Every June, rainbow flags go up, corporate logos get a splash of colour, and the words Pride Month fill our timelines. But behind this month-long celebration lies something far deeper — an entire universe of history, identity, and stories that often remain outside the margins of our textbooks, especially here in India.

When we talk about queer histories, most people quickly say: Pride is an American concept. And yes, the Stonewall Riots of 1969 are often marked as the start of the modern LGBTQIA+ rights movement. But to believe that queer identities only exist where the parades happen is both lazy and inaccurate. Because if you look carefully — at temple walls, ancient texts, and folklore — you’ll find that India, too, has always had queer stories. We’ve just failed to write them down as part of our “official” history.

Take Mahabharat — where Shikhandi, a warrior born as a woman but raised as a man, plays a crucial role in Bhishma’s death. Or Brihannala, Arjuna’s year-long identity as a eunuch. Look at Khajuraho or Konark temples — where fluid sexual depictions exist without judgement. Even Mughal records speak softly of same-sex companionship. Yet none of these ever made it to our history chapters. Why? Because of historiography — the selective way in which history gets written, where lived experiences are often filtered through political, cultural or moral lenses. What we’re left with is history that’s comfortable — not always complete.

But while adults debate culture wars, there’s a rising generation of Indian teens who are quietly asking braver questions. More kids today — some as young as 12 or 13 — are exploring their gender identities, sexual orientations, or even just the vocabulary to describe what they feel. And many of them don’t know who to turn to. Some are scared of being mocked by peers. Others fear judgement from family. Teachers, too, often don’t have the training or language to guide them. The result? Stories like Aarvey Malhotra’s — a young boy who couldn’t bear the bullying he faced for his gender expression — remind us how deadly this silence can be.

Arvey Malhotra with his mother Aarti Malhotra

So where can these kids turn? Sometimes, the safest place to meet yourself is inside a book.

Here’s a small, carefully chosen list of books (curated with the help of AI) that may help teens (13+) begin that journey of understanding — about themselves or others:

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1. Beyond the Gender Binary by Alok Vaid-Menon

Written by a gender non-conforming writer of Indian origin, this is a short, deeply accessible introduction to gender fluidity.

2. The Boy & The Bindi by Vivek Shraya (Illustrated by Rajni Perera)

While more suitable for slightly younger kids, this beautifully illustrated book helps children embrace non-conformity and Indian culture together.

3. Pride: The Story of Harvey Milk and the Rainbow Flag by Rob Sanders

An excellent way to understand where the modern pride movement began, told through the story of the Pride flag’s creation.

4. Gender Identity: Beyond Pronouns and Bathrooms by Maria Cook

Written for teens, this breaks down gender identity, expression, dysphoria and non-binary identities in simple, compassionate language.

5. The Queer Hindu: A Spiritual Perspective by Devdutt Pattanaik (Selected Essays)

While not strictly a children’s book, certain essays by Pattanaik can open doors for older teens who wish to explore how queerness exists within Indic traditions.

6.Pet by Akwaeke Emezi

A young-adult novel that tackles identity, family, and justice in a tender, imaginative way by a non-binary author.

7. When Aidan Became a Brother by Kyle Lukoff

For kids exploring trans experiences, this picture book offers a gentle, positive portrayal of gender transition.

(Book covers- Amazon.in, Goodreads)

So why does Pride matter in schools?

This isn’t about imposing ideologies — it’s about offering answers to kids who are already asking. And if we want fewer kids like Aarvey to feel alone, confused, or ashamed, we need to stop treating gender and sexuality like topics too complicated for them to understand. They’re not. What they need are trusted spaces, the right words, and adults who listen without first judging.

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After all, education was always meant to make us more human — and queerness, in all its forms, is part of that humanity.

In a recent interview with Lallantop, Varun Grover—acclaimed writer, lyricist, comedian, and filmmaker—hit upon a truth so striking, it should’ve been plastered across school walls: India has lost its plot in nurturing innovators. And the reason? We’ve boxed our subjects—and our students—into separate lanes. Science on one side, art on the other. One wears lab coats, the other paints canvases. They rarely, if ever, meet.

Grover put it sharply: in India, we’ve created a caste-like hierarchy between subjects. Science students often carry the burden of “doing real work,” while arts students claim the higher ground of exploring life and meaning. The result? A deep-rooted disconnect. And it begins early—often in Class 11, when students are forced to pick a stream and silently abandon the rest of their interests.

But must a physicist give up poetry? Must a musician ignore algorithms?

It doesn’t have to be this way. At MIT, one of the world’s top science and tech universities, PhD students in Physics can take courses in music, design, or history—and earn credits for them. Why? Because innovation thrives where disciplines intersect. Because understanding how a flute works can teach you more about frequencies than a textbook diagram ever will.

Consider Steve Jobs, who credited a college calligraphy class for inspiring the Mac’s typography. Or Indian innovator Sonam Wangchuk, whose work in Ladakh seamlessly blends engineering with local art, architecture, and sustainability. His Himalayan Institute of Alternatives (HIAL) teaches future engineers and designers side-by-side, breaking the very silos our system has normalised.

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Even Nobel laureate Richard Feynman once said, “I have a friend who’s an artist… He’ll hold up a flower and say, ‘Look how beautiful it is,’ and I’ll agree. But I can also see beauty in how the flower works—its structure, its physics. Science only adds to the beauty.”

And yet, in India, we continue to teach these as separate things. We train students to clear tests, not to create. We push them into IIT-JEE coaching at 13 and expect them to build world-changing ideas at 25.

This isn’t just an academic issue—it’s cultural. Our textbooks rarely reference architecture as both engineering and aesthetic legacy. Our school plays and science exhibitions are held in different corners of the building. Our awards are either for “Best Innovation” or “Best Performance”—never both.

The irony is painful. A land of classical music rooted in maths. A civilisation that built temples with astronomical precision. A country that once integrated dance, sculpture, and geometry with everyday life. And yet, we’ve chosen to modernise by compartmentalising.

It’s time we remember what Varun Grover reminded us of: the pyramid is both an engineering feat and an artistic marvel. And so is the human mind.

Let’s build an education system that stops asking children to choose between knowing and feeling, between numbers and narratives.

Let’s stop making them pick a lane—when the real magic happens at the crossroads.

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Delhi University’s Executive Council (EC) has approved sweeping curriculum revisions that have sparked sharp protests from faculty members, igniting a fresh debate over academic freedom, ideological influence, and the future of higher education in India. The changes, ratified during the EC’s 1,275th meeting, affect multiple departments including Psychology, Sociology, and English, and introduce new programmes in journalism and nuclear medicine.

Among the most contentious shifts is the removal of conflict-based case studies from the Psychology of Peace paper. Case references to Kashmir, Palestine, India-Pakistan relations, and the Northeast have been replaced with conflict-resolution examples drawn from Indian epics like the Mahabharata and Bhagavad Gita. Similarly, a Sociology paper has dropped foundational thinkers like Karl Marx and Thomas Robert Malthus, along with key sections such as the Sociology of Food and the critical lens on the Sociology of Law.

Faculty members are sounding the alarm. As per a story in Business Standard, EC member and Associate Professor at Kirori Mal College, Rudrashish Chakraborty, called the changes “a complete disregard for disciplinary expertise” and warned they could severely damage DU’s global academic standing.

At the heart of the backlash is a deeper concern about ideological overreach in curriculum design. Critics say the move replaces rigorous, research-based frameworks with selectively religious narratives, undermining the pluralism that once defined Indian academia.

Why These Topics Were in the Curriculum in the First Place

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Incorporating geopolitical issues like Kashmir and Palestine in social science syllabi wasn’t about courting controversy—it was about helping students understand conflict, diplomacy, and peace-building through lived realities. Scholars like Marx and Malthus, often labelled as ideologues, contributed frameworks that shaped global discourse on inequality, population, labour, and social justice. To erase them from academic memory is not just selective—it’s intellectually dishonest.

Their inclusion wasn’t about promoting one ideology over another but about exposing students to a spectrum of thought. If academic institutions stop encouraging intellectual plurality, they risk becoming echo chambers that simply mirror prevailing politics.

What Could Have Been Done Differently

If the aim was truly to Indianise or decolonise the curriculum—as has been cited in many recent reforms—it could have been done with scholarly rigour. Including Indian thinkers alongside global ones, offering critical engagement rather than replacement, and developing interdisciplinary modules that draw on Indian social realities would have strengthened rather than diluted the curriculum.

A meaningful curriculum reform should be inclusive, consultative, and pedagogically sound. Instead, these changes appear abrupt and top-down, with several faculty members alleging they were not adequately consulted. As one member remarked, “Modernisation cannot come at the cost of academic autonomy.”

The counter to a whitewashed curriculum should not be to do the exact opposite. Figures like Karl Marx are not just ideologists; their legacies extend beyond nation-states. They presented global ideas that remain relevant to Indian society, especially in an age grappling with inequality and labour rights.

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And religion—while an important part of many societies—must never dominate education policy. When one faith is elevated in academic materials meant for students of all backgrounds, it chips away at the secular fabric of our democracy.

Replacing complex geopolitical issues with religious scripture is not only pedagogically flawed—it’s, frankly, a dangerous precedent.

New Programmes and Policy Decisions

Beyond the curriculum overhaul, DU has also announced the launch of a two-year M.A. in Journalism in both Hindi and English, and a BSc in Nuclear Medicine Technology, to be offered at the Army Hospital (R&R) for Armed Forces Medical Services personnel. The EC also introduced a new policy for determining teacher seniority, with age taking precedence over API scores when qualifications are equal.

A committee has been constituted to assess the implications of a DoPT circular mandating periodic review of employees aged 50 and above—raising concerns about forced retirement policies within the university system.

As the NEP rollout moves ahead, universities like DU need to walk the path wisely. Reforms should fuel learning, not push a story. Education isn’t meant to box students into ideologies—it’s meant to open minds, spark debate, and shape citizens who can think for themselves. Our classrooms should dig deeper, not go narrow. We can’t afford to swap knowledge for one-sided thinking.

Kerala’s Department of Public Education is steering its schools in a direction few others in the country have ventured. With a growing emphasis on emotional well-being, civic sense, and digital discipline, the state has announced a series of reforms that aim to reframe the purpose and process of schooling in the 2025–26 academic year.

The most striking of these changes is the introduction of a two-week social awareness programme at the beginning of the school year for students from Classes 1 to 10, starting June 2. Higher secondary students will take part in a shorter version of the initiative from July 18. In this period, traditional textbooks will be set aside in favour of sessions that explore topics like drug abuse prevention, responsible social behaviour, emotional regulation, hygiene, gender sensitivity, and legal awareness.

The programme was designed in consultation with experts from the Police Department, Social Justice Ministry, Child Rights Commission, SCERT, and others, ensuring that content is both relevant and age-appropriate. Arts and sports will also be given space during this period, further promoting a holistic approach to education.

In addition to curriculum shifts, the department has issued a directive asking teachers not to create or share reels and videos on social media platforms during school hours. This move comes in light of growing concerns about distractions and the professional image of educators in the digital age.

These reforms reflect a deeper philosophical shift. Education Minister V Sivankutty’s vision seems to be one where schooling is not only about academic advancement but also about nurturing responsible, resilient individuals. While some critics may question the timing or implementation capacity of these reforms, the global education landscape suggests Kerala may be on the right track. Countries like Finland and New Zealand have already incorporated social-emotional learning and life skills into their core curricula, recognising that academic performance alone does not prepare students for an unpredictable world.

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Are these reforms necessary? Given rising cases of student stress, substance abuse, and digital addiction, the answer may well be yes. By introducing these changes early in the academic calendar, Kerala is making a case for front-loading empathy, awareness, and life-readiness—concepts that are increasingly critical but often delayed in traditional schooling.

Whether this is a bold experiment or the beginning of a national shift remains to be seen. But there’s little doubt that other states will be watching closely.

As the future of work continues to evolve at a breakneck pace, one thing is becoming increasingly clear: the ability to be human is our greatest advantage. In an age where automation and AI are reshaping industries, it’s no longer technical proficiency that sets students apart, it’s human skills.

And yet, our schools aren’t keeping up.

Globally, education systems remain heavily weighted towards academic and technical achievement. While these are certainly important, they no longer tell the whole story. Employers across sectors are united in their call for graduates who can communicate effectively, manage stress, work in diverse teams, and adapt to constant change.

Deloitte’s 2019 report The path to prosperity: Why the future of work is human found that by 2030, two-thirds of all jobs created will be reliant on human capabilities. These include empathy, creativity, collaboration, emotional intelligence, and the ability to learn continuously. All of which are underdeveloped in our current school structures.

This is not a theoretical problem. The impact is already being felt. Research consistently shows that up to 68% of high school students report feeling anxious, underprepared, and lacking the confidence to take the next step into work or further education. The transition from school to career requires more than ‘knowledge acquisition,’ it requires self awareness.

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Human skills are the gateway to that self-awareness. They help students identify their strengths, regulate their emotions, communicate effectively, and develop resilience. These are the foundational competencies that allow young people to navigate uncertainty and thrive in a rapidly changing world.

Importantly, these skills are not innate. They are learned, practised, and refined over time — just like maths, science, or coding. When introduced early, human skill development empowers students with confidence and clarity. They learn how to navigate social complexity, resolve conflicts, deal with failure, and see growth as a lifelong journey rather than a fixed destination.

So, why aren’t we teaching these skills in schools as deliberately as we teach literacy or numeracy?

Perhaps it’s because human skills feel harder to measure. But we must shift our mindset. What we value, we measure — and what we measure, we teach. Forward-thinking educators and school leaders across the globe are beginning to incorporate social-emotional learning, strengths-based development, and mental wellbeing into their curriculums, recognising that these are not “nice-to-haves” — they are must-haves.

Imagine a student graduating from high school with not just academic marks, but a toolkit of emotional and interpersonal strengths: an understanding of who they are, what drives them, and how to manage themselves under pressure. Imagine a generation that sees learning as a lifelong pursuit and failure as a stepping stone rather than a setback.

This is the future we must design for.

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It starts by giving human skills a seat at the table – not as a supplement to education, but as a core component of it. We need to empower educators with the tools and frameworks to deliver this kind of learning and where necessary provide expert facilitators to avoid adding more to the workload of educators. We need to engage students in real, reflective experiences that help them connect their inner world with the outer demands of life and work.

The most meaningful educational innovation doesn’t just teach students to do more. It teaches them to be more – to be self-aware, to be empathetic, to be adaptable. That’s how we create work-ready individuals and life-ready citizens.

The world doesn’t need more rote learners. It needs more critical thinkers, resilient leaders, and emotionally intelligent problem solvers. And the time to cultivate them is now –  in our classrooms, through our curriculums, and with intention.

This article is authored by Renata Sguario

Renata Sguario is the founder and CEO of Maxme and the current chairman of the board of Future First Technology (formerly known as PS+C Limited), listed on the ASX (FFT), one of Australia’s leading end-to-end ICT and digital consulting organisations.

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.

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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.

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.

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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.

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.

On World Autism Awareness Day 2025, the Ministry of Education reaffirmed its commitment to inclusive education—announcing strengthened therapy-based support through Block Resource Centres (BRCs) for children with autism spectrum disorder (ASD) under Samagra Shiksha. On paper, it all sounds exactly as it should: speech therapy, occupational support, assistive devices, special educators, digital access, even parent counselling and teacher training.

But just three days ago, a deeply disturbing video emerged from a Noida-based private school, showing a special educator manhandling a 10-year-old child with autism in the classroom. The video, accidentally shared on a parent WhatsApp group, has since gone viral, leading to the arrest of the teacher, the sealing of the school, and an FIR under the Bharatiya Nyaya Sanhita, the JJ Act, and the RPWD Act.

It begs the question: Is our reality in special education as inclusive as our rhetoric?

When Inclusion Becomes a Hollow Word

For far too many children with autism in India, inclusion begins and ends in policy documents. What lies in between is often a cycle of unchecked negligence, lack of accountability, and poorly trained or entirely unqualified “special educators” functioning like gig workers—underpaid, under-monitored, and dangerously unprepared.

We’ve heard of children being tied to chairs during therapy hours, being underfed as a behavioural management strategy, or being punished for sensory overstimulation they cannot control. Many so-called educators don’t even have basic training, let alone the emotional intelligence required to support neurodiverse children.

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What Needs to Change?

If we are truly serious about inclusion, then we need more than just circulars and schemes. We need licensing laws that mandate certification and regular evaluation of all special educators. We need background checks, complaint redressal systems, and swift punitive action against violations. We need to ensure every school, government or private, recognised or otherwise, follows minimum compliance protocols for inclusive practices. And yes, we need parent voices on the table when these frameworks are drafted—not just policy architects in boardrooms.

The Ministry’s renewed vision under NEP 2020 is a welcome step, and BRCs could become powerful hubs of change. But only if they are funded, monitored, and held accountable. Inclusion is not a checkbox, it’s a lived culture—and it starts with respect, rigour, and responsibility.

There’s something deeply sacred about a child’s first sketch—the awkward crayon lines, the lopsided sun, the stick figures that smile despite their missing limbs. That’s the heart of human creativity: messy, imperfect, emotional. And then there’s AI art—sleek, polished, awe-inspiring, and often eerily devoid of that same soul. So where do we draw the line when we bring this technology into schools, where the purpose of art isn’t just aesthetic, but emotional, developmental, and deeply personal?

As AI-generated art becomes increasingly accessible, educators and institutions are exploring its use in classrooms, textbooks, exhibitions, and even personalised student projects. The tools are powerful. With a few prompts, a teacher can conjure up a world map in Van Gogh’s style or generate a Ghibli-inspired version of a student’s family portrait. It’s engaging, efficient, and undeniably exciting. But in this rush to embrace innovation, are we unconsciously sidelining the raw, human act of creation?

Take, for instance, the aesthetic influence of Studio Ghibli—a name synonymous with hand-drawn magic. Hayao Miyazaki, its legendary co-founder, has publicly criticised AI-generated art as soulless. For a man who believes every frame must carry the weight of life, suffering, and intent, AI art is an affront to authenticity. And when we use Ghibli-inspired AI to recreate school memories or cultural illustrations, are we honouring that legacy or reducing it to a visual filter?

This question becomes even more relevant in educational spaces, where art is more than visual delight. It’s therapy, it’s storytelling, it’s identity-building. A classroom wall covered with AI-generated posters may look stunning, but what happens when it replaces the joy of getting paint under your fingernails or proudly misspelling your name in glitter?

Then there’s the ethical dilemma of data and labour. Who gets credited when AI art is trained on thousands of anonymous, unpaid artists? Are we inadvertently participating in a system that borrows without consent?

And what message does that send to young creators—that their work can be replicated, remixed, and resold by a machine in seconds?

Of course, this isn’t a call to ban AI art from classrooms. Quite the opposite. There’s immense potential here—to use AI as a collaborative tool rather than a replacement. Imagine students learning how to prompt ethically, understanding how AI generates images, and using it to reflect on visual storytelling, bias, and authorship. Education is the perfect place to ask these questions—not avoid them.

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And let’s talk about nostalgia—the emotional undertow of this whole conversation. Many of us turn to AI to recreate what once made us feel safe, seen, and whole. Whether it’s turning a family portrait into a Ghibli scene or reviving the aesthetics of Amar Chitra Katha, it stems from love. But love also requires respect. And perhaps the most respectful thing we can do is to remember that some things—like a child’s first drawing, or the tremble in an old hand sketching memories—are sacred because they are human.

So as educators, creators, and curators of tomorrow’s imaginations, let us not trade soul for style. Let AI walk beside our children, not ahead of them. Let it support the messy, magical business of making art—not sanitise it.

Because in the end, the point isn’t to create perfect art. It’s to create honest ones.