Two years. That's how long this whole thing took.
Two years of coaching fees, auto rides to the center and back, arguments about study time, my daughter crying over mock tests, my wife and me fighting about whether we were pushing her too hard.
And then she got in.
Rashtriya Military School ↗, Ajmer. The letter came on a Thursday. I remember because I was eating dal chawal and my wife screamed from the other room. Neighbors probably thought someone died.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me go back to the beginning. The really messy beginning.
It Started Because of My Brother-in-Law's Big Mouth
Holi gathering. 2022. My brother-in-law Vikram — retired army guy, always has opinions — he looks at my daughter Ananya doing cartwheels in the garden and goes "this one should be in a military school."
I laughed it off. Ananya was in class 4. I was more worried about her finishing her homework than planning her future.
But Vikram wouldn't shut up. He kept going on about Rashtriya Indian Military College in Dehradun, about how these schools shape kids into something special. Leadership. Discipline. Confidence. All that stuff.
My wife Sneha got interested. She always gets interested when Vikram talks army stuff. Two days later she'd researched everything. RMS Class 6 & 9 preparation timelines, exam dates, eligibility, the works.
She sat me down at breakfast. "We should start now."
"She's in class 4."
"Exam is in class 6. That's less than two years."
I couldn't argue with the math. So we started looking for coaching.
First Coaching Center Was a Disaster. Obviously.
We picked the popular one. The one everyone in our area talks about. Big building. Photos of selected kids everywhere. Their Google rating was like 4.6 stars.
Fees? ₹45,000 for one year. We paid. Felt good about it. Responsible parents making smart choices. That's us.
Three months in, Ananya comes home one day and says "Papa, there are 38 kids in my batch. Ma'am doesn't know my name. She calls me beta because she can't remember."
That stung. ₹45,000 and the teacher calls my daughter beta because she's one of thirty-eight faces.
I talked to a few other parents there. Same story. Big batches. No personal attention. Weekly tests? More like monthly. Sometimes not even that.
Sneha wanted to pull her out immediately. I hesitated because, well, we'd already paid. Sunk cost and all that.
Biggest mistake was waiting two more months before we actually switched. That's five months gone. Wasted.
The Tiny Place That Changed Everything
Someone at Sneha's office mentioned this small center. Above a sweet shop. I'm not making this up. You climb these narrow stairs and there's two rooms with maybe 12 chairs each.
No banners. No fancy reception. Just a guy named Pandey sir who's been doing military school entrance coaching for seventeen years.
First thing Pandey sir did? He tested Ananya for forty minutes. Not a formal test. Just sat with her and asked questions. Math, reasoning, English, general knowledge. Chatted with her like a normal conversation.
Then he turned to us and said "her math concepts are good but she's slow. English comprehension is weak. Reasoning is actually her strength but she doesn't trust her own answers."
In forty minutes he knew more about my daughter's abilities than the previous place learned in five months.
That's what best Sainik coaching looks like. Not a building. Not a brochure. A teacher who sits with your kid and actually pays attention.
We enrolled that day. ₹30,000 for the year. Cheaper than the fancy place. And about a hundred times better.
The Physical Fitness Thing That Almost Ended Us
Okay so this part makes me angry at myself.
Pandey sir's coaching had PT sessions twice a week. Tuesday and Thursday mornings. 6 AM.
Ananya had school. She had homework. She had coaching classes after school. And now 6 AM exercise?
We skipped PT for the first two months. I kept telling Sneha "she's a kid, let her sleep. We'll work on fitness later."
Pandey sir called me. Very calm. Very direct.
"Sir, thirty percent of kids who clear the written test fail the physical round. Your daughter needs to attend PT. Starting this week."
I got a little defensive. "We'll manage fitness at home."
"With respect sir, you won't. Nobody does. Please send her Tuesday."
He was right. We weren't managing anything at home. The closest Ananya came to exercise was walking from the sofa to the fridge.
So she started going. Hated it for the first month. Complained every morning. Sneha had to literally drag her out of bed some days.
But slowly? She got better. Started enjoying the running. Made friends in the PT group. By month four she was waking up on her own.
On medical test day, she cleared everything. The examiner smiled and said "good stamina."
Meanwhile a boy who topped the written exam — topped it — got rejected because he couldn't complete the run. His mother was standing outside crying.
That could've been us. That image lives rent-free in my head now.
Mock Tests Are Brutal. Do Them Anyway.
Every Sunday. Full mock test. Three hours. Same conditions as real exam.
Ananya scored 34% on her first mock. Thirty-four percent. She came home and didn't talk to anyone for two hours.
I wanted to say something comforting. Tell her it's just practice. Tell her it doesn't matter.
Sneha stopped me. "Don't. Let her feel it. She needs to get comfortable with failing so the real exam doesn't destroy her."
Harsh? Maybe. Right? Absolutely.
By her twentieth mock test she was scoring in the 70s. By her thirtieth, consistently above 80. The improvement wasn't sudden. It was slow. Painful sometimes. But it was real.
And on actual exam day? She told me afterwards "it felt like just another Sunday, Papa."
That sentence made every painful Sunday worth it.
Whether it's Rashtriya Military School coaching or RIMC ↗ coaching or any competitive exam really — your child needs to fail in practice so they don't fall apart when it counts.
Money Stuff Because Nobody Talks About This Honestly
We spent roughly ₹72,000 over two years on RIMC entrance exam coaching — well, RMS coaching in our case, but the point stands.
Some families spend ₹2 lakhs. Some spend ₹20,000. The amount doesn't decide the outcome. What you're getting for the money does.
If someone charges ₹1,50,000 but has 40 kids per batch and tests once a month — you're being robbed. Politely. But still robbed.
If someone charges ₹30,000 with 12 kids per batch, weekly tests, mandatory PT, and a teacher who calls you by name to discuss your child's progress — that's worth every rupee.
Don't look at fees first. Look at batch size, testing frequency, physical training, and whether they prepare for interviews too. Then look at fees.
What I'd Tell Any Parent Starting This Journey
Start in class 4 for RMS Class 6 entry. Class 7 for Class 9 entry. For RIMC, give yourself at least eighteen months. These are not last-minute exams.
Visit coaching centers in person. Bring your kid. Talk to teachers, not the admin staff. Count how many chairs are in the classroom — that tells you the batch size.
Ask one question: "How many enrolled versus how many selected last year?" If they avoid answering, leave. That's your answer right there.
Make PT mandatory from day one. Not later. Not "when we have time." Day one.
And stop comparing your kid to the neighbor's kid. Every child learns differently. Ananya took eight months to get comfortable with reasoning questions. Some kids get it in two weeks. Both paths lead to the same exam hall.
Ananya's in Ajmer Now
She called last week. Said the food is "okay but not like Mummy's." Said she made three friends already. Said morning PT there is harder than Pandey sir's sessions.
She sounded happy. Nervous but happy.
And honestly? That's all I ever wanted from this whole thing.
