Teachers have always been regarded as the foundation stones of a nation’s progress, the unseen architects who mould human minds and nurture future generations. Their influence goes beyond imparting lessons or testing knowledge; they shape values, attitudes, and national character. But in the rapidly transforming educational landscape of the twenty-first century, this image of the teacher as a nation builder seems to be fading under the weight of commercialism. The question arises: Is the modern teacher still a nation builder, or has he become a businessman, trading wisdom for wealth?
In Kashmir, this question resonates deeply. The region’s educational journey has been uniquely marked by both resilience and disruption. For decades, schools have not been mere institutions of learning but symbols of hope and survival. When unrest, curfews, or natural calamities disrupted life, it was often the teacher who became a pillar of continuity — conducting classes under open skies, guiding students through trauma, and reminding them that learning was an act of defiance against despair. Yet today, even in Kashmir’s valleys, a slow but steady transformation is visible. Education, once a mission, is increasingly becoming a market. The change is subtle yet profound — from the chalkboard to the coaching board, from the classroom to the cashroom.
Teaching was once considered a sacred calling — a profession chosen by those who sought to enlighten minds and build moral citizens. The village teacher, in earlier times, commanded enormous respect and affection. He lived a simple life, often earning modestly but enjoying the highest honour in society. Parents trusted him more than they trusted anyone else with their children’s growth. However, the winds of economic change, globalization, and digital influence have redefined this sacred bond. Across India and in Kashmir alike, education is now one of the fastest-growing business sectors, and teachers — knowingly or unknowingly — have become its workforce and entrepreneurs.
A visit through any Kashmiri town today reveals a telling sight: rows of coaching centres and private academies claiming to guarantee selection in competitive exams. Neon-lit signboards promise success in NEET, JEE, or UPSC within months. Students, under mounting pressure to compete nationally, flock to these institutes. Teachers, too, find themselves drawn to this trend — not necessarily by greed but by necessity. With rising living costs, limited government jobs, and stagnant salaries, private tuition becomes a source of stability. Yet the moral cost of this arrangement cannot be ignored. The classroom, once a temple of selfless service, has begun to resemble a transaction space where education is sold, not shared.
In Kashmir, where economic uncertainty and conflict have created layers of vulnerability, this commercialisation assumes a sharper tone. Parents often spend beyond their means to enroll children in private coaching, equating quality with expense. A teacher’s worth is measured not by wisdom but by how many students he attracts. This is not merely a local problem; it is a symptom of a global educational malaise where learning outcomes are reduced to numbers, and teaching becomes performance. The result is a slow erosion of the emotional bond that once defined the teacher–student relationship.
Technology has further complicated this picture. The pandemic, which forced schools to close, gave rise to digital classrooms, online tuitions, and educational apps. In many ways, it was a blessing — enabling learning to continue despite physical barriers. But it also accelerated the commodification of education. Teachers were compelled to brand themselves online, create digital content, and manage social media presence. The humble mentor of old became a marketer of modernity. For many educators, this shift was uncomfortable; for others, it became a path to fame and fortune. The irony is that while technology democratized access to education, it also deepened social inequalities. Students in remote villages struggled with poor connectivity, while others in urban centres thrived. The teacher, caught in between, had to reinvent himself — not out of passion but survival.
To judge this transformation harshly would be unfair. Many teachers continue to embody the true spirit of nation-building, often working in difficult circumstances with limited resources. In Kashmir’s rural schools, one can still find educators who walk miles to reach their students, teach in freezing classrooms, and maintain hope amid hopelessness. Their stories rarely make headlines, but they are the quiet builders of a stronger society. The tragedy lies not in their dwindling numbers but in the diminishing value society attaches to them. When teachers are undervalued and underpaid, expecting them to resist the lure of the market is unrealistic. The shift from mission to market is less an individual failing and more a reflection of systemic neglect.
The real question, therefore, is not whether teachers have become businessmen, but whether society has forced them to become so. In an environment where respect is measured by income, and success is defined by material gain, teaching too cannot remain untouched. Yet, amidst all this, the moral responsibility of the teacher remains undiminished. To teach is still to shape the future, to light a lamp in another’s mind. Even in a commodified world, the act of teaching retains its sacredness when done with sincerity and heart.
The teacher’s role in Kashmir carries an added moral and emotional weight. In a place where children grow up amidst uncertainty, the teacher becomes not just an instructor but a counselor, a guide, and often a second parent. The classroom becomes a microcosm of hope — a space where the noise of conflict fades into the silence of concentration and curiosity. Teachers who continue to hold this space, who nurture peace in young minds, are indeed the true nation builders. They may not teach politics, but their presence itself is political — affirming faith in humanity and knowledge over fear and division.
Nation-building today is no longer about slogans or ceremonies. It is about creating generations capable of empathy, critical thinking, and ethical action. The true measure of a teacher, therefore, lies not in how many toppers he produces but in how many thinkers he inspires. A teacher who helps students question, reason, and imagine beyond the textbook contributes more to the nation than one who merely drills formulas or essays. Education that serves only to chase jobs and marks impoverishes the soul of society. Education that awakens compassion enriches it.
It is also time to recognise the structural challenges that push teachers towards commercialisation. Government schools in many parts of Kashmir still suffer from infrastructural gaps, outdated teaching materials, and lack of technological support. Teachers are burdened with administrative work, leaving little room for creativity. Meanwhile, private institutions often demand results and revenue simultaneously, forcing teachers to function under corporate pressure. Reform, therefore, must begin with restoring dignity to the profession. Better pay, professional autonomy, and public recognition are not luxuries but necessities if we wish to preserve teaching as a calling rather than a business.
Parents, too, have a role in this transformation. In chasing academic success, many inadvertently encourage the marketisation of learning. When they equate good teaching with high fees or judge a teacher by how much tuition he provides, they participate in the very system that corrodes educational values. A culture of respect must replace a culture of transaction. A teacher’s worth should be measured not in rupees but in results that are moral, intellectual, and emotional.
As the world celebrates Teacher’s Day, Kashmir’s classrooms whisper a quiet truth: the soul of education is still alive, though weary. The teacher remains the bridge between what is and what can be. Beneath the layers of commercialization and technology, there still beats the old heart of the profession — one that believes in shaping character, nurturing curiosity, and building peace. The challenge is to protect that heart from being buried under the weight of profit.
A Kashmiri proverb says, “Karam kaar gav, magar dilas saet,” which means “Work is good, but only when done with heart.” Teaching, at its best, is precisely that — a labour of love. It is not merely the transmission of information but the transformation of lives. Even in this era of business-mindedness, the teacher who teaches with heart remains a nation builder, not a businessman.
Between the blackboard and the balance sheet lies the soul of teaching — still glowing, still human, still capable of shaping the destiny of nations. The future of education, and indeed of our nation, depends on whether we choose to nurture that soul or sell it to the market.

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