For Sandhya Ukkalkar, the path to becoming an educator in the field of special education was never just a professional decision — it was deeply personal. It began in the quiet, determined moments of motherhood, as she searched for a school that could truly understand her son’s unique needs. Diagnosed with Autism and Intellectual Disability, he required more than care — he needed acceptance, structure, and a nurturing environment.

In 1996, a compassionate doctor guided her to Jai Vakeel School. From the moment her son was enrolled, Sandhya witnessed a transformation that brought not only relief, but hope. Encouraged by the school’s doctor, she enrolled in a special education course, and by June 2000, she returned to the same institution — this time as a teacher. Over the years, she grew into the role of Principal of the Autism Centre at Jai Vakeel, dedicating her life to children who, like her son, simply needed to be seen, understood, and supported.

What sets the Autism Centre apart is not just its experience or legacy, but its guiding philosophy: a child-led, strengths-based approach that celebrates neurodiversity. Here, each learner follows an Individualised Education Plan (IEP), supported through small groups, one-on-one sessions, and methodologies that include Applied Behaviour Analysis (ABA), Sensory Integration, and Visual Supports. The goal isn’t to fit children into a mould but to honour their unique ways of engaging with the world.

Serving children aged 3 to 18, the centre focuses on early intervention, functional academics, and pre-vocational training — all grounded in a multisensory curriculum aligned with NCF and NCERT. For the 31 students with Autism and Intellectual Disability who currently attend, the emphasis lies on building communication and sensory skills that can translate into real-world independence.

Sandhya believes collaboration is the cornerstone of success. At the centre, therapists, educators, parents, and healthcare professionals work as a unified team. Over 75% of the children served come from low-income families, and many receive free or subsidised education and therapy through rural camps and outreach programs.

“These aren’t luxuries,” Sandhya insists, referring to tools like sensory rooms and assistive tech. “They’re essentials.”

And the results are deeply moving. Children who once struggled with attention now engage joyfully in sessions. Some who were non-verbal begin to use gestures, visuals, and eventually words. Others transition into mainstream schools. One student, now preparing for CA exams, once needed foundational classroom readiness support. These are not isolated cases — they are the product of consistent, individualised attention and belief.

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For Sandhya, the real victories come in the smallest moments: a child pointing to a picture to communicate, another who finally sits through a full session, or a parent whispering “thank you” with tears in their eyes. These everyday breakthroughs are everything.

Her personal experience as a parent gives Sandhya a unique lens. She understands the fears, hopes, and quiet triumphs families carry. That’s why parental involvement is not optional at the centre — it’s essential. Families regularly participate in progress meetings, classroom observations, and hands-on training. Home goals — practical and doable — are shared, and customised visual aids help ensure continuity beyond school hours. Emotional support is offered just as readily as academic strategies.

Still, the challenges are real. There is a pressing shortage of professionals trained in autism-specific interventions, especially for students with high support needs. Assistive communication tools are expensive and often out of reach. Space is limited, even as demand grows. Sandhya dreams of expanding — with dedicated sensory rooms, inclusive playgrounds, and classrooms designed for neurodivergent learners. “These help children feel safe, calm, and ready to learn,” she says.

Her vision for the future is clear: inclusion that goes beyond tokenism. She dreams of classrooms where neurodivergent children aren’t merely accommodated, but genuinely valued — where belonging is a given, not a gift. To get there, she believes we must build on three pillars: Mindset (a shift from awareness to true acceptance), Capacity (training educators, therapists, and families), and Belonging (where every child is emotionally safe and socially included).

As she looks ahead, Sandhya hopes to increase enrolment, offer structured training for parents and teachers, partner with inclusive schools for smooth transitions, and support students well into adulthood — through vocational training, community participation, and self-advocacy.

Her journey is a reminder that special education isn’t just about what children need — it’s about what they deserve.

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Because, as Sandhya says,
“In every smile, there’s a victory. And every child deserves to smile.”

Read the full story in our issue of Teacher Warriors 2025 here.

In a heartwarming gesture of gratitude, the Indian Army has pledged to fully sponsor the education of 10-year-old Shvan Singh, a young boy from Punjab’s Ferozepur district who supported troops with food and water during the intense gunfire of Operation Sindoor.

During the cross-border conflict in early May, Shvan—then mistakenly reported as ‘Svarn’ Singh—fearlessly stepped up to help soldiers stationed near Tara Wali village, just 2 km from the international border. With lassi, tea, milk, and ice in hand, the Class 4 student made repeated trips, delivering supplies to the troops amid ongoing shelling and sniper fire.

Moved by his courage, the Golden Arrow Division of the Indian Army has now taken full responsibility for Shvan’s educational expenses. In a formal ceremony held at Ferozepur Cantonment, Lt Gen Manoj Kumar Katiyar, General Officer Commanding-in-Chief of the Western Command, felicitated the boy and applauded his spirit of service.

“I want to become a ‘fauji’ when I grow up. I want to serve the country,” Shvan had told media in May. His father added, “We are proud of him. Even the soldiers loved him.”

Shvan’s actions during Operation Sindoor—India’s strategic missile strike on nine terror camps across the border in retaliation to the Pahalgam attack—have now turned him into a symbol of quiet heroism and youthful patriotism.

In a world where headlines are often dominated by despair, Shvan’s story reminds us that bravery has no age—and that the seeds of service can bloom early.

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In the stillness of the COVID-19 lockdown—when the world hit pause and uncertainty gripped communities—Monika Banga quietly sparked something radical. Not radical in funding or scale, but in spirit. Born out of a moment of global stillness, The LightBeam Project wasn’t launched with loud declarations or big grants. It began as something far more intimate: a bridge between continents, classrooms, and possibilities.

But Ms. Monika’s journey didn’t start there. It began over a decade earlier, in under-resourced classrooms where she worked with children who had never known structured learning, or imagined speaking with someone from another country. With over 12 years of experience, she didn’t just teach—she listened. And what she heard, again and again, was a hunger not for food, but for discovery, belonging, and expression.

When the Granny Cloud initiative—a volunteer-driven project that connected retired educators with children—came to a close, Monika felt the silence it left behind. Along with her friend and fellow educationist Lesley Keast from Spain, she wondered: What if that spark of connection could be reignited? That one idea gave birth to The LightBeam Project. It began modestly: a handful of volunteers, one school, a few curious children, and shaky internet. But it carried a powerful belief: every child has the right to dream, and someone, somewhere, will listen.

Unlike traditional education interventions, LightBeam didn’t come with a manual. It came with open-ended conversations. Sessions inspired by SOLE (Self-Organised Learning Environments) nudged children toward self-discovery. Initially, the children were hesitant.

“They were used to answers, not questions,” Monika recalls.

But soon, wonder took over. They began asking: Why do we age? What if all insects disappeared? These weren’t sessions—they became rituals of curiosity.

As their questions deepened, so did their digital skills. Devices once used for distraction turned into tools of creation. Children began making digital presentations, recording videos, and sharing local traditions with volunteers across the globe. One girl proudly made a Canva slideshow introducing her Beamer to her village’s customs. These weren’t just projects. They were windows into identity.

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Lesley Keast, one of LightBeam’s earliest volunteers, reflects on the transformation she’s seen. “The children now have SOLE sessions in their learning DNA. They own the enquiry. They direct the wonder.” For her, the project isn’t just about teaching—it’s about being part of a global community stitched together by purpose. “Our WhatsApp and Facebook groups are more than admin tools. They’re our digital campfires,” she smiles.

Sometimes, it’s the smallest moments that leave the biggest marks. In one session disrupted by technical issues, Lesley recorded a video and sent it to the students with a few questions. They responded with videos of their own. One came from Ruby, a student who had never spoken during any session. With support from her peers, she sent a video back—radiant with confidence. “That’s when the ice cracked,” Lesley said.

In another session, students chose their own topics and returned with insights on dark matter and Freud. “We thought those were far beyond them,” Lesley said. “But with no ceilings, they soared.”

The LightBeam Project has no classrooms. And that’s its strength. By embedding itself into existing schools—like DIKSHA in Gurgaon—it stays grounded. DIKSHA, Monika shares, has been a pillar, ensuring support, space, and safety for these sessions. The absence of fixed walls creates a flexibility rare in educational systems. Sessions can happen anywhere children and curiosity meet.

The project’s growth depends on sustained partnerships—with schools, funders, and storytellers. “Support in storytelling,” Monika says, “goes a long way. Stories beam us into places we’ve never been.”

For teachers who feel trapped by rigid systems, Monika’s advice is gentle: Start small. Ask students what they’re curious about. Let them explore. Joy isn’t the enemy of rigour—it fuels it. And agency doesn’t create chaos. It creates connection.

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Through The LightBeam Project, Monika Banga has redefined what education looks like in a post-pandemic world. Not transmission, but transformation. Not instruction, but invitation. Each call is a candle lit. Each question, a door opened. Each child, a beam of light—brighter than the last.

In the heart of Puducherry, where colonial buildings wear salt stains and stories, lives a woman quietly orchestrating a revolution — barefoot, graceful, and defiant. Krithiga Ravichandran, a Bharatanatyam dancer and Assistant Professor of Computer Science, moves between two seemingly different worlds. But look closer, and both are bound by the same rhythm — teaching, nurturing, and transforming.

Born into a family where the arts were heritage, not hobby, Krithiga was raised by the sounds of mridangam, violin, and Carnatic ragas. Her earliest memories? Her grandmother reciting jathis while tapping on a steel plate. “That was my first dance class,” she recalls. “No stage. Just the veranda and a heart full of movement.” By five, she was training formally in Bharatanatyam. And yet, even then, she saw how exclusionary the classical arts could be. The costs — of costumes, jewellery, music recordings — kept so many young girls out.

In 2014, on her birthday, Krithiga founded the Veer Foundation of Arts and Culture Trust, inspired by her father’s values of service. With it, she began offering free Bharatanatyam classes to underprivileged girls. These weren’t just lessons in movement, but in identity. Under temple porticos, community halls, and now small studios, these girls train rigorously — not to perform for others, but to discover themselves.

When she’s not dancing, Krithiga teaches Computer Science at Indira Gandhi Arts and Science College.

“Whether I’m breaking down a loop or a mudra, it’s the same joy — watching a student’s eyes light up.”

Her days begin with code and end in abhinaya. Yet, this rhythm energizes her — it’s how she lives her purpose.

Over the years, shy girls who once hesitated to speak now take the stage with confidence. Dance has offered them more than grace — it has given them resilience. “They come unsure,” Krithiga says. “But they bloom. They plan rehearsals, mentor juniors, manage logistics. They lead.” What begins as dance becomes training in leadership, storytelling, budgeting, and cultural memory.

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Dancers in the Making, Leaders in the Wings

In a pioneering move, Krithiga introduced Bharatanatyam as a therapeutic tool inside Puducherry’s Central Prison. “It was experimental,” she admits. “But we saw remarkable change — calmness, awareness, even hope.”

Some questioned her decision. “Why offer sacred art to prisoners?” But she insists: “Who better to understand longing and repentance?” To Krithiga, art must include. Art must heal.

Creating safe, inclusive spaces for marginalised girls remains central to her vision. “They don’t just need a guru. They need a safe adult.” She counsels, supports, and makes sure no girl feels alone. From arranging transport to lending jewellery, she builds a circle of trust around them. Much of it runs on her own earnings. “If you believe in something, you fund it — with time, energy, and soul.”

Though she receives small donations — old costumes, music books — she’s kept the work intimate and rooted. “Every piece of jewellery on stage has a story,” she says. “Someone’s daughter outgrew it, someone remembered their Arangetram. It’s a circle of generosity.”

“Dance Doesn’t Ask Who You Are. It Asks, How Do You Feel?”

Krithiga’s vision is to build a holistic centre for classical arts — with a stage, library, wellness wing, and space for reflection. “I don’t want to just train dancers. I want to raise artists — those who know the pulse of the past and can choreograph the future.”

To her, Bharatanatyam isn’t ornamental. It’s essential. A language of liberation — especially for those the world forgets to watch.

Dwijendranath Ghosh calls himself ordinary.

But how many “ordinary” people spend their retirement building a school from scratch — with no funding, no government salary, and no promise of support? How many choose to teach every day, without compensation, well into their 70s? And how many refer to their students — many from the most marginalised sections of rural Bengal — as gods?

At 78, Ghosh is the heart and soul of Basantapur Junior High School in West Bengal’s Hooghly district. He opens the gate each morning. He teaches children for free. He never left his village — but his impact now reaches far beyond it.

From Barefoot Dreams to Blackboards

Ghosh’s journey is rooted in personal struggle. Growing up in deep poverty, he had no books, no uniforms, and no certainty. His childhood was spent walking barefoot to school, borrowing textbooks, and studying by the glow of kerosene lamps. And yet, he rose. A master’s degree from Burdwan University followed in 1973.

“The pain of those days still haunts me,” he says. “But it also shaped me.”

That pain turned into purpose. Soon after graduating, he and a few friends began running an informal high school in their village—unrecognised, unpaid, but unstoppable. For nine years, they taught with nothing but commitment. When the government finally recognised the school in 1982, Ghosh had already left to take a government job elsewhere, forced by financial needs.

The Second School

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He retired in 2008. But instead of resting, he returned to his village and found that little had changed. Girls were still dropping out after primary school. Child marriage was common. A generation was fading into invisibility. So he began again. With no funding, no building, and no staff, he worked for five years to create Basantapur Junior High School.

In 2014, the school was officially recognised. But the journey was never about the paperwork — it was about presence. Every morning, Ghosh arrives before the first bell. He teaches, supports, and uplifts — without compensation. Because for him, teaching is service.

A Volunteer Army — Running on Faith

He’s not alone. A team of young, educated, but unemployed volunteer teachers stands beside him. They could have chosen easier paths, but chose this one out of belief, not benefit. They are unpaid. At times, local donors offer small stipends, but it’s inconsistent. Most are struggling, yet they return every day. “They have given the most valuable years of their lives,” Ghosh says.

The school receives only ₹25,000 a year as a government grant. For three years, even that was inaccessible. What kept it alive? Former students, now grown, are donating what they can. The community is pitching in. Alumni returning to teach. When a government teacher recently disrespected the volunteers, the team almost walked out. But students and parents wouldn’t let them. Ghosh stepped in to calm tensions.

“We can’t let one bad moment undo decades of good,” he told them.

A Temple Against Child Marriage

One of the school’s biggest challenges is child marriage. In villages like Basantapur, girls are often married by 14—seen as burdens, not futures. By offering local access to education, the school has become a shield. Many girls have completed higher education here. But the battle continues. “This trend,” Ghosh says, “is like an infection. It keeps coming back.”

At Basantapur Junior High School, learning is about more than grades. Students perform in cultural shows, play football and cricket, and take part in morning assemblies. They learn to speak, to lead, to dream. There’s no structured life skills module—because the school itself is the life lesson. Students know they are seen, heard, and cared for. Teachers know their work matters. And visitors walk away knowing this is not just a school—it’s a movement.

His empathy, his daily discipline, and his belief in every child form the blueprint that his students follow. And his impact lives in their dreams.

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The Final Lesson

What does his family think?

“They worry about my health,” he laughs. “Not about the money.”

His pension is enough for his needs. What he seeks is not comfort — but recognition for his team. “These teachers have earned the right to be made permanent. A hundred times over,” he says.

When asked what keeps him going, he simply says:

“So long as I am in the school, I am alive.”

In an education system obsessed with metrics, Ghosh offers something rare: meaning.

He didn’t build a career.
He built a sanctuary.
He didn’t earn a salary.
He earned generations of gratitude.

And in every child who enters Basantapur Junior High, the final lesson is quietly imprinted:

Service is not sacrifice. It’s grace.

Sometimes the biggest change begins with the smallest act — a few mats on the ground, five curious children, and a group of young volunteers refusing to look away.

In the heart of Delhi, just steps away from the WHO headquarters and the grandeur of Lutyens’ Delhi, an open drain separates two vastly different worlds. On one side: embassies, privilege, policy. On the other: a slum of over 10,000 people, where childhood is often lost to labour, illness, and invisibility.

It’s here that Pehchaan — The Street School — took root.

“We knew we couldn’t change the world. But we could change someone’s world.”

For co-founder Akash Tandon, Pehchaan wasn’t part of a five-year plan. It was a response. A moment of reckoning, watching children play in a toxic drain, unaware of the danger. “This isn’t water,” they told the kids. “It’s poison.” The kids laughed.

That laugh stayed with them.

So Akash and his friends returned. Not with speeches or slogans — but with notebooks, mats, and the stubborn belief that every child, no matter their address, deserves to learn.

What started as a weekend effort with five students has now grown into a network of 10 centres, reaching over 1,600 children. And yet, Pehchaan remains fiercely grassroots — no paid staff, no office, no formal backing. Just a living, breathing movement powered entirely by volunteers.

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Education That Heals

Pehchaan doesn’t just teach. It listens. It adapts. It believes that the first step to learning is dignity — and that means personalised mentorship, trust, and a curriculum that sees the child beyond the textbook.

Children are grouped into three learning tracks: those already in school who need support, dropouts looking to rejoin, and first-time learners who’ve never stepped inside a classroom. The model is lean but layered — with low student-volunteer ratios, personalised goals, and modules that blend academics with life skills.

There’s dance, storytelling, debate, and painting. There’s coding and digital literacy. And there’s space to be seen.

“My school encouraged me to sing, speak, perform,” says Preeti Adhikari, a longtime Pehchaan volunteer. “These children deserve that too. Because it’s not just about marks — it’s about confidence.”

From Drain to Degree

One story stays close to Akash’s heart.

A boy joined Pehchaan in Class 3. He faced pressure to drop out and start working. But he stayed. Pehchaan gave him academic support, counselling, and community. He completed Class 12 with 86%. Then cracked the Delhi University entrance exam.

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But the resistance didn’t stop. “What will you earn from books?” neighbours asked. Still, Pehchaan raised the funds, got him into college — and today, that boy teaches at the same centre where he once sat as a student.

“He’s the proof,” Akash says. “That this works. That this matters.”

A System That Runs Without a System

Despite being volunteer-run, Pehchaan operates with the discipline of a corporate team. Every 10 teaching assistants report to a centre head. Weekly reports are filed. Interns handle HR, design, digital media, and curriculum — all without salaries.

In 2024 alone, 8,000+ interns from 75+ colleges joined hands with Pehchaan. Many now lead verticals, train others, or launch their own community learning spaces.

“Earlier I taught five kids,” one intern said. “Now I’m hiring 30 volunteers who each teach five. That’s impact at scale.”

The community, too, is beginning to notice. Blanket drives, nutrition partnerships, and the newly launched Digital Literacy Lab — built with scrap funding and donated laptops — have brought a sense of permanence to the pop-up classrooms.

But the hardest barrier? Still parents.

“You show up for 10 years — then they believe you.”

Convincing slum families to send their children — especially girls — to informal schools was a long battle. Many children still get married by 14. Others are pushed into work.

But when the same group of volunteers keeps returning, year after year, in sun, rain, or smog — trust begins to grow. “We’ve moved beyond convincing now,” Akash reflects. “We’re building the next layer. It’s about dignity.”

Girls who once never stepped outside now give public speeches. Boys once caught in addiction now mentor others.

Akash is clear about the goal: “We don’t want to go pan-India. We want 50 other Pehchaans to emerge. That’s how you scale — by letting go.”

Read the full story in our latest issue, Teacher Warriors 2025.

In a quiet corner of Karnal, Haryana, Aditi Sharma runs a small school for underprivileged children. She is the founder, principal, and often, the only teacher. As a transgender woman in North India, her journey has been marked by resistance and isolation — but also by unwavering commitment. Her school may lack formal recognition or resources, but it stands as a space of learning, inclusion, and quiet resilience.

Aditi is not just the founder and principal of Haryana Public School. She is also a transgender woman who dared to imagine a different kind of North India — one where prejudice makes way for possibility, and education belongs to everyone.

But dreams, she learned early on, come at a cost.

Born and raised in Delhi, Aditi was no stranger to the stereotypes that shadow the transgender community.

“Even educated people carry the assumption that all trans people beg or perform ceremonial rituals. That’s the stereotype I grew up seeing around me,” she says.

It disturbed her and lit the fuse of quiet rebellion.

Leaving Delhi behind, she moved to Karnal with one goal: to build a school not just for visibility, but for children who had nowhere else to go. Her father, unaware she had come out, gave her a 1,200-square-yard plot to build on. “At the time, I hadn’t fully come out. Had they known I was transgender, they wouldn’t have named it to me.”

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What she built wasn’t just a school — it was a statement.

In the beginning, there were no teachers, no steady funds, and no blueprint. “I doubted whether I could run a school at all. I had no confidence. But slowly, a few children started coming in. Then a few more. At one point, we had 60–70 students.”

That number dropped, not due to a lack of dedication, but constant harassment. Neighbours let their dogs loose outside. Parents were warned, “Why send your child there? This isn’t a real school.” Some believed her identity disqualified her from leadership, from teaching, from existing with dignity.

She persisted anyway.

Aditi never set out to run a school for underprivileged children. It wasn’t a strategic choice or a targeted mission. It was simply what remained when everyone else walked away. Families who could afford higher fees refused to send their children to a school run by a transgender woman. Teachers quit under social pressure. So she opened her doors to those who had nowhere else to go — children whose families could pay ₹100 a month, sometimes just ₹50, and often nothing at all. “If they don’t learn here, they won’t learn anywhere,” she says. And so she teaches — not because it’s easy, but because no one else will.

Her day begins at 4 AM — cleaning, prepping, sourcing supplies. By 8 AM, she’s teaching English, guiding students through computing tasks, or painting with them on borrowed desktops. She buys second-hand books herself. There are no permanent staff members. Most teachers leave within weeks. “They say, ‘My family doesn’t want me working here.’ The social pressure is immense.”

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Once, a neighbour handed her a one-day-old baby and walked away. Aditi cared for her. When the child fell ill, she spent 12 days at the hospital with her — and the other children. Alone. “They don’t speak to me anymore,” she says of her family. “I’ve learned to let go. If someone doesn’t want to stay in touch, that’s okay. You still have to be happy.”

Haryana Public School is still not recognised by the state government. Despite its large plot, authorities claim she doesn’t meet the criteria. “Other schools on smaller land get recognised,” she says. “But because I’m transgender, they say no.” Her case is currently being reviewed by the Human Rights Commission. Justice Lalit Batra, in a hearing, reportedly said:

“If she doesn’t meet your current rule, change the rule.”

Meanwhile, the children continue to learn — with donated books, basic tools, and the irrepressible will of one woman. Aditi has even built two giant model airplanes — one stretching 20 feet — from scrap and wood. “They don’t fly, but they spark curiosity. Ten children can sit inside. It makes them dream.”

And dreams are something she insists on, even when the world offers no applause. “One child had developmental issues. No school would take him. People told me I was wasting my time. But he deserved a chance.”

Sometimes, appreciation is scarce. Respect even more so. “When parents don’t respect you, neither do their children,” she admits. “When your own life is a constant struggle, it becomes hard to build emotional bonds.”

But she still shows up every day. Reporters ask why so many people visit her school. “Because we’re doing something that shakes the norms,” she tells the children. “This school is special.”
And they believe her. Because children don’t discriminate. Adults do.

Her message to the transgender community is clear:

“Don’t wait for society to accept you. Build your own path. Even if you’re the only one walking it.”

Aditi Sharma may be the only openly transgender woman in North India running a school. But she’s not asking for sympathy. Just space. Just dignity. Just the right to show up — and not disappear.

“Even if only one child comes,” she says,
“I’ll keep the doors open.”

Read the full story in our latest Teacher Warriors issue: https://scoonews.com/magazines/scoonews-june-july-2025-digital-edition/

Sometimes, the most extraordinary journeys begin with an ordinary restlessness — that nagging sense that comfort isn’t enough. For Aarti Takawane, that quiet realisation led her to walk away from a secure corporate job, and towards a mission she never imagined for herself.

Aarti’s early career looked like everything most people might aspire to: a steady job, good salary, and the kind of stability that makes parents proud. But deep down, she felt a pull that numbers and meetings just couldn’t satisfy. With a background in psychology and a genuine desire to help others, she always knew her purpose lay in people, not just profit.

That spark turned into a flame when she met Mrs Meera Badve, founder of Niwant, an organisation supporting blind students in higher education. A casual encounter at a social event became a life-changing conversation. Aarti took a leap of faith and began volunteering at Niwant — and for the first time, she felt what it was like to make an impact where it truly mattered.

Her path eventually led her to the National Federation of the Blind’s Jagriti School for Blind Girls in Pune — a place that today houses 110 blind girls, 99% of whom come from rural areas. Here, the girls don’t just study; they live, learn, and grow together in an environment that believes in what they can do, rather than what they can’t.

When Aarti joined Jagriti, she began as a psychologist, focusing on the social and emotional development of the girls. But the more she listened to their dreams and struggles, the more she saw the barriers waiting for them after school. “When you give them the right tools, you’re not just giving them a skill — you’re giving them back their choice,” she reflects. 

Visually-challenged girls face a stark reality once they step out into the world. Apart from limited government quota jobs in banks or insurance, there were few opportunities that truly matched their abilities. So, Aarti decided to do something about it.

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“True empowerment means they can live with dignity, not just survive.”

She founded the Skill Development Centre inside Jagriti School — a space where blind girls could learn practical, job-ready skills that tap into their real strengths. Many of the students have remarkable listening and verbal abilities. So the Centre offers courses that play to these strengths: voice modulation, foreign languages, recruitment training, and more. There are also classes in computer literacy, digital accessibility testing, and even coaching for competitive exams.

But the real magic lies in how the Centre stays rooted in reality. The team works closely with organisations like Vision-Aid India and inclusive employers to keep training aligned with what the industry actually wants. Each student’s strengths and interests are mapped out with care, so the training feels personal and purposeful.

Equally important is what happens beyond the classroom. Many girls arrive at Jagriti shy, anxious, or unsure of themselves. They may have never used a screen reader, travelled alone, or spoken up in public. So the Centre pairs technical skills with confidence-building: mobility training, decision-making workshops, life skills, and emotional support. 

“They didn’t need sympathy — they needed direction, support and opportunity,” 

Funding is always a tightrope act — a mix of donations, CSR partnerships, and the occasional government grant keeps the Centre alive. It covers trainer salaries, hostel facilities, assistive technology, and learning materials. The school is committed to full transparency with its supporters, many of whom return year after year because they can see exactly where their help is going.

Aarti knows that none of this would be possible without the right people leading the way. Every teacher or trainer goes through orientation in assistive technology and inclusive education. Sensitisation workshops and regular feedback from students make sure the environment stays supportive and respectful.

As the world changes, so do Aarti’s dreams for the Centre. She hopes to introduce advanced digital modules, remote work training, and a stronger network of inclusive employers. But what excites her most is the chance to rewrite how society sees disability, not as a barrier, but as a different kind of potential waiting to be unlocked.

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For the 110 girls who call Jagriti School home, Aarti Takawane is more than just a teacher. She’s proof that sometimes, the best things really do happen by accident — and that true vision is not about what we see, but what we choose to do about what we can’t.

Read the full story in our issue of Teacher Warriors 2025 at https://scoonews.com/magazines/scoonews-june-july-2025-digital-edition/

Astronaut Shubhanshu Shukla, currently stationed aboard the International Space Station (ISS), answered questions from schoolchildren during a live interaction hosted under ISRO’s Vidyarthi Samvad Program.

The session, designed to bring students closer to the realities of space science, turned into a heartwarming and humorous conversation about food, sleep, and the sheer wonder of viewing Earth from space.

When asked how astronauts sleep in zero gravity, Shukla smiled and explained: “There is no floor or ceiling in space. Some of us sleep on the wall, some on the ceiling. We have to tie ourselves down so we don’t float away while sleeping.”

The conversation became sweeter when Shukla revealed that he brought familiar Indian flavours with him into orbit. “I have carried gajar ka halwa, moong dal halwa, and mango juice with me from India,” he said, to the delight of the young audience. He clarified that the halwa was specially medicated for space missions, not made at home — a detail that sparked laughter and curiosity alike.

The astronaut also spoke about daily life aboard the ISS, including how exercise is essential to counter microgravity. “We ride bicycles here, but there are no seats. We strap ourselves in with belts,” he told the children, who were both fascinated and amused by the image.

For Shukla, however, the highlight of being in space remains the view of Earth. “That blue sphere, that light mist… seeing Earth from here is the most beautiful experience. It’s hard to describe in words.”

Addressing mental well-being, he shared how astronauts stay connected with their families. “Technology helps bridge the distance. We can talk to our loved ones, and that keeps us grounded — even when we’re not.”

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Also present during the interaction was Group Captain Angad Pratap, a fellow member of the Gaganyaan mission crew, who encouraged students to consider careers in aviation and space science.

For many students, the session was a dream come true. “It felt like science fiction,” said one participant. “Now I believe I can go to space one day.”

As India continues its rapid progress in space exploration, conversations like these serve as reminders that inspiration is as critical as infrastructure — and that sometimes, a simple chat with an astronaut can launch the imagination of an entire generation.

When Banu Mushtaq became the first Kannada author to win the prestigious International Booker Prize for her short story collection Heart Lamp, she didn’t just make literary history—she reignited a conversation about the role of literature in shaping society, and the way schools can nurture future writers not just as hobbyists, but as cultural forces.

Mushtaq, along with translator Deepa Bhasthi, was honoured for Heart Lamp, a collection of stories chronicling the lives of Muslim women in Karnataka across three decades. The stories are rooted in resistance, critique of religious and patriarchal structures, and everyday courage. The recognition was not just for the literary craft, but for the emotional and moral clarity the stories offer—a kind of truth that is rarely rewarded in global spaces. But the International Booker did just that.

And yet, how many students in Indian classrooms today know what the Booker Prize even is? While the Grammys, Oscars and even YouTube Play Buttons are common cultural currency among young people, literary awards often pass under the radar. This needs to change.

The International Booker Prize is one of the most prestigious literary honours in the world, recognising the finest works of fiction translated into English. It opens up space for voices that often remain local to reach a global stage. For students in India, this is an opportunity to understand that writing, especially in regional languages, is not a dead-end path. Yes, it may not offer the instant gratification of a viral video or influencer deal—but as Mushtaq’s life proves, it can shape public discourse, win global accolades, and leave behind a legacy that matters.

For educators, this is a teaching moment. Banu Mushtaq’s story is as much about literary merit as it is about resilience. She wrote in Kannada, a language she adopted over her native Urdu. She survived deep personal trauma, including a suicide attempt, and faced social backlash for her activism. She was a councillor, a journalist, and a lifelong advocate for women’s rights. These are the kinds of role models classrooms should be spotlighting—especially for young girls who need to see that stories, quite literally, can change lives.

Heart Lamp may not be appropriate for every age group, but its themes—identity, voice, justice—can be introduced in many ways. Schools should consider book discussions, literary circles, or even creative writing prompts inspired by such works to encourage students to find their voice, in whatever language or form it may come.

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This win is also a reminder that educators need to broaden the definition of success they present to students. STEM, coding, and commerce continue to dominate career conversations, but it’s equally crucial to show that the arts—especially literature—have their own path to impact and influence. We hope for a time when young writers are not asked “what else do you do?” but are valued for what their words bring to the world.

Banu Mushtaq’s Booker Prize win is not just an individual triumph—it’s a collective opportunity. For schools, for students, and for all of us who believe that a powerful story can change minds, communities, and someday, the world.