For an elementary school teacher, reading and regularly updating one’s knowledge are not optional habits but professional responsibilities. Children at the foundational stage learn not only from what a teacher teaches but from how the teacher thinks, speaks, and models curiosity. Continuous reading helps teachers stay informed about child psychology, pedagogy, curriculum changes, and innovative classroom practices, enabling them to respond thoughtfully to the diverse needs of young learners. Updating oneself also nurtures reflective teaching, allowing educators to refine their methods, connect learning with real-life contexts, and make lessons more engaging and meaningful. An elementary teacher who reads widely and learns continuously serves as a living example of lifelong learning, inspiring children to develop curiosity, critical thinking, and a love of reading that can shape their educational journey for years to come.
My first ten years in service were spent as a schoolteacher in some of the most remote corners of Sikkim. Those years shaped not only my understanding of children and classrooms, but also my quiet observations of how the system functioned beyond the school gates. As many teachers were posted far from district headquarters, I too had to visit the District Education Office - sometimes on official duty, sometimes on casual leave - to submit papers, seek approvals, or simply wait for a signature that could not be easily obtained in our villages.
Those visits revealed a small yet telling fragment of institutional life. Teachers who had briefly emerged from the solitude of remote schools often found themselves stranded in the corridors of the district office, waiting endlessly for officers away in meetings. The long benches were usually occupied, yet strangely devoid of spirit - teachers seated quietly with files on their laps, eyes fixed on closed doors, as hours thinned into silence and waiting.
Because the Namchi District Education Office stood close to the marketplace, some drifted there when time hung too heavily, and nothing purposeful engaged them. For many serving in the farthest corners of the district, a visit to the headquarters had once felt like a long-cherished occasion. Yet that sense of occasion often dissolved into aimless hours. A few passed the time over bottles of beer, allowing an entire day to slip away - not always out of indulgence, but out of idleness and the fatigue of uncertainty.
It would be neither accurate nor fair to suggest that such scenes were confined to Namchi alone. Even district offices situated away from busy marketplaces, like Gyalshing, had nearby canteens or small establishments where beer was readily available to those who wished to pass the time. The setting might have differed, but the pattern was similar. Whether beside a bustling bazaar or in quieter surroundings, the availability of beer offered an easy refuge during long, unclaimed hours of waiting - an accessibility that, perhaps, is less common under present circumstances.
I witnessed similar realities when I joined the Education Department of Sikkim as an Assistant Education Officer in 1998. Over the next eight or nine years, as I visited numerous schools, complaints frequently reached my desk - complaints of drinking, of irregular attendance, of neglected classrooms. I counselled many teachers with patience and hope. Some responded; some did not. A few eventually succumbed to liquor-related illnesses, leaving behind families burdened with grief and financial uncertainty. On more than one occasion, it was I who processed their final settlement files, clearing dues that felt painfully inadequate against the cost their families had borne.
I found these experiences deeply unsettling. During those years, whenever I saw teachers sitting idly in office corridors, waiting to meet an officer, I could not help but wonder how many of them might drift towards the marketplace bar, and in time, become yet another file of complaint. The thought weighed heavily on me - not as judgment, but as concern.
Teaching, I believed then, and believe even more firmly now, is a profession that demands constant renewal. A teacher cannot remain effective by standing still; she must evolve alongside the changing cognitive needs of learners and the expanding understandings of child development, pedagogy, and classroom practice. In such a profession, access to books, ideas, and reflective spaces is not a luxury - it is a necessity. Even a modest educational library could have transformed idle waiting into purposeful growth. Yet the idea remained distant, particularly for officers at lower levels like myself, who possessed neither the authority nor the influence to reshape policy, only the quiet will to imagine something better.
Yet some dreams refuse to remain dormant; they quietly urge one to act, even if the step is small and the means limited. In 2007, during my posting at the Namchi District Education Office, I decided to do whatever lay within my modest capacity. I imagined a simple reading room within the office. In this calm, welcoming corner, teachers arriving from distant and difficult terrains could pause, read, reflect, and return to their classrooms with renewed insight and purpose. It required no grandeur or elaborate planning: just a small room, one or two almirahs, and a thoughtfully chosen collection of books on classroom practices, child psychology, and education - books that speak gently yet honestly to a teacher’s everyday challenges and unspoken questions.
With that modest vision, I prepared a file and forwarded it with a detailed note. I explained the purpose of the reading room, the outcomes it could yield, and the dignity it could restore to a teacher’s waiting hours. I even outlined the minimal financial requirements - funds to procure a few almirahs and a basic collection of educational books. It was a small proposal, almost fragile in scale, but it carried within it a quiet faith: that meaningful change in education often begins not with sweeping reforms, but with thoughtful spaces where teachers are respected as learners themselves.
A couple of weeks later, the file found its way back to my table. It carried a quiet approval for the establishment of the reading room, along with a sanctioned amount of twelve thousand five hundred rupees. The sum was modest - so modest that no one volunteered to take on the responsibility of procuring books. In the end, the task returned to me. I was asked to select the books, purchase them, and submit the bills for reimbursement. I accepted the responsibility not as an administrative assignment, but as a personal commitment. If the amount was small, the intent, I believed, did not have to be.
I chose to treat those twelve thousand five hundred rupees with reverence, almost as one would handle a fragile trust. It was not merely money; it was an opportunity to bring ideas, voices, and perspectives into the professional lives of teachers who rarely had access to such resources. Each book had to justify its place. Each title needed to speak beyond its cover - to classrooms tucked away in hills, to children whose curiosity often went unnoticed, and to teachers quietly grappling with doubts, responsibilities, and moral dilemmas that seldom found expression. I was acutely aware that a careless choice would mean a lost chance, not just for me, but for many who might one day turn those pages in search of guidance or reassurance. In Sikkim, then as now, quality educational books were hard to come by. Bookshops stocking serious professional literature were almost non-existent, making thoughtful selection both urgent and difficult.
Almost providentially, around the same time, I was deputed to attend a training programme in New Delhi. When the training concluded, I decided to stay back for a day, knowing instinctively that this was a rare window I could not afford to waste.
Early that morning, after breakfast, I made my way to Nai Sarak, the narrow, bustling artery of old Delhi that seems to breathe books. The air was thick with dust, voices, and the unmistakable smell of old paper, and every shop felt like a small universe of possibilities. With a limited budget but an overwhelming sense of responsibility, I moved slowly from shop to shop, lifting books, scanning tables of contents, reading prefaces, and silently asking myself whether a particular volume would truly serve teachers in real classrooms.
I weighed relevance against price, depth against accessibility, aspiration against practicality. Buying something genuinely meaningful with so little money was far from easy. The process demanded patience and restraint, and it took me nearly half a day to arrive at a final selection. When I eventually stepped out, tired but content, every rupee of that twelve thousand five hundred had been spent - spent with care, spent with hope, and spent with the quiet belief that these books would one day find their way into thoughtful hands and reflective minds.
Carrying the entire bundle back by flight was impossible due to baggage limits. The only option left was to send the books by courier, the cost of which I paid from my own pocket, without a second thought. A week later, the cartons arrived safely at the district headquarters. I requested the office supplier to provide an almirah, and together we set up a modest library - a small reading room for visiting teachers who now had, at least, an alternative to idle waiting. It was simple, unassuming, but deeply meaningful to me.
A few months later, I was transferred to Temi as Block Education Officer, and life moved on with its usual administrative rhythm. Years rolled by, and I was eventually transferred to the head office. In 2017, when I once again returned to the same district office, I found myself instinctively searching for that small corner of hope I had once helped create. The almirah was no longer in its original place; it had been shifted to a narrow corridor within a partitioned room, standing there in quiet isolation, its doors firmly locked. Through the transparent glass panes, I could see that some books were missing. When I asked about the keys, no one could say where they were, or who, if anyone, still held them. The books inside remained enclosed, unread, waiting in patient silence. That same almirah stood in that same place when I finally retired on 31 March 2021 - an unspoken witness to time, intent, and quiet neglect.
And yet, I do not consider that effort a failure. Like a chalk line drawn on a classroom wall, it may have faded with time, erased by neglect or indifference. But it once existed. It marked a belief - that teachers deserve spaces to think, to read, to grow; that even within rigid systems, one can draw a line of intention, however faint. My reading room may not have survived in practice, but the impulse behind it remains etched in my journey. It reminds me that meaningful change in education often begins quietly, with small, fragile lines drawn by those who believe - lines that, even when erased, leave behind the memory of what once was, and what could still be.
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