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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