𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐏𝐨𝐰𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐅𝐨𝐥𝐤 𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐍𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐠 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬: 𝐀𝐧 𝐈𝐝𝐞𝐚 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐄𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟔

There was a time when schools in Sikkim functioned within a long-established tradition of strict discipline and control. For generations, this system shaped school culture and student behaviour. However, with the enactment of the Right to Education (RTE) Act, schools gradually moved away from many of those earlier practices of controlling and disciplining students. The intention of the reform was noble - to make schools more humane, child-friendly, and free from fear. Yet, during the transition, many educators began to observe certain behavioural changes among students.

Gradually, concerns started surfacing from different corners of the school system. Some students were becoming irregular in attendance, less punctual in attending classes, and at times inattentive or restless within the classroom. A few teachers also shared that some children were increasingly short-tempered, emotionally fragile, and occasionally stubborn in their behaviour not only at school but also at home. These observations were not expressed with criticism but with genuine concern for the emotional and moral development of children. 

Statements such as “फेल पारोस् त RTE Act लाइन्छ” and “छुइमात्रै हेरोस् त RTE Act लाइन्छ” were frequently heard in students’ conversations, reflecting a growing awareness, and sometimes misunderstanding, of the provisions of the RTE Act. 

Many teachers who were friendly with me and deeply committed to the well-being and upbringing of children began to share their thoughts. Some sent text messages; others spoke to me over the phone. When we happened to meet during school visits or professional gatherings, they would informally express their anxieties about the changing behaviour of students. A few of them even started writing about their concerns on social media, hoping that a wider discussion might lead to meaningful solutions.

These conversations stayed in my mind for a long time. I reflected deeply on what might help children reconnect with values, emotions, and empathy without returning to the old system of rigid control. After much contemplation, a simple yet culturally rooted idea emerged.

In 2016, I suggested to a few teachers that they begin sharing folk tales in their classrooms. I also encouraged them to invite children to narrate stories they had heard from their grandparents or elders at home. I felt that storytelling could gently rekindle a sense of wonder and imagination in young minds, while also giving children a space to reflect on emotions and values in a natural and engaging way.

At the same time, I requested parents to revive the beautiful tradition of storytelling within the home. While working in the fields, cooking in the kitchen, or sitting together in the evening, they could share the same folk tales that they themselves had heard during their childhood. Such moments of storytelling once formed an integral part of family life in our communities, nurturing both imagination and moral understanding.

I also proposed to some headteachers that schools could keep a dedicated period for storytelling, perhaps once a week, where teachers and students could share folk tales, legends, and local narratives. These stories carry within them timeless lessons of kindness, courage, patience, humility, and respect for others.

Storytelling, after all, is not merely entertainment. It allows children to exercise their imagination, experience different emotions, and see the world through the lives of others. When children listen to stories of compassion, sacrifice, friendship, and justice, they slowly develop empathy and emotional strength. Such experiences can help them become more understanding toward their parents, more respectful toward their teachers, and more thoughtful about their own future.

However, like many meaningful educational ideas, this suggestion did not immediately take root everywhere. It took time for the concept to gain acceptance in schools. A few pedagogically sensitive and visionary headteachers began experimenting with storytelling sessions in their schools. They understood that nurturing a child’s emotional world is just as important as academic learning.

Yet many others felt hesitant. Since storytelling was not an official directive from higher authorities, some headteachers considered it an additional responsibility amidst their already busy schedules. As a result, the idea spread slowly and unevenly.

Nevertheless, the few schools that embraced storytelling began to experience something beautiful. Classrooms became more lively, children became more expressive, and a quiet emotional bond began to grow among students and teachers. Through simple stories passed down across generations, children found new ways to understand kindness, patience, and humanity.

Looking back, I often feel that sometimes the most powerful educational tools are also the simplest ones. In a world increasingly dominated by textbooks, examinations, and digital screens, the gentle art of storytelling still holds the power to shape hearts, nurture imagination, and guide young minds toward compassion and wisdom. 

***

𝐑𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐓𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐒𝐢𝐤𝐤𝐢𝐦

[𝘙𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴’ 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘮 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘵𝘩𝘴. 𝘚𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘭𝘦 𝘶𝘯𝘴𝘦𝘵𝘵𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 - 𝘴𝘰 𝘐 𝘪𝘯𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘥.]

Teaching in Sikkim has increasingly become a profession that many are willing to leave, despite it often offering better pay than comparable positions in other sectors. A noticeable trend is that those who switch careers still expect to retain a same pay scale, indicating that dissatisfaction is rooted not merely in remuneration, but in deeper professional concerns.

What makes this situation more troubling is that a large number of these teachers are professionally qualified. Many were trained by the Education Department itself, often with full salary support during their training period. In addition, a significant proportion of pre-RTE teachers were granted advance increments in recognition of their qualifications. These well-intentioned incentives, designed to strengthen the system, have not ensured sustained commitment to the profession.

This pattern suggests that teaching is increasingly seen not as a vocation of choice, but as a fallback option within the government job market. While there may be several contributing factors - such as lack of recognition, curricular burdens in remote schools, and declining social prestige - these are realities that should be weighed carefully before entering the profession. To join without such consideration, and later seek to exit, raises questions of professional sincerity and also denies opportunities to those who might have embraced teaching with genuine commitment.

The consequences of this trend extend beyond individual career choices; they are clearly reflected in the functioning of government schools. When teaching is no longer guided by intrinsic motivation or a sense of purpose, classroom engagement weakens, accountability declines, and pedagogical innovation suffers - leaving teachers vulnerable to being drawn into political agendas that serve vested interests. Over time, this erodes student learning outcomes and undermines public confidence in the system.

Thus, the frequent criticism of government schools for underperformance cannot be viewed in isolation. It is, in part, a reflection of a deeper systemic issue - where teaching is not always chosen with conviction, and therefore not always practiced with the dedication it demands. Teaching is not merely a job; it requires integrity, commitment, and a genuine concern for learners. Without these, even the best policies and provisions struggle to translate into meaningful educational outcomes.
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A LIFE THAT KEPT TEACHING

Once, I was a young teacher, brimming with energy and quiet dreams. Over the years, time gently shaped me into an older teacher, and today, at sixty-one, I sit as a retired teacher - yet, in truth, never retired from learning or sharing.

In winter, I bask in the warmth of the sun; in summer, I find comfort in the shade. Life has slowed, but it has also softened. I have come to believe that once parents cross sixty, they gradually loosen their grip on worries about the household - whether everything is enough or not begins to matter a little less. What remains is a quiet acceptance and a deeper trust in life.

And yet, the small, unfulfilled desires from my years of गृहस्थ जीवन still glow within me - fresh, almost youthful. It is no longer just a wish to do something; it feels like a gentle calling, a reminder from within that there is still something left for me to give.

I do not know how others feel at this stage of life, but for me, even the simplest moments can open doors to the past. Something like that happened yesterday at a literary gathering, it stirred memories so deeply that I felt compelled to write.

I found myself wondering: when did I truly become a teacher? Was it the day I received my appointment letter, or had that journey begun much earlier?

As I look back, I realize I had started teaching long before I officially became a teacher, perhaps when I was just fourteen or fifteen. My classmates would often gather around me, asking me to explain lessons that had already been taught in class. Mathematics, especially, would trouble them. I still remember how they once carried an old discarded blackboard from the school store to my home. In the evenings, in the small sit-out of our mud-plastered, thatched house, I would teach them for an hour or more. Those moments, simple as they were, now feel deeply meaningful.

Soon, even juniors began visiting my home to clear their doubts. This continued long before I formally entered the profession. Later, as a school teacher, I would often take extra classes - before or after school, or during long winter vacations - especially for subjects I was not even assigned to teach. It never felt like extra work; it felt like purpose.

As life moved on and I became an educational administrator, that connection with learners only widened. Students, aspiring teachers, and even experienced educators would come seeking guidance. Some came with academic doubts, some with dreams of becoming headteachers, and others with a quiet passion for writing. I found myself guiding not only students and teachers, but also budding writers and research scholars - sharing books, ideas, and whatever little I had learned along the way.

Of course, in that long journey, I did not only guide gently - I also scolded, sometimes firmly, when I sensed carelessness or hesitation. Even today, I wonder how many understood those moments as concern, and how many may have felt hurt. Time does not always reveal such answers clearly.

But what it does reveal is something far more beautiful.

Many of those young minds have now returned, not in person alone, but through their achievements - like fruits borne from seeds sown long ago.

Yesterday, at the literary program in Namchi, one such moment unfolded. The chief guest, a renowned Nepali poet, shared an old memory. He recalled that nearly thirty-five years ago, when he had paused writing poetry, I had urged him - almost insisted - that he must begin again, and even demanded a poem within a week. I had completely forgotten this incident.

Only after his speech did it return to me. It must have been around 1991, when we had started our literary magazine Bagar. Perhaps he had delayed sending a poem, and I had spoken with the impatience of belief.

Standing there, listening to him, I felt a quiet fullness within.

It reminded me of something simple yet profound: when intentions are sincere and the mind remains positive, the seeds we sow - through words, guidance, or even a moment of insistence - do return, often after many years, and often in ways more beautiful than we had imagined.

: 25th March 2026

𝐈𝐬 𝐈𝐭 𝐖𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐆𝐨 𝐎𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐝?

As you all know, it has just been two months since the release of Learning in the Hills. In this short span, many of my friends and well-wishers have kindly encouraged me to meet officials of the Education Department, or even the concerned Minister, to request the purchase of these books for distribution to schools, colleges, and university libraries.

I deeply value their concern and goodwill. Indeed, this has long been a common and accepted practice in Sikkim. Yet, I chose to take a different path - even though these books were brought out through the gratuity I received at the time of my retirement.

Moreover, this edition was intended for genuine readers—those who would seek it out, engage with it, and draw meaning from it. I have always carried a quiet hesitation in making requests for personal gain. Above all, I believe that books for libraries should be chosen through a transparent and well-defined process, guided by established criteria and collective decision-making, rather than through personal appeals.

There is also a personal limitation I carry, I find it difficult to speak in praise of my own work in order to promote it. Writing came naturally to me; self-promotion does not.

I am aware that some may interpret my silence as reluctance or even arrogance. But in truth, my intention has always been simple and sincere. These volumes were never written to persuade the government into purchasing them or to generate income. They were born out of a desire to bring together scattered facts and experiences into a shared repository - something that students, researchers, and policymakers might find useful, reflective, and meaningful.

If the work finds its place, it will be through its own merit and through the goodwill of readers. That, to me, feels both honest and fulfilling.

Lastly, I humbly request my family, friends, and well-wishers to stand by the spirit of my intention, should my silence ever be misunderstood or given a different meaning.

🙏🙏🙏

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

Education as the Path to Peace

In a world increasingly troubled by conflicts and wars, many sensitive minds feel deeply disturbed. As an educator, I often find myself reflecting on these events with a sense of unease. When nations confront each other with hostility, it is not only territories that suffer; it is humanity itself that bears the scars. At such moments, the classroom appears to me not merely as a place of instruction but as a quiet sanctuary where the seeds of a more peaceful future can be sown.

For many educators, teaching is not only a profession; it is also a moral commitment to nurture a generation that values harmony, understanding, and universal brotherhood. The aspiration for peace often grows silently within the heart of a teacher. Standing before young learners every day, one cannot help but hope that these children will grow into individuals who choose dialogue over violence and compassion over hatred.

Peace is not simply the absence of war. It is a culture of respect, empathy, and shared humanity. If societies are to live in harmony, these values must be cultivated early in life. Schools therefore hold a profound responsibility. Beyond textbooks and examinations, education must help children understand that the world is larger than their immediate identities, and that every human being shares the same fundamental hopes for dignity, security, and happiness.

In the classroom, small acts often carry great meaning. When students learn to listen patiently to one another, when they collaborate in solving problems, or when they appreciate the diversity of cultures and ideas around them, they begin to develop the spirit of coexistence. These everyday experiences quietly shape their outlook toward the world.

An educator may not possess the power to influence global politics or prevent wars between nations. Yet there remains a deeper and more enduring influence within the reach of every teacher—the shaping of human character. A classroom that encourages curiosity, kindness, and mutual respect becomes a small but significant step toward building a peaceful society.

The dream of universal brotherhood may appear idealistic in times when conflicts dominate the headlines. But education has always carried the responsibility of nurturing ideals that transcend immediate realities. Each lesson that fosters empathy, each discussion that encourages thoughtful understanding, and each moment that strengthens the bond of humanity brings that dream a little closer.

Perhaps this is the quiet faith that sustains many educators: that somewhere among the children sitting in today’s classrooms are the future citizens who will choose cooperation over confrontation and understanding over division.

In this belief, education continues its patient work - guiding young minds toward wisdom, compassion, and the enduring hope of a peaceful world.

•••

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.

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