“Yes, sir.” Two words. Seems harmless. Polite, even. But say it enough times, and something shifts inside you. You don’t just acknowledge someone, you place them above you. And once that hierarchy is set, it is almost impossible to undo.

“Sir” is not just a word. It is a system. A deeply rooted architecture of psychological oppression disguised as respect. The moment you call someone “sir,” you erect an invisible glass ceiling between you and them. They are already a level up. You did that. You handed them that elevation, with your own tongue. And now your thoughts, your ideas, your objections, must all travel upward for approval. You are no longer free. You are bound, not by chains, but by a word you were trained to say before you could even spell it.

Nowhere is this more visible than in the Indian higher education system. Students cannot call their teachers by name. It is considered disrespectful. Offensive, even. But ask yourself, why? What is a teacher so afraid of that a first name would threaten?

The answer is simple: being wrong.

The moment a student calls you by your name, the hierarchy flattens. You become equals in conversation. And if you are equals, then the student can disagree. Can challenge. Can be right when you are wrong. That is terrifying for someone whose authority rests not on the strength of their ideas, but on the prefix before their name.

And so the system sustains itself. Teachers who cannot be questioned produce students who cannot question. Students who cannot question become professionals who cannot innovate. The ceiling follows them, from the classroom to the boardroom to the dinner table. “Yes, sir” becomes “yes, boss” becomes “yes, minister” becomes a lifetime of deferring to titles instead of trusting your own mind.

The greatest disservice you can do to a student is not to teach them wrong, it is to make them believe they have no right to correct you.

Drop the “sir.” Start a conversation.