confess something a friend recently told me, something that stayed with me longer than I expected.

She said, “I’ve been ragged for most of my adult life.”

Now, before you imagine her bunking in a shady college hostel with plastic buckets doubling as drums and overgrown seniors cackling over her misery, let me clarify. Her version of ragging was far more refined, served with the finesse of family WhatsApp groups, subtle taunts, and emotional blackmail wrapped tightly in the warm chapati of “we care about you.”

If you think ragging ends when you toss your graduation cap in the air, I’m here, on her behalf, to disabuse you of that charming little myth. Some people, as my friend would put it, are blessed with in-laws who believe that unless you’re regularly bullied, you might start developing dangerous ideas like personal freedom, self-respect, or God forbid, happiness.

Mihika’s mother-in-law, the matriarch, was so committed to manufacturing bullies, she could’ve patented the process. Her parenting philosophy was elegant in its simplicity: If you can’t be confident, at least be terrifying.

According to her, life is a National Geographic documentary where only the most aggressive survive, preferably while gnawing on the ankles of anyone who dares to look mildly content. She proudly shares, in front of unsuspecting guests, that her daughter was an “excellent ragger” in college, as if she’d just won the Arjuna Award for Emotional Damage. Someone once pointed out that maybe ragging isn’t something to boast about, what with it being illegal. The look the mother-in-law gave could curdle milk.

As for the daughter, let’s call her Mini Militia, she has faithfully carried the family flag forward. My friend says this woman is a full-time tyrant in her own home, terrorising her husband and children with the same gusto she once reserved for juniors in college. Here’s the truth: bullies aren’t born that way. They’re made, carefully shaped by nervous parents who mix up being mean with being strong. If their kids are out there scaring everyone, maybe no one will notice how insecure they really feel inside.

I often wonder why so many Indian families treat kindness like a contagious disease. Heaven forbid your child grows up empathetic, they might get eaten alive in the big, bad world! Better to raise them as the eater, no? So, we end up raising generations of bullies, believing that aggression will shield them from the heartbreak of being vulnerable. And sometimes, it does work, briefly. You can bully your way into silence, submission, even admiration.

But no amount of ragging the world will fill that gnawing emptiness inside.

Families boast about sons who “taught someone a lesson” or daughters who “don’t take nonsense.” Translation: they have zero conflict-resolution skills, and their default mode is intimidation. Of course, I’m not suggesting we all become doormats, God knows, my friend had her own long, tragic “Welcome mat” phase. But there’s a canyon of difference between healthy confidence and the compulsive need to dominate every room you enter. And before you think this is just her sad little story, look around. Ragging is thriving. Not just in college hostels but in offices where bosses confuse leadership with bullying. In homes where affection is measured in control. In relationships where the power dynamic is always a scoreboard.

Sometimes, ragging doesn’t end. It just moves in with you, kicks off its shoes, and starts managing your daily schedule.

So, the next time someone proudly announces, “My child was the king of ragging,” maybe ask gently if they’re equally proud of the emotional scars left behind. Or, if you’re feeling particularly spicy, send them a copy of the UGC’s anti-ragging guidelines. Signed. Gift wrapped.

If we cannot fix the mess, we can at least hit pause on the madness. Maybe teach our kids that real strength isn’t about stepping on others, it’s about lifting them up without pulling a muscle. And if, like my friend, you’re being ragged well into adulthood, remember:

You’re not weak for wanting peace.

You’re just allergic to nonsense.

And that, my friend, is your quiet rebellion in a world that mistakes loudness for power.

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