𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐔𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐒𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌: 𝐀 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐙𝐎𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐒𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐎𝐋 𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆

Education has long been associated with explanation, reasoning, and structured knowledge. Classrooms traditionally move from teaching rules to solving problems, from presenting facts to testing understanding. Yet, beneath these visible processes lies another quiet but powerful dimension of learning - 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐔𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍. As education gradually evolves to value creativity, reflection, and independent thinking, intuition may open a new horizon of learning in school classrooms.

Often, before formal reasoning begins, the human mind naturally senses patterns, relationships, and possibilities. A child may sometimes feel the answer even before learning how to explain it. When students look at a number pattern and guess the next number, predict the ending of a story, or anticipate the result of a science experiment, they are drawing upon intuitive thinking. Such moments remind us that learning is not merely a mechanical process of memorizing facts; it is also a subtle interplay of observation, experience, imagination, and insight.

Children come to school with a wealth of lived experiences. Their minds constantly connect these experiences with new information they encounter in the classroom. Intuition often arises from these connections. It quietly integrates fragments of past learning, observation, and curiosity into a sudden sense of understanding. In this sense, intuition is not an accidental phenomenon; it is a natural expression of the mind’s effort to make meaning of the world.

When classrooms encourage curiosity, exploration, and thoughtful questioning, intuition becomes a powerful companion to reasoning. Instead of immediately presenting formulas or fixed answers, teachers may invite students to observe, predict, or guess possible outcomes. Such invitations allow learners to engage their inner sense of understanding. Intuition may suggest the path, while logic and evidence help them walk it with clarity and confidence.

Encouraging intuition among learners can also serve as a meaningful way of recapitulating prior learning in the classroom. Before formal explanations unfold, learners often draw upon their earlier experiences, observations, and partially formed understandings. When teachers ask students to anticipate an answer or suggest possible explanations, the mind naturally revisits what it has already learned. In this way, intuition becomes a bridge between past knowledge and new understanding.

This approach does not diminish the importance of reasoning, evidence, or systematic learning. On the contrary, intuition and reasoning complement one another. Intuition generates possibilities; reasoning verifies them. Intuition opens doors; logic helps us examine what lies beyond them. When both processes are nurtured together, learning becomes richer and more meaningful.

The intuitive classroom, therefore, is not a classroom without structure. Rather, it is a classroom where thinking is alive, where curiosity is welcomed, and where learners are trusted to explore their inner capacity to understand. It is a space where questioning is encouraged, mistakes are seen as steps in discovery, and insights are valued as much as correct answers.

As schools continue to rethink their approaches to learning in the twenty-first century, nurturing intuition may become an important dimension of educational practice. By creating environments that invite observation, imagination, prediction, and reflection, classrooms can help learners develop both the discipline of reasoning and the sensitivity of intuition.

When these two forces work together, education moves beyond the mere transfer of information. It becomes a journey of discovery - one in which learners not only learn to explain the world but also learn to sense its deeper patterns and possibilities. In such classrooms, learning becomes not just an activity of the mind, but an awakening of insight.

***

𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐀 𝐒𝐂𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐄𝐃𝐔𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍

Reflections on Learning in an Age of Artificial Intelligence

𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞

Last year, I made two short YouTube videos reflecting on two questions that have increasingly occupied my mind: 

- 𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒎𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒆𝒅𝒖𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒌 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒚-𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒚?

- 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒂 𝒔𝒄𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒉𝒖𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒏?

These reflections emerged from my long journey in education-as a classroom teacher for a decade and later as an educational administrator for more than two decades. The following article attempts to briefly explore these questions in the context of the rapidly changing world of digital technology and artificial intelligence.

As the twenty-first century advances rapidly toward an age of digitalization and artificial intelligence, one question continues to occupy my mind: Do we truly understand how learning takes place in human beings? After spending more than three decades in the field of education, as a teacher and later as an educational administrator, I often feel that while we have built schools, designed curricula, and trained teachers, the deeper scientific understanding of learning itself still remains incomplete.

Education systems across the world were largely shaped during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Classrooms were organized, subjects were divided into disciplines, examinations were standardized, and schooling became a structured pathway through childhood and adolescence. This model served societies reasonably well for a long time. However, the twenty-first century has begun to challenge many of these assumptions.

Today we are entering an era where knowledge is no longer confined to textbooks or classrooms. Digital networks, open knowledge platforms, and intelligent machines are transforming how information is accessed and processed. Artificial intelligence is already beginning to personalize learning experiences, offering learners pathways tailored to their pace, interests, and abilities. In such a rapidly changing landscape, it becomes necessary to ask a more fundamental question: What is the science behind learning itself?

For centuries, teaching has been treated largely as an art-an art shaped by experience, intuition, and tradition. Good teachers were admired for their ability to inspire, guide, and nurture young minds. While this human dimension of teaching remains indispensable, modern research increasingly suggests that learning is also governed by identifiable principles that can be studied systematically.

Disciplines such as Educational Psychology, Cognitive Science, and the emerging field of Learning Sciences attempt to understand how human beings acquire knowledge, develop skills, and construct meaning. These fields explore questions such as how memory works, why curiosity drives learning, how emotions affect attention, and how social environments influence intellectual growth.

Research in these areas has revealed that learning is far more complex than the simple transmission of information from teacher to student. The human brain does not function like a passive container waiting to be filled with knowledge. Instead, learning involves active processes of interpretation, connection, reflection, and application. A learner constantly interacts with experiences, prior knowledge, emotions, and social surroundings to construct understanding.

Yet, despite the progress made in these disciplines, education as a field often remains fragmented. Psychological research, classroom practice, educational policy, and technological innovation frequently operate in separate spheres. What seems necessary today is a more integrated approach, something that could be described as a “𝐒𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐄𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.”

Such a science would attempt to bring together insights from multiple domains: psychology, neuroscience, sociology, pedagogy, and technology. It would study learning not only inside classrooms but also within families, communities, and digital environments. It would examine how children develop intellectually and emotionally, how adults continue to learn throughout life, and how educational systems can nurture curiosity, creativity, and ethical awareness.

In the coming decades, the importance of such an approach may grow even further. As artificial intelligence becomes capable of delivering information instantly and performing routine cognitive tasks, the role of human education may shift toward cultivating uniquely human qualities-critical thinking, imagination, empathy, moral reasoning, and collaborative problem-solving.

Education at the end of the twenty-first century may look very different from the schooling systems we know today. Educators working with adult learners in colleges and universities may require distinct professional prepar

ation grounded in the 𝐒𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐄𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, as traditional lecture-based instruction gradually becomes obsolete. Learning is likely to become more personalized, flexible, and closely connected to real-world experiences. Schools and universities may evolve from institutions primarily focused on delivering information into vibrant spaces that cultivate inquiry, creativity, critical thinking, and meaningful human interaction.

Amid these transformations, one truth will remain constant: education is fundamentally about understanding how human beings grow intellectually and morally. If we are to guide future generations wisely in an increasingly complex world, we must deepen our inquiry into the processes that make learning possible.

Perhaps the time has come to think more consciously about education not only as a profession or a system, but also as a science-one that seeks to understand the profound and intricate process through which human beings learn, think, and become.

•••

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐨𝐠𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐁𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐩𝐨𝐭 𝐀𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐓𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧

Last week, a dedicated teacher from a government school in Sikkim asked me a question that lingered long after our conversation ended.

“𝘚𝘪𝘳, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘰𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘧𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘯 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘩. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘭𝘺, 𝘐 𝘥𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘤𝘪𝘦𝘵𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴. 𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘭𝘢𝘪𝘮 𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘰𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯. 𝘐𝘧 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘭𝘺 𝘴𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦, 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘤𝘵?”

His question was not cynical. It was sincere.

For a moment, I felt the weight of his doubt. Then I responded: teaching is indeed deeply respectable-but respect is not sustained by assertion. It is sustained by conduct, competence, and collective conviction.

Yet his question led me to reflect more deeply. Perhaps what we are witnessing is not merely declining respect, but what psychologists describe as a cognitive blind spot-a tendency to overlook something of profound importance because its impact is gradual and not immediately visible.

Society often measures value through visibility, income, authority, or public recognition. By such standards, many professions appear more “prestigious.” But teaching operates on a different timeline. Its results do not emerge in quarterly reports or public ceremonies. They unfold quietly over decades.

Every doctor, engineer, bureaucrat, entrepreneur, and policymaker once sat before a teacher. The classroom is the birthplace of every other profession. Yet because its contribution is foundational rather than flamboyant, society frequently underestimates its gravity.

𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒐𝒄𝒊𝒆𝒕𝒚’𝒔 𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒑𝒐𝒕.

But we must also examine our own.

At times, we inadvertently weaken the dignity we demand. Despite professional training-B.Ed., D.El.Ed., and other qualifications-some educators drift away from classroom rigour. Instead of deepening pedagogical practice, a few seek deputation to unrelated departments. When trained teachers appear eager to exit the very profession they prepared for, what message does that send?

It suggests uncertainty. It signals that teaching may be a temporary arrangement rather than a deliberate calling.

Gradually, prestige erodes-not because the profession lacks worth, but because its practitioners appear unsure of its own gravity.

Respect declines when:

 - Teaching is treated as a fallback option.

- Professional growth stops after certification.

- Administrative convenience replaces classroom excellence.

- We speak of dignity but neglect disciplined practice.

Thus, the cognitive blind spot operates on both sides. Society overlooks the long-term transformative power of teaching. And sometimes, teachers underestimate the nobility of their own vocation.

However, the solution is not blame. Systemic pressures, policy shifts, workload imbalances, and inconsistent recognition affect morale. These realities cannot be dismissed. Yet even within constraints, professional pride remains a powerful force.

Teaching is not merely a job. It is intellectual nation-building. It shapes not just careers, but character; not just livelihoods, but lives.

𝒀𝒆𝒔, 𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒔 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒕𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒆.

But it becomes respected when teachers embody its seriousness with visible excellence-and when society learns to look beyond immediate glitter to recognize enduring impact.

Until then, the teacher continues-quietly holding up the sky.

📩📩📩

LEARNING IN THE HILLS!

 "Learning in the Hills: The Journey of Elementary Education in Sikkim" is a two-volume book series authored by Dhan B. Seling Subba (often referred to as D.B. Subba). 

The work provides a comprehensive historical and developmental overview of how elementary education evolved within the state of Sikkim. Key details include: 

Content: The books document the progression of schooling, pedagogical shifts, and the administrative journey of the education system in the Himalayan region.

Release: The two volumes were recently highlighted and officially released on January 15, 2026.

Significance: It serves as a vital record for researchers and educators interested in the specific socio-cultural challenges and triumphs of establishing formal learning structures in mountainous terrains. 

Twelve Thousand Five Hundred Rupees and a Dream

 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.

https://sites.google.com/view/dhanbselingsubba-author/home

WHEN INNOVATION WENT UNNOTICED!

On 5th March 2021, a District-Level Low-Cost/No-Cost Teaching-Learning Material (TLM) Development Competition was organized for primary-level teachers in Namchi Bazar, South Sikkim. Conceptualized by the then Head of the South District Education Office, Mr. Dhan Bahadur Subba, and conducted under the banner of the District Education Office, this initiative was the first of its kind in Sikkim—and, to the best of our knowledge, possibly across India. With the participation of nearly 99% of government primary school teachers from the district, the event marked a significant moment in the region’s educational journey. It also saw active involvement from Block Education Offices, ensuring widespread participation and the presentation of highly relevant, locally rooted TLMs. The District Institute of Education and Training (DIET), South Sikkim, served as the judging body. Winning teachers were honored with certificates and prizes in recognition of their innovation and creativity.

Regrettably, this unprecedented event remains absent from online sources, including major search engines like Google. As the originator of the idea, I find it surprising—and somewhat disheartening—that such a historic milestone in grassroots educational reform has gone unrecorded in the broader narrative of Indian education.

***

UNDOCUMENTED LEGACY OF SCHOOL NUTRITION PROGRAM IN SIKKIM

When I think back to my schooldays in the 1970s, one memory that comes back vividly is the small packet of roasted groundnuts we received just before the long recess. It was a modest offering—simple, unassuming—but it meant something. In those days, it felt like a token of care, a quiet attempt to fill our young stomachs and fuel our afternoons.

Whispers floated among us, though—stories of a time before the groundnuts. Rumours said that fresh fruits were once supplied to schools, a luxury we never saw. The tale went that teachers quietly consumed the fruits themselves, leaving us students none the wiser and none the fuller. Whether true or not, the myth lingered like a bittersweet breeze in our playground chatter.

By the early 1980s, the roasted groundnuts disappeared, replaced by biscuits—first five to a packet, then quietly reduced to four—each sealed in transparent polythene. Despite their simplicity, those biscuits became a cherished part of our schooldays. We would swap and share, a biscuit here or there, depending on the size of one’s appetite or the generosity of the day. Sometimes, I’d press a couple into my friend’s hand when he looked hungrier than usual. Other times, I’d lean over and whisper, hoping he might have one to spare. It was our silent economy of hunger and affection—a daily exchange that stitched us closer together.

Then came the day Peon Daju (Our Anand Daju), our biscuit bearer with a serious face and steady hands, made a quiet announcement: “From now on, each packet will have only four biscuits.” A wave of disappointment swept through the classroom. But in the days that followed, we discovered a curious thing—some packets still had five. Perhaps they were leftovers from an earlier batch, but to us, they felt like hidden treasures. We would tear open the wrappers with bated breath, counting the biscuits one by one, hoping for that lucky fifth. When there were only four, we felt a small, inexplicable pang—a silent heartbreak we never spoke of, but always felt.

And through it all, one name remained etched on those crinkly wrappers—Pawan Biscuits. Even now, that name carries the weight of countless recesses, of laughter, sharing, small disappointments, and sweet satisfactions. Wrapped in plastic, passed hand to hand, those biscuits weren’t just snacks—they were memories in miniature, and to this day, they linger in my heart with the warmth of a simpler time.

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