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.

For John B. King Jr., former U.S. Secretary of Education, school wasn’t just a place—it was a lifeline. In his newly released memoir, Teacher By Teacher: The People Who Change Our Lives, King traces his journey from a grief-stricken child in New York to the corridors of educational leadership in Washington, D.C. But while the book is rooted in the American educational experience, its messages about the impact of teachers resonate far beyond U.S. borders.

In an exclusive interview with Education Week’s Sam Mallon on May 5, 2025, King reflected on his memoir, the teachers who shaped his life, and the ongoing challenges educators face worldwide.

A Childhood Saved by Teachers

King’s story is a testament to the power of mentorship. Following the death of his mother and his father’s battle with Alzheimer’s, school became King’s sanctuary. “Teachers saved my life,” he shared, recalling how educators believed in him, nurtured his potential, and gave him hope even when the world outside seemed dark.

From those formative years, King went on to earn degrees from Harvard, Columbia, and Yale. His career as a teacher, school principal, education policymaker, and eventually, U.S. Secretary of Education became a journey of giving back. The memoir celebrates not only King’s personal resilience but the quiet heroism of teachers everywhere.

Former Secretary of U.S Education John King. Image Source- EducationWeek

While King’s book is anchored in American education, the messages it carries are universally relevant. Teachers worldwide are grappling with challenges—overcrowded classrooms, mental health issues among students, and ever-changing education policies. In his interview with Education Week, King highlighted how schools must be more than academic factories. They must be safe havens, places of healing, and hubs of inspiration.

King advocates for “trauma-informed practice”—an approach where teachers are equipped to understand and support students facing emotional challenges. This is a lesson that transcends borders, as schools globally encounter rising mental health concerns among students.

Teacher Evaluations and Policy Pressures

King’s time as U.S. Secretary of Education was marked by ambitious reforms—from implementing the Every Student Succeeds Act (ESSA) to pushing for more rigorous teacher evaluation systems. But looking back, he acknowledges a key lesson: change cannot be forced without teacher buy-in.

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“Teachers can’t be bombarded with reforms,” he explained. Change must be gradual, and educators must feel a sense of ownership over new policies.

King’s narrative is ultimately about hope. In his memoir, he shares how a single teacher’s encouragement can change a student’s life trajectory. He recalls how his father’s legacy as New York’s first Black deputy schools chief was kept alive by a former student who, years later, shared how impactful his father’s teaching was.

Teaching is more than a job—it is a calling. It is a force for social good, a platform for mentorship, and a means to nurture the next generation of thinkers, leaders, and dreamers. King’s Teacher By Teacher is a reminder that educators everywhere have the power to transform lives, often without even knowing it.

Though written from an American perspective, Teacher By Teacher is a love letter to educators everywhere. It is a call to support teachers, to understand the pressures they face, and to recognise the life-changing impact they can have on their students.

For a world that often takes teachers for granted, John King’s memoir is a reminder of the heroes who stand at the front of every classroom, ready to make a difference.

Excerpts referenced in this article were taken from John King's exclusive interview with Education Week on May 5, 2025, in Washington, conducted by Sam Mallon for Education Week.

Ambedkar Jayanti Special | ScooNews

Dr. Bhimrao Ramji Ambedkar. Most students in India recognise the name—largely as the “Father of the Indian Constitution.” If you ask a Class 10 student what Ambedkar stood for, you’ll likely get a respectable summary: chairperson of the Drafting Committee, architect of constitutional equality, and perhaps a passing reference to his fight against untouchability. But that’s where it ends.

This is not a failure of our students. This is a failure of our books.

Because Babasaheb Ambedkar was not just a jurist or a political figure to be summarised in three bullet points under Civics. He was one of the most radical, intellectually fierce, and unapologetically liberal minds India has ever known. And if we are talking about modern India—its democracy, its dissent, its diversity, its demands for dignity—then Dr. Ambedkar isn’t just relevant, he is foundational.

And yet, he remains tragically under-read and under-taught.

The Man We Didn’t Read Enough About

Ambedkar’s life is a masterclass in resilience, intellect, and reform. Born into the most marginalised community in India, he went on to become the first Indian to pursue a doctorate in economics from Columbia University, studied law at the London School of Economics, and returned to a country that still wouldn’t allow him to sit beside upper-caste students.

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But Ambedkar did not stop at personal success. He turned his education into ammunition. His writings dissected caste not just as a social issue but as an economic and psychological reality. In works like Annihilation of Caste, he boldly challenged not just the religious orthodoxy but also Mahatma Gandhi—a sacred figure for many—in ways that were considered almost blasphemous at the time. And even today.

Unlike Gandhi, who sought reform within the caste system, Ambedkar demanded its demolition. Where Gandhi appealed to morality, Ambedkar appealed to reason, law, and modernity.

This discomfort with Ambedkar’s sharp, unflinching views is perhaps why our textbooks package him safely—as the dignified lawyer with a pen, not the roaring revolutionary with a voice.

More Than a Constitution-Maker

To say Ambedkar gave us the Constitution is both true and painfully incomplete.

• He gave us the right to constitutional morality, the idea that the Constitution isn’t just a set of rules but a living document that must be interpreted in the spirit of liberty, equality, and justice.
• He envisioned reservations not as charity but as corrective justice.
• He believed that a true democracy must have “social democracy” at its base—not just the right to vote but the right to dignity in everyday life.
• And he warned, prophetically, that political democracy without social democracy would be India’s downfall. He was not just designing India’s governance system, but was rather trying to develop India’s moral spine.

A Voice for Individual Freedom—Louder Than We Knew

“I measure the progress of a community by the degree of progress which women have achieved.”- Bhim Rao Ambedkar

Ambedkar’s liberalism was far ahead of his time. He consistently advocated for individual rights in the truest sense. There’s documented evidence that he argued for the decriminalisation of same-sex relationships, seeing it as an issue of individual freedom long before such conversations entered our legal discourse.

His economic ideas—rarely taught—favoured state-led industrialisation, fair wages, and social security decades before these became policy buzzwords. His writings on women’s rights were equally progressive, particularly through the Hindu Code Bill, which sought to grant women equal property rights, rights to divorce, and freedom in marriage—a bill so radical for its time that it was shelved, only to return years later in diluted forms.

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Why Today’s Students Need Ambedkar—Unfiltered

In an age where freedom of speech is contested, when marginalised voices still struggle for space, when gender and sexuality are still debated as ‘issues’ instead of identities—Ambedkar is the teacher we didn’t know we needed.

We need to stop sanitising him for our syllabus. We need high schoolers to read Annihilation of Caste in their literature classes and understand the intersections of caste, religion, and gender in history—not just from an upper-caste nationalist lens but from the view of the people who fought to be seen as human.

We need Ambedkar in economics classrooms, debating his views against today’s neoliberal models.

We need to introduce him as an intellectual, a radical thinker, a critic of Gandhi, a reformer of Hindu personal law, a journalist, a linguist, a labour rights advocate, a rebel with a cause.

Because the freedoms we enjoy today—freedom of religion, freedom of expression, freedom to love, to choose, to protest, to dream—all have Ambedkar’s fingerprints on them.

If our education system truly believes in nurturing critical thinkers and empathetic citizens, then Dr. Ambedkar cannot remain a footnote or a ceremonial portrait garlanded on April 14th.

He must be read. He must be debated. He must be understood. Because the more we know about Ambedkar, the more we know about ourselves—and the democracy we’re still trying to build.