Degrees Abroad, Parents Alone?

Dr. Reyaz Ahmad

“A bank transfer can cover hospital bills, but it cannot sit beside a hospital bed. Presence carries a psychological weight that money simply cannot replicate.”

A deeply unsettling tragedy in Bengaluru involving a retired scientist formerly associated with Indian Space Research Organisation has forced many Indians to confront an uncomfortable moral dilemma. According to early reports, the elderly man allegedly killed his ailing wife out of fear that, after his death, there would be no one left to care for her. The case remains under police investigation, and the courts will determine the facts. Yet beyond the legal proceedings lies a social anxiety that has quietly haunted many ageing parents for years.

The incident has stirred a question that is less about crime and more about conscience: What is the meaning of educating our children for extraordinary success if, in the twilight of life, parents find themselves alone — not deprived of money, but deprived of presence?

It is tempting, in moments of grief and anger, to turn against the very idea of ambitious education. Some may even ask whether the pursuit of global careers has come at too high a cost. But education itself is not the culprit. On the contrary, education has historically been the ladder through which families have escaped poverty, secured dignity, and gained independence. It is education that allows a young person to compete fairly, to build confidence, and to support loved ones. The deeper problem arises when education is reduced to a narrow transaction — a degree to obtain a salary, a salary to secure status, and status to signal success.

When achievement is measured only through income and designation, character slowly disappears from the equation. We have, as a society, become remarkably efficient at teaching our children how to compete. From early schooling to professional training, they learn to pass exams, master technologies, lead teams, and outperform peers. Yet we have not invested equal seriousness in teaching them how to remain emotionally anchored to the very families that made those achievements possible. We have emphasized mobility but neglected rootedness. We have celebrated independence without equally celebrating interdependence.

Across South Asia and in migrant communities around the world, a recognizable pattern has emerged. Parents spend decades investing in their children’s advancement — paying tuition fees, arranging coaching classes, supporting relocations, navigating visa paperwork, and suppressing their own anxieties so their children can dream freely. When the long-awaited job offer arrives from abroad, it is celebrated as a collective victory. Degrees are framed and hung with pride. Photographs are circulated among relatives. The family narrative becomes one of upward mobility and fulfilled aspiration.

Yet time continues its steady march. Parents grow older. Health complications become more frequent. The body weakens, memory falters, and social networks shrink as contemporaries pass away. In this stage of life, financial security — though important — does not fully address emotional vulnerability. Remittances may cover medical bills, and international courier services may deliver gifts, but neither can replace the quiet reassurance of physical presence. A bank transfer cannot sit beside a hospital bed. It cannot notice the subtle signs of depression in an ageing father. It cannot respond instinctively to a mother’s unspoken fear. Presence carries a psychological weight that money simply cannot replicate.

At the same time, it would be unjust to paint all children living abroad with the brush of neglect. Many sons and daughters who reside overseas demonstrate extraordinary commitment. They maintain daily contact despite time differences, arrange medical consultations from afar, travel home during emergencies, and manage responsibilities with discipline and sincerity. In fact, neglect is not confined to geography. Some children who live in the same city as their parents remain emotionally distant, absorbed in their own routines. Therefore, the debate cannot be simplified into a binary of “abroad” versus “at home.” The true divide lies between responsibility and convenience, between conscious engagement and passive detachment.

Global migration is neither immoral nor reversible. Professional demands, immigration restrictions, economic realities, and personal aspirations are genuine forces shaping modern families. To ignore these structural realities would be naïve. The world has become interconnected, and careers increasingly demand mobility. The solution, therefore, cannot be to discourage ambition or to romanticize a return to static, single-location families. Rather, the solution must involve a rethinking of what we consider complete preparation for adulthood.

Our educational culture frequently celebrates success once a child acquires a prestigious qualification, secures stable employment, and perhaps settles in a developed nation. These milestones are treated as endpoints. Yet nowhere in this triumphant narrative do we systematically incorporate conversations about ageing, caregiving responsibilities, or emotional literacy. Rarely do we teach young people how to plan for their parents’ later years, how to recognize the psychological dimensions of loneliness, or how to integrate professional ambition with familial obligation. Gratitude, though often preached, is seldom institutionalized as a practice.

If a graduate can manage complex algorithms, navigate international markets, and supervise multinational teams, yet remains unprepared to engage meaningfully with ageing parents, then society must ask whether it has confused competence with completeness. Education should not merely enable earning; it should cultivate belonging. It should nurture empathy alongside expertise, and responsibility alongside recognition.

In an increasingly transnational world, physical proximity may not always be feasible. But emotional absence is rarely inevitable. Families must begin difficult conversations long before crisis strikes. Discussions about emergency contacts, medical contingencies, caregiving networks, financial planning, and psychological support should not be postponed out of discomfort. When one parent passes away before the other, what systems of care are in place? Who checks in regularly beyond routine phone calls? How often do visits occur, not as obligations squeezed into busy calendars, but as meaningful engagements? Planning for old age must become a shared family responsibility rather than an unspoken assumption.

Silence is not evidence of love; preparation is. A structured plan for support communicates seriousness and commitment. It transforms vague reassurance into tangible security. For ageing parents, the knowledge that systems and people are consciously in place can significantly reduce anxiety about abandonment.

Parents, for their part, should not abandon their dreams for their children. Ambition is not the enemy. Aspiration is not betrayal. But perhaps the dream requires refinement. Success should not be defined solely by income brackets or international addresses. It should also be measured by the depth of humanity retained along the journey. A child who rises professionally yet remains attentive to familial responsibilities embodies a fuller form of achievement than one who accumulates accolades but forgets origins.

The tragedy in Bengaluru must first be understood as a human catastrophe and a matter for the justice system. Yet it also serves as a mirror reflecting a deeper social fear — the fear of ageing into irrelevance, of becoming a logistical inconvenience rather than a living relationship. Many elderly parents do not fear poverty as much as they fear invisibility. They do not dread hunger as much as they dread helplessness. They do not primarily worry about financial survival, but about emotional abandonment.

If this moment prompts us to interrogate education, let us do so with nuance. The answer is not to educate less, nor to discourage global mobility. The answer is to educate more holistically. We must cultivate generations who are as attentive to conscience as they are to competition, as mindful of memory as they are of mobility, and as committed to responsibility as they are to recognition.

A society that produces brilliant engineers, doctors, scientists, and executives but leaves its parents emotionally stranded cannot claim to be fully advanced. True progress lies not merely in the distances our children travel, but in the strength of the bonds they sustain. In the end, the measure of success is not only how far one rises, but whether, in rising, one remembers who stood quietly below, holding the ladder steady.

Author can be mailed at reyaz.ahmad@hu.ac.ae