The year 2007 proved to be one of the most turbulent chapters of my life. My father’s sudden passing, coupled with my transfer to a lower-level office in the Temi Tarku Block, left me adrift. The move meant I could no longer carry forward the partially completed Going to Cluster initiative. Four out of the five clusters in my new jurisdiction had already been covered during the first phase, and though I could have taken up the remaining Namphing cluster, my mind was in no state for such work.
It was a time of personal grief and
professional disillusionment - a double blow that left me searching for a way
to regain both my energy and my sense of direction. In the midst of this,
sometime around mid-July 2008, a small but significant spark appeared. A
message arrived in our departmental email from the National Institute of
Educational Planning and Administration (then the National University of
Educational Planning and Administration), New Delhi. It invited nominations
from state education departments for enrollment in the Diploma Programme in
Educational Planning and Administration - a timely opportunity for the fresh
start I so badly needed.
I promptly submitted an application
addressed to the Director of School Education, along with the completed
nomination form. I then personally followed up on the file and ensured that it
was approved well before the submission deadline. Fortunately, all formalities
were completed in time, allowing me to join the programme. The three-month,
face-to-face course began on 1st September 2008, and it offered me a fresh and
profound perspective on educational reform.
Looking back, I am convinced that this
opportunity was no coincidence. It affirmed my belief that every challenge and
turning point is a part of a larger design - perhaps one thoughtfully
orchestrated by a higher power.
During the face-to-face phase of the
Diploma in Educational Planning and Administration (DEPA) program, I had the
opportunity to interact with participants from various states and union
territories of India. Many of these individuals came from regions where
innovative initiatives had been implemented to reform school education,
particularly those aimed at enhancing student learning outcomes. Among these,
one notable initiative that caught my attention was the Building as Learning
Aid (BaLA) project undertaken by the Government of Himachal Pradesh.
One evening, while reviewing group
activity materials from a fellow diploma participant’s pen drive, I stumbled
upon a folder containing an array of vibrant photographs. The images depicted
school buildings artistically adorned with educational illustrations - walls,
verandahs, columns, doors, and windows were all transformed into visually
engaging learning tools. The aesthetic appeal of these government schools was
striking. The visual vibrancy stood in sharp contrast to the notion of school
as “boring,” a sentiment frequently echoed in household surveys by school
dropouts, who cited disinterest and disengagement as reasons for leaving
school.
The images immediately resonated with
me. I began to reflect on how the physical environment of a school contributes
to student engagement. The phrases “school boring,” “Not interested”, I realised,
might reflect students’ perception of dull, uninspiring learning environments -
what some may even perceive as institutional decay or monotony. The photos
inspired a vision of Sikkimese schools transformed in a similar way. Quietly
and instinctively, I copied the folder to my laptop, almost as if I were
protecting a precious idea. Later, when I returned the pen drive, I inquired
about the images. The owner, Mr Yashwant Deepak, then Vice Principal of DIET
Kullu, explained that the photographs showcased the BaLA project in Himachal
Pradesh.
That folder, brimming with colourful
representations of child-centric school infrastructure, remained with me. Whenever
time permitted, I would revisit the images, envisioning how such a project
could be adapted and implemented in the context of Sikkim.
Yet
I was also keenly aware of my own position. As a lower-level officer, I did not
possess the authority or the direct access to policymakers required to turn
that dream into a state-wide initiative. And so, for the moment, the vision
remained carefully folded away - carried in thought, waiting for its time.
By
now, the reader might be picturing what school buildings looked like in those
days. In rural Sikkim, before 1975, most schools were modest wooden structures
or the familiar ikra-post frames coated in cement plaster. They were
simple, functional, and often weathered by years of mountain rain and sun.
Then,
in the late seventies, a new design made its way into the hills - the
now-iconic two-storey RCC model, with classrooms on one side and a staircase on
the other. A few rural junior high schools were lucky enough to receive these
modern buildings. One of them still stands proudly at Bermiok Tokal Government
Senior Secondary School, now the oldest surviving example of its kind.
The
ikra-post and cement-plastered model remained the standard for many
primary schools taken over in the late 1970s. In fact, one such building still
endures at Bermiok Dalep Government Primary School, carrying the quiet dignity
of its age. By the 1980s, however, the pattern shifted again - newly taken-over
primary schools were given two-room, tin-roofed buildings, their stone walls
neatly finished with cement plaster. Each era left its own architectural
footprint, marking the slow but steady evolution of our rural schools.
After
the 1990s, the two-storey “rooms-on-one-side, stairs-on-the-other” RCC
school building model became something of a Sikkimese trademark. The smallest
version had just four rooms, but like a well-fed caterpillar, it could keep
extending, two rooms at a time, on the side opposite the staircase.
The
design process was delightfully straightforward: regardless of whether the
school stood on a flat meadow, a terraced slope, or the edge of a cliff, the
same blueprint was plonked down in whatever empty patch of land could be found.
Once built, the finishing touch was a generous coat of paint, saffron yellow on
the outside and white on the inside, applied with such enthusiasm that not a
single corner escaped.
The
result? You could spot a school building from half a mile away, no binoculars
required. As for the students, they had little chance to boast or grumble about
their campuses when meeting peers from other schools - after all, every school
looked exactly the same, inside and out, like members of one big,
colour-coordinated family.
A school may be full of rooms, yet empty of excitement.
Many times, in conversations with
school management committees, I would raise these issues and urge them to take
them to their elected representatives. For someone at the lowest rung of the
administrative ladder, this was often the only way to push for quicker systemic
change. I hesitate to write this, but to understand the realities in which
schools functioned at the time, it is necessary.
The way school buildings were designed
and constructed had little connection to creating conducive learning spaces.
Classrooms, toilets, drinking water platforms, stairs, and ramps were built
with almost no consideration for the varied ages and physical needs of the
children who would use them. Classrooms were simply allotted to students after
construction was complete, never designed with a particular grade in mind.
Toilets became “boys” or “girls” facilities only after they were handed over,
rather than being planned that way from the start.
With some adjustments, the schools
could manage on their own. Very often, this was also ignored by the school
side. Take drinking water platforms, for instance - many had taps fixed so high
that pre-primary children could barely reach them. And this wasn’t just a relic
of the past; even in school urinals built barely a decade ago, the height of
the urinal pods often made them unusable for the youngest learners. It was a
system that excelled at putting up structures for schools, but not necessarily
at creating spaces for learning and developing it as child-centred.
I have often wondered about this
strange contradiction. When people build their own homes, they think of
everything, long before the first brick is laid. They plan a warm, inviting
living room where guests can sit and talk. They set aside a bedroom for visitors,
cosy and private. They design rooms for their children, choose their own
bedroom in the most favourable direction as per vastu, and attach a
powder room for comfort. They imagine a study for quiet work, a terrace to
gather on, a balcony to soak in the morning and evening sun. Every detail is
considered, every need anticipated.
 |
| Full Plates, Bare Walls—Learning Still Left Hungry. |
And yet, when it comes to building schools, all that care seems to vanish. We grow strangely indifferent when constructing classrooms for children of different ages, grades, and needs. The very spaces meant to shape young minds are seldom planned with the same thoughtfulness we devote to the walls of our own homes. This truth ached in me. More than once, during public gatherings, I found myself voicing it aloud - not to provoke, but simply to unburden my heart and find a little relief. On many occasions, this concern found its way into action: I would object, and often re-adjust the height of taps at drinking-water platforms, small corrections perhaps, but necessary ones for the children who used them every day.
The mindset of the school family, too,
had not yet outgrown the habits of the prevailing system. When a new school
building was handed over, the process was simple: put the children into
classrooms and start teaching. During my own teaching years, the pattern was
almost predictable - the best room in the building became the headteacher’s
office, while the remaining rooms were given to the senior classes.
Most headteachers would hire someone to
neatly paint the school’s name on the verandah railing wall of the first floor.
A few went a step further, adding maps of India and Sikkim on the walls. But
beyond that, the entire building, inside and out, stood bare, its
saffron-yellow walls radiating a strange, almost holy stillness… the piousness
of unproductivity.
If walls could speak, these would
quietly murmur “boring” and “not interesting.” I have several photographs of
Sikkim’s government schools from before 2009 stored in my external hard drive,
each one telling its own mute version of those words. But here, in this memoir,
I will share only a few, taken in 2007, without revealing the names of the
schools. I believe readers can easily imagine the state of mind of children who
spent their days within walls like these.
I returned from the National University
of Educational Planning and Administration in the first week of December.
When I returned to Sikkim, the winter vacation for the 2008
academic session had already begun. The schools had fallen into their seasonal
silence, and with them vanished the immediate possibilities of school visits
and face-to-face conversations with head teachers about introducing the BaLA
project in our classrooms.
Yet, the idea refused
to rest. I was determined to give it a beginning in Sikkim - somehow, by
whatever means were available. I knew this would not be a modest undertaking;
it was a large, ambitious vision that would demand substantial resources and,
above all, the firm backing of the government.
At the time, I was
leading the formulation of the state SSA plan, a role that might have offered a
natural entry point. But reality intervened. I could not include the activity
in the 2009 annual plan because I lacked the necessary groundwork - there was
no data to justify its inclusion. With schools closed, even the possibility of
collecting that data had slipped beyond reach.
And so, in that quiet
winter pause, I began to think differently. If the direct path was blocked, I
would have to find another way—an alternative route by which this long-held
vision might still find its way into being.
When considering an alternative approach, I
had to be mindful of the constraints inherent in my administrative role. My
post in the hierarchy of the administrative ladder did not afford the authority
to mobilise departmental resources extensively or to influence policy-level
decisions within the government. Consequently, the strategy had to be modest in
scale yet rooted in practical possibility.
After much thought, I identified
stakeholder mobilisation as a viable pathway. Drawing upon my previous
experiences as a schoolteacher, where I had witnessed firsthand the
transformative potential of community engagement, I resolved to begin by sensitising
and motivating school heads. Once a few school leaders expressed readiness to
initiate the effort, a broader second phase would follow. This phase would
involve the systematic engagement of teachers, School Management Committee
(SMC) members, panchayat representatives, parents, and local community leaders.
The objective was to build a support structure around each school so that, when
school heads sought assistance to implement BaLA-like interventions, the
stakeholders would respond with enthusiasm and commitment.
 |
| When Walls Don’t Speak, Learning Falls Silent. |
The academic session of 2009–10 had just begun when the first coordination meeting of school heads was convened on 8 March 2009 at the district headquarters in Namchi, organised by the Joint Director. It was an otherwise routine gathering, yet for me it carried quiet promise.
I requested a modest ten-minute slot to
share an idea that had been taking shape within me for some time. When the
permission was granted, I seized the moment. I presented a PowerPoint slideshow
filled with photographs of schools in Himachal Pradesh that had been
transformed through the BaLA (Building as Learning Aid) initiative.
As the images unfolded on the screen,
they spoke more eloquently than words. They revealed how simple, low-cost
visual and structural interventions could reimagine school spaces—lifting not
just their physical appearance but also their pedagogical spirit. These were
environments that felt alive: attractive, engaging, inclusive, and supportive
of learning. Above all, they were unmistakably child-friendly, offering a
glimpse of what our own schools in Sikkim might one day become.
As I brought the presentation to a
close, I left the gathering with a question rather than a directive. I asked
the assembled school heads to reflect with me: Could we, perhaps, mobilise
local communities and parents to begin such changes - even if only on a modest
scale?
The responses that followed were
telling. A few heads nodded in quiet encouragement, their faces bright with
possibility. Others, however, wore expressions of hesitation, even doubt. Some
spoke candidly, saying that while the idea was welcome, sustaining it would be
difficult. Walls, they said, were often defaced by villagers or passers-by;
notices displayed outside schools rarely survived for long. Even students,
after school hours, sometimes scribbled over the very drawings meant for their
learning. As these concerns were voiced, more heads around the hall nodded in
agreement.
 |
| A Witness and a Reflective Mind |
Sensing the mood and unwilling to let
the idea fade so easily, I offered a gentle counterpoint. In higher schools, I
suggested, senior students themselves could be involved in creating the wall
drawings. Over time, this participation might foster a sense of ownership,
making the walls truly theirs to protect and preserve.
Still, the moment was not yet ripe. The
proposal had been placed in the spirit of invitation, not imposition. It was
not part of the formal agenda, and so the meeting drew to a close without any
resolution or commitment. Yet, even in that absence of consensus, a seed had
been quietly sown.
Yet,
despite the constructive tone of those parting words, I walked away with a
lingering sense of isolation and unease. That evening, I felt emotionally
unsettled, as though enclosed within a space where the walls were close and the
exits unclear. The experience laid bare a quiet truth I was beginning to
understand more deeply - the difficulty of advocating reform from a position
where conviction was strong, but institutional authority remained limited.
Within
the framework of Sarva Shiksha Abhiyan, there already existed a provision aimed
at nurturing child-friendly school environments. At the district level, funds
sanctioned under this component during the previous year had remained
unutilised. Ten schools had been approved, each with an allocation of ₹25,000.
Sensing
a narrow but precious window of opportunity, I approached the District Project
Coordinator with a simple yet purposeful request: to release the funds meant
for just one school before the close of the 2008–09 financial year - before
31st March 2009. It was a modest ask, but it carried the weight of a larger
vision.
The
DPC responded with understanding and facilitated the necessary approval. With
that, the funds were put to use in developing a model school guided by the
principles of Building as Learning Aid. While adapting the approach, we
consciously wove in state-specific elements and curriculum-linked visuals,
ensuring that the walls spoke the language of our children and reflected their
learning realities.
A
small rural school, Bhalukhop Government Primary School, was chosen as
the pilot site. Quietly, without fanfare or formal sanction from higher boards,
the work began. In that modest beginning lay a quiet triumph: voluntary
ground-level action had already taken shape in Sikkim, even before the BaLA
project received its official approval.
When walls take their first breath of life.
Photographs documenting the transformation were collected and later shared with other schools. During these interactions, school heads were encouraged to explore similar adaptations, particularly by aligning the physical environment with key curricular themes to strengthen learning engagement.
The
first four or five months felt like a long stalemate. Beyond the small
demonstration project at Bhalukhop School, nothing seemed to move. It was as if
the coordination meeting and my carefully prepared PowerPoint presentation had
evaporated from everyone’s memory. The silence was heavy, and so was my
disappointment.
Then,
just as I began to wonder if the idea had died a quiet death, something
unexpected happened. Out of the blue, two school leaders reached out to me - Mr
Shekhar Chettri of Melli Gumpa Secondary School and Mrs Bimala Rai of Temi
Senior Secondary School. They hadn’t waited for official approval or government
endorsement. Acting entirely on their own initiative, they had begun
BaLA-inspired changes in their schools.
When
they shared photographs of their work, I could almost feel the air shift. The
images showed more than painted walls or rearranged spaces - they carried the
energy of possibility. Classrooms were slowly turning into places that invited
curiosity; the verandah hinted at learning beyond textbooks. In their quiet,
determined way, these two headteachers had breathed life back into a vision I
had feared was slipping away.
Their
actions served as a compelling reminder that meaningful change can begin at the
grassroots level. Even in the absence of formal approval or systemic backing,
the commitment and creativity of individual educators have the potential to
advance innovation in school environments. This moment reaffirmed the value of decentralised
leadership and the transformative role of local agency in educational reform.
This
turn of events forced me to think more deeply about my fallback strategies. The
irony was hard to ignore - here was an initiative meant entirely for the
betterment of children in our government schools, yet it wasn’t officially
sanctioned. I couldn’t officially pour
my working hours or departmental resources into it. That left me walking a fine
line, trying to keep momentum alive while juggling my formal responsibilities.
The real hurdle wasn’t just time - it was finding ways to keep stakeholders
engaged and inspired without the structure of an official program.
I
tried phone calls. I sent text messages. But after a while, the energy thinned
out. Words on a small screen couldn’t carry the enthusiasm, the colour, the
vision I wanted people to see. Around
this time, I began to notice a new current running through our social circles -
Facebook. Friends spoke about it with curiosity, some with excitement, others
with scepticism. I saw printed screenshots of colourful pages and heard stories
of people sharing photographs, ideas, and greetings instantly across distances.
The more I learned, the more I realised this could be more than a pastime. It
could be a platform where photographs spoke louder than reports, where ideas
could travel in seconds, and where even distant stakeholders could join the
conversation.
Motivated by that thought, I opened my
personal Facebook account on October 5, 2009, and began using it in earnest.
Almost immediately, I ran into the realities of Sikkim’s digital landscape.
Internet access was still patchy, data packs were expensive, and the digital
divide was wide. On top of that, many people, especially professionals, looked
at Facebook with suspicion, dismissing it as a frivolous pastime “unfit for gentlemen.”
The number of users in Sikkim was small, and school heads or teachers were almost
invisible in that crowd.
Still, I pressed on. Every new path
begins with a few hesitant footsteps, and this one, I felt, might just lead
somewhere worth going.
Despite the limitations and challenges,
I made a personal commitment to continue the effort in whatever way I could. I
clearly remember purchasing an MTS modem and subscribing to a ₹999 monthly data plan - an amount that
felt significant at the time, but one I considered essential for the cause. It
felt like preparing for something whose moment hadn’t yet arrived. I even
encouraged a few trusted friends to open Facebook accounts, hoping to slowly
widen the circle.
Yet, before long, the atmosphere began
to drift back into a kind of stalemate. Facebook, in those days, was more a
playground than a platform - people spent their time on Farmville, Cityville,
and sending quirky help requests to strangers abroad. Educational change was
hardly on the agenda on social media.
Then came the beginning of the 2010
academic session, and with it, a small but welcome shift. Even before schools
reopened, a few headteachers came to our District Education Office, asking for
the BaLA-related photographs stored on our computer operator’s desktop. They
wanted them to prepare their schools for the new year - an encouraging sign
that the seed had not been lost.
Meanwhile, I made sure BaLA found its
place in the Annual Work Plan & Budget (AWP&B) 2010–11 of the Sarva
Shiksha Abhiyan, framing it as an urgent step toward creating learner-friendly
school infrastructure and as part of systemic readiness for the RTE Act. The
plan included detailed strategies for how Sikkim could implement BaLA
activities in its schools. The Education Department’s archives may still hold
copies of that document for anyone curious enough to look.
But when the moment finally arrived,
the proposal never reached the Project Approval Board meeting at Shastri Bhawan
on 30 March 2010. It was not recommended during the plan discussions.
That setback felt familiar, almost
expected - a quiet reminder that in the slow, layered world of systemic change,
even well-intentioned and carefully nurtured ideas can falter before they are
allowed to take the stage.
The non-recommendation of BaLA
activities for Sikkim in the SSA plan did not wound my spirit. By then, the
spark had already been lit. The vision of print-rich, learner-friendly schools
was no longer just mine - it was beginning to live in the minds of others. I
noticed it in the quiet gestures: headteachers arriving with pendrives in hand,
asking for BaLA photographs. Some may not have been ready to act right away,
but they were thinking, imagining, and preparing in their own time. And that, I
realised, was how change often begins - not with a sweeping reform, but with a
slow, steady shift in thought, like the first green shoots after a long winter.
Starting in 2010, I began documenting
school-based innovations, particularly those aligned with my area of concern
and regularly shared them on Facebook. Gradually, this modest digital
initiative began to take shape. The posts started to gain attention, and more
school heads and teachers joined the platform, engaging with the content and
becoming part of the growing conversation around school-level transformation.
One moment that remains vividly etched
in my memory is 16th May 2011, a state holiday as Sikkim’s State Day.
With the gift of uninterrupted time, I devoted the day to reflecting on the
direction this voluntary initiative was taking. I spent hours on Facebook - organising
content, uploading photographs, and thinking deeply about how the movement was
slowly taking shape. It was on that very day that I formally gave the
initiative a name: Development of School Infrastructure as Learning Resource.
I created a dedicated photo album under the same title and uploaded some of the
most compelling images from my laptop - photographs that captured the
ingenuity, dedication, and quiet transformation unfolding in our schools. That
day marked more than just a digital milestone; it was a quiet affirmation of a
vision in motion - the beginning of an evolving digital archive that would go
on to document the grassroots spirit and impact of the initiative.
September 2011 arrived with a moment
that felt both deeply personal and quietly purposeful. I had just completed an
article titled “School Infrastructure as Additional Learning Resource,”
shaped by a long-held conviction that school buildings and their surrounding
spaces need not remain static structures, but could evolve into living,
breathing environments that inspire and enrich learning.
On Sunday, September 4, The Sikkim
Express published the piece. Seeing my thoughts in print felt like opening
a small window - an invitation for others to glimpse a vision I had been
carrying for years. I dedicated the article to the inspiring teachers who were
to be honoured the following day, September 5, Teachers’ Day, with National
Awards, State Awards, and Commendation Certificates. It was my quiet tribute to
their unwavering dedication and service.
A copy of the article is shared below
to help readers appreciate the depth of reflection and the urgency for reform
that shaped my thinking during that period.
“Nowadays, ensuring that children
attain the required learning levels at the end of each grade has become a major
concern for educational administrators, teacher educators, school heads, and
teachers. This concern has intensified after the enactment of the Right of
Children to Free and Compulsory Education (RTE) Act, 2009, as Section 16 of the
Act does not permit any child to be detained in any class. At the same time,
professional ethics and service decorum do not allow educators to promote
children to the next higher grade without achieving the prescribed learning
outcomes.
Many
school heads and teachers express the concern that children often appear less
serious about their studies because they no longer fear failure. Further, the
provision of “no board examination till the completion of elementary
education,” as stated in Section 30(1) of the Act, has added to teachers’
anxieties. Prior to the enactment of the RTE Act, classroom processes commonly
allowed the detention of a child in the same grade if the required competencies
for promotion were not attained. In many cases, the detention policy was used
as a means to instil seriousness towards studies.
Although
the RTE Act is now in force, some school heads and teachers still opine that
there should be some mechanism within the system to detain children who fail to
acquire the required competencies. Such dilemmas among educational
functionaries clearly indicate the challenges they face in adapting to the new
educational realities introduced by the Act.
Whatever
the consequences may be, this situation has compelled educational
administrators, teacher educators, school heads, and teachers to think
seriously about alternative and supplementary learning resources that can
support children in achieving grade-end competencies. It has often been
observed that teachers and school heads demand additional teaching-learning
equipment or support materials to cope with the challenges arising from the
implementation of the Act.
Many
situations in life demand deep introspection and innovation. The present
scenario is one such situation, requiring us to analyse all possible materials
and resources available within the school that can be utilised effectively.
Schools receive ₹500 per teacher per year
as a Teacher Grant, which can be judiciously used to develop low-cost
teaching-learning materials from locally available resources. Teachers are well
aware that locally prepared, content- and context-specific materials significantly
enhance the effectiveness of pedagogical processes. Furthermore, the adoption
of inclusive pedagogical practices can greatly reduce the likelihood of
children falling behind in their studies.
The
primary objective of this article is to suggest ways of developing school
infrastructure as an additional learning resource. It is hoped that this
article will benefit readers, particularly those engaged in the teaching
profession.
Schools
possess various infrastructural components such as classroom blocks, toilet
blocks, water reservoirs, mid-day meal kitchen sheds, and other facilities. The
classroom block itself offers several spaces beyond classrooms - walls,
staircases, columns, doors, windows, verandahs, and corridors. Similarly,
toilet blocks, water reservoirs, and kitchen sheds also contain unused spaces
that can be creatively transformed into learning resources. Some possible ways
of utilising these spaces are described below.
Verandah
Walls:
In
hilly regions, school buildings often have three visible sides, among which the
verandah wall occupies a prominent position. This wall can be extensively used
as a learning resource. The lower portion of the wall, up to the height of the
window sill, can be developed as a ground-level blackboard with rows of letters
and numbers painted at the top. This will help children of around six years of
age (Class I) to familiarise themselves with letters and numbers while also
providing space for free-hand writing practice. The upper portion of the wall
can be used to paint content-related illustrations such as the water cycle,
maps, parts of plants, parts of the human body, uses of water, and uses of
plants, using attractive colours.
The
remaining walls of the building can be used to depict the State Animal,
National Animal, State Flower, National Flower, and similar themes.
Classroom
Walls:
Classroom
walls play a vital role in supporting learning. They can be used for displaying
grade-specific teaching-learning materials, children’s creative work, classroom
profiles, and students’ achievements. Unlike verandah walls, classroom displays
are dynamic and change frequently. Such displays not only enhance cognitive
development but also nurture balanced personality development. Painting
classroom walls in different colours can make learning spaces more inviting and
facilitate the teaching of colours, especially in early grades.
Building
Columns:
Building
columns can be effectively used to teach measurement concepts. Different sides
of a column can display different units of measurement—centimetres, inches,
feet, or metres—helping children understand comparative units. Columns can also
be creatively used to depict the phases of the moon, from new moon to full
moon, arranged spirally around the column.
Corridors:
Many
higher-category schools have corridors that can serve as additional learning
spaces if developed appropriately. These areas can be converted into learning
corners, such as a dolls’ corner, mathematics corner, or EVS corner. Corridors
can also be used to display exemplary student work produced during classroom
activities.
Doors:
School
doors can be used as practical tools to teach angles. As doors typically swing
from 90 degrees to more than 170 degrees, the angle formed during the opening
of the door can be marked to demonstrate angles such as 10°, 20°, 30°, and so
on.
Verandah
Floors:
Like
verandah walls, verandah floors also offer valuable learning space. Geometrical
shapes such as circles, triangles, rectangles, and squares can be drawn on the
floor. Board games like Ludo and chess can also be painted here, promoting
mathematical thinking and play-based learning.
Toilet
Blocks and Water Reservoirs:
The
walls of toilet blocks and water reservoirs are ideal spaces for paintings
related to healthy habits, hygiene, water conservation, and the importance of
clean surroundings.
Kitchen
Sheds:
The
walls of kitchen sheds can be used to illustrate food-producing plants, food
habits of local communities, nutritional charts, vegetables, and associated
vitamins, thereby integrating learning with daily life experiences.
These
examples represent only a few possibilities for enhancing children’s learning.
There are countless innovations that schools can adopt to create a
learning-friendly ecosystem. Developing the entire school campus as a learning
space, along with the effective use of display boards and grid boards, can
transform the school itself into a comprehensive learning resource. Everything
becomes possible when we begin to think independently - with both the mind and
the heart.
My
tribute to all innovative teachers”
.jpg) |
| Teachers began to lend their voluntary support. [Singrep PS, West Sikkim] |
Around the same time, I felt an urge to widen the circle of conversation. So, I turned to a space that was beginning to reshape how we connected - Facebook. I set up a page called Innovation in Schools and a group named Making the Dream Schools. They became little digital courtyards where teachers, headmasters, and school communities could post their experiments - walls covered with children’s writing, classrooms buzzing with activity-based learning, students blossoming through personality development programmes. Even today, those spaces still exist, quietly preserving the footprints of that early movement.
By the year’s end, the Development
of School Infrastructure as Learning Resource initiative had reached nearly
20% of government schools in Sikkim. That might sound modest in numbers, but
for me, it was proof that a seed planted with grassroots energy, watered by new
digital tools and nourished by intrinsic motivation could begin to sprout
change. And this, without the shelter of formal institutional endorsement, made
the journey feel all the more authentic.
The year 2012 marked a phase of
sustained effort and dedication toward advancing the initiative. Sharing ideas
related to the project - often even within the briefest moments during formal
and informal gatherings - gradually evolved into an intrinsic part of
professional culture. I came to recognise the powerful role of praise and acknowledgement
in motivating stakeholders, particularly when small but meaningful
contributions were made by teachers, school leaders, or community members.
During this period, the collection and documentation of photographs became more
systematic, with regular updates posted to the dedicated Facebook album. In
addition to the ongoing initiative, the teachers, headteachers, and members of
school management committees were encouraged to experiment with innovations in
classroom pedagogy, school leadership, and management practices. They were also
requested to share photographs of such activities with me. As WhatsApp had not
yet been introduced, the primary modes of communication were limited to email,
which itself had constrained reach. In many cases, photographs were transferred
via external hard drives, often facilitated by Cluster Resource Coordinators.
Several headteachers also shared their documentation personally during visits
to my office.
 |
| An Inspired Teacher at Work. [Majhitar JHS, South Sikkim] |
The
year 2013 marked the arrival of WhatsApp in Sikkim, which soon emerged as a
significant platform for sharing content related to the project. Prior to this,
I had experimented with WeChat as a possible medium for communication, but it
failed to gain traction and quickly disappeared following WhatsApp’s growing
popularity. Initially, however, the use of WhatsApp among education
professionals was limited. The concept of creating WhatsApp groups had yet to
take hold, and its potential as a tool for professional collaboration was not
widely recognised. Nevertheless, as the platform gradually evolved, particularly
with the introduction and improvement of media-sharing features, it became
increasingly valuable for the initiative. WhatsApp enabled the efficient
exchange of photographs and updates, thereby enhancing communication and
documentation across schools involved in the project.
The
year 2013 witnessed a significant shift in the way Facebook was perceived and
used in Sikkim. A growing number of middle-class users began using the platform
to share personal photographs and social events. Among educators, too, the user
base expanded considerably. However, Facebook still carried a certain stigma
within elite circles and the bureaucratic community, where its use was often
deemed informal or frivolous. As a result, many education officers, though they
had Facebook accounts, refrained from active participation. This hesitation
created a gap in visibility, rendering the grassroots developments largely
unnoticed by system-level officials and policymakers.
More Creative Hands [Barfok School, North Sikkim]
At a time when creating Facebook pages and groups was still uncommon, I recognised Facebook as a powerful tool with the potential to connect schools academically. I actively encouraged schools to create their own pages and use them to document and share academic innovations. I even posted a public appeal on Facebook urging schools to take this step. The post read:
“Everyone
knows that each school exists in isolation. Effective sharing between schools,
whether in terms of performance, pedagogical innovations, classroom and
community management, or the use of ICT/TLE, is almost non-existent. Social
platforms like Facebook offer a unique opportunity to bridge this gap. If used
properly and positively, it can significantly enhance children’s learning. This
is truly an innovative use of technology. We can do much more. Please share!”
This
post, dated 21st January 2013, still remains on my Facebook page as a testament
to that early effort. Some headteachers created dedicated Facebook pages for
their schools after going through the above appeal, but sustaining them with personal
expenses proved challenging, leading many to become inactive over time.
As
the Development of School Infrastructure as Learning Resource project
gathered momentum, so did the visual record of its journey. Photographs began
flowing in from every corner, capturing walls being transformed, verandahs
blooming with colour, and classrooms turning into living galleries of learning.
The Facebook page Innovation in Schools, the group Making the Dream
Schools, my personal photo album for the project, and even my own timeline
became vibrant archives of change.
Headteachers
and teachers increasingly shared images of their schools’ evolving spaces - each
picture telling its own story of commitment and creativity. Even higher schools
began involving senior students in the process, not just as helpers but as
co-owners of the transformation. It was a subtle but powerful way to instil
responsibility and pride. There was something deeply satisfying about watching
a Class X student, paintbrush in hand, explaining to a Class III child what
their wall display meant. Ownership was taking root.
At
first, most changes began in the verandah - murals, drawings, and pictorial
reminders of both curriculum content and the behavioural values a school hoped
to nurture. Slowly, the movement entered the classrooms. I often advised
teachers to resist making permanent paintings on classroom walls. I would often
tell teachers, “Don’t make permanent paintings here. Let your walls breathe
and change.” My suggestion was simple: dedicate each wall, or even a
portion of it, to a subject. Fill it with students’ work and teaching-learning
materials connected to what was currently being taught. And when the lesson
changed, so should the wall.
 |
| Students shaping spaces that inspire them. [Darapthang JHS, West Sikkim] |
I still smile when I remember the early days. Many schools called these efforts School Decoration. During visits, I’d gently correct them - sometimes in staff meetings, sometimes while standing in front of a freshly painted wall. “No,” I’d say, “this isn’t decoration. It’s creating a print-rich environment. Decoration fades, but a learning wall grows with you.” And often, they’d nod, a little sheepish at first - until, in time, they began using the term themselves, as if they’d always owned it.
As always, I posted each school's photographs
with thoughtfully crafted words of appreciation - an approach that, from the
beginning, had proven to be a powerful motivator for schools and teachers. Over
time, a visible cultural shift began to take root. Walls, verandas, columns,
classrooms, and ceilings in schools were being transformed with bright,
relevant educational visuals. Meanwhile, the toilet walls and MDM kitchen walls
were specifically adorned with informative illustrations and messages promoting
healthy habits, awareness of communicable diseases, and knowledge about
essential vitamins and nutrients. What began as isolated efforts soon spread
organically, almost like an epidemic of creativity, transforming the visual and
pedagogical environment of schools across the state.
Challenges
continued to persist. Many schools in the remote corners of the State remained
unaware of the educational developments taking place in peer institutions
located within internet-covered areas. The digital divide remained stark in
numerous villages. Some headteachers were unconvinced by the academic
transformations being advocated, and many struggled to inspire stakeholders or mobilise
essential resources. With mobile data remaining costly, several teachers and
school heads viewed using Facebook or purchasing expensive data packs as an
unnecessary luxury.
Yet,
amid these challenges, a new trend quietly took shape. Individual teachers
started taking the initiative to decorate their classrooms, even as the main
school areas, usually overseen by headteachers, remained untouched. In
higher-level schools, teachers involved senior students in painting and design
projects. As planned during the initial coordination meeting at the start of
the 2009 academic year, this teamwork between teachers and students fostered a
strong sense of ownership.
 |
| When Young Minds Are Inspired to Create [Pachak SS, Est Sikkim] |
Over
time, the flow of photographs from participating schools became steadier and
more organised. Many teachers began reporting their initiatives to me directly
- sometimes with a few proud lines in a message, sometimes with a series of
images showing the before and after. What had started as the voluntary Development
of School Infrastructure as Learning Resource project, a modest effort to
make school spaces more welcoming and pedagogically supportive, was beginning
to stretch beyond its original boundaries.
A Facebook post documenting the quiet transformation of schools into print-rich spaces.
It
was no longer just about walls, corridors, and displays. The changes were
seeping into the way schools thought about teaching itself. Gradually, the
focus shifted from rigid academic routines toward a more balanced, holistic
approach to education. I found myself adding new strands to the movement
through the Facebook page: Establishment of Reading Corners to cultivate
a love of books, Try it and Prove It - a series of posts suggesting
creative teaching activities - inviting teachers to experiment, adapt, and
share back.
What
began as a single seed of infrastructure reform was quietly branching out into
a small ecosystem of ideas, each feeding into the other, all driven by the same
spirit of voluntary collaboration.
By
the beginning of the 2016–17 academic session, nearly all schools across the
state had come under the ambit of the project, although the extent of coverage
varied from school to school. The impact was so widespread that public wellness
centres, ICDS centres, and other rural public offices began adopting similar
approaches to display their thematic concerns. Although it came a bit late, the
announcement of free data packs by the Jio network operator brought renewed
enthusiasm among school teachers and heads. It also eased my own burden of
frequent data recharges. As a result, the sharing of school activity
photographs increased significantly.
In
the early days, the new look of our schools passed almost unnoticed - dismissed
by some as just another coat of paint, another round of routine “improvements.”
But little by little, the colours began to speak. The hand-painted letters, the
cheerful diagrams, the corridors lined with visual cues for learning - these
details started catching the eye of a few curious bureaucrats.
The once silent desks and benches began to feel alive. [Mulukay JHS, East Sikkim]
From as far back as 2009, I had spoken about this with almost stubborn passion. I carried my PowerPoint presentations from meeting to meeting, showing photographs, telling stories - standing before teachers, headmasters, and officers, urging them to see their school buildings not as static shells of concrete, but as living partners in the teaching-learning process. School Infrastructure as a Learning Resource was never just a phrase to me - it was a quiet revolution in how we imagined the very space where education unfolded.
By
2016, BaLA had already taken root across India. States and union territories
like Himachal Pradesh, Madhya Pradesh, Rajasthan, Gujarat, Bihar, Delhi, and
Chandigarh had embraced it wholeheartedly. Reports spoke of Samagra Shiksha
Chandigarh converting 605 schools into BaLA spaces in 2015–16 alone. In a
way, BaLA had gone viral among education administrators, leaping from file to
field, from idea to reality, each state adding its own shade to the growing
canvas.
In
time, the Development of School Infrastructure as a Learning Resource
began to carry a certain familiarity here in Sikkim, almost echoing the
popularity it had earned in BaLA Himachal Pradesh, where I had once sourced the
reference photographs that lit my imagination. Even those who had never heard
of BaLA started to notice the change - the verandahs that now seemed to hum
with purpose, the classroom walls that appeared to speak in colours, shapes,
and words.
Occasionally,
questions would surface. Visitors would ask what had prompted such a
transformation. More often than not, the answers were brief, almost offhand: “It’s
BaLA.” I heard the word passed along by officials as if saying it was
explanation enough - as though the story of its quiet birth and patient
nurturing wasn’t worth telling.
Yet,
behind those colours and patterns was a truth that almost no one paused to
acknowledge: not a single rupee from the state exchequer had been spent to make
it happen. The murals, the subject walls, the reading corners - they were not
the products of contracts or sanctioned budgets. They were built on the
voluntary energy of teachers, the goodwill of communities, and a vision carried
forward without any official banner - sustained only by the conviction that
schools could be more than they were.
Happy Walls. [Tangzi PS, South Sikkim]
Fortunately, over time, schools began
finding ways to address the challenge by actively mobilising their
stakeholders. By then, the presence of child-friendly, curriculum-integrated
designs on walls and improved physical environments had become not just
appreciated but expected in many schools. Yet, sustaining this transformation
was far from easy. I witnessed firsthand how schools struggled to gather
resources for maintenance and upkeep.
If memory serves me right, it was
during the latter half of the 2015 academic session that I approached the State
Project Director with a request to bring the initiative under the umbrella of Sarva
Shiksha Abhiyan (SSA), hoping that formal inclusion might open the door to
financial assistance. In many ways, it felt like handing over an almost
accomplished dream, a necessary act of letting go so that others might carry it
forward. However, my idea of handing the project to the Sarva Shiksha Abhiyan
for the sake of sustenance found no place.
A new life breathed into the school. [Dong Tingley PS, South Sikkim]
I wasn’t ready to give up. Instead, I
took another route. Six years after its first inclusion in the AWP&B
2010–11, I ensured the proposal appeared once again - this time in the SSA
Annual Plan for 2016–17. I highlighted that BaLA (Building as Learning Aid)
had already reached 60% of Sikkim’s schools through sheer community
mobilisation, and that financial support was now critical to expand and sustain
it.
This time, the proposal made it to the
table during the 232nd meeting of the Project Approval Board (PAB) on 25
February 2016, convened to review Sikkim’s Annual Work Plan & Budget under
SSA. To my quiet satisfaction, the initiative was recognised in the official
minutes as one of the state’s best practices. It was clearly recorded: “PAB
appreciated that 60% schools in the state have BaLA buildings which have been
done with the support of the community” (bullet (iv) of point 3 in the
minutes).
 |
| A comment on Facebook about the Change. |
But when the year’s final sanctioned outlay arrived, there was no allocation for BaLA activities. Recognition had come, yes - but without the means to carry the dream forward. It was a bittersweet moment: the work had finally been seen, yet it stood at the same crossroads, waiting for the support it needed to grow.
The non-approval of BaLA Sikkim funds
under Sarva Shiksha Abhiyan might have had a dozen bureaucratic reasons, but
for me, it ignited a thousand personal ones - to keep moving forward with a
steady mind and unbroken energy. If one channel closed, I would seek another.
My only way was to gather every willing hand, every voice of goodwill, and keep
the momentum alive.
Travel for awareness programs was
nearly impossible - my work hours were packed, and the holidays were too short
to reach the corners of the state. So my meeting ground became the virtual
world. Facebook and WhatsApp were not just social media; they became my
platforms of mobilisation, the bridge between my vision and those who could
help carry it further.
 |
| Changing face of a school. [Dikchu SSS, East Sikkim] |
On 14 May 2016, the office was closed for the second Saturday, and with three consecutive holidays ahead, I had come home the previous day. A faint heaviness settled over me after reading the PAB minutes - a sense of helplessness I couldn’t quite shake. The situation was far from favourable, yet my mind kept nudging me toward finding an alternative. I had come home after almost a fortnight, hoping to relax and enjoy time with my family, but the truth was, I couldn’t fully share in their warmth. My thoughts kept drifting back to the challenge at hand. With a quiet heaviness in my heart, I typed a post on my Facebook timeline:
"Development of school
infrastructure as learning resource (started in 2009)" and "Reading
Corner (started in 2013)" are two dream projects for reading and maths
programmes for primary school children in Sikkim.
I am happy that these projects are being visible because of my teacher friends,
head teachers, CRCs/BRCs, District & State level Officials who are with me
to accomplish these projects.
Thank you so much, my friends. Still,
there is a long way to go, so let's get ready to work hard further."
It was more than just an update - it
was both an expression of gratitude and an invitation. It was more than a post
- it was a call for ongoing solidarity. I pressed “Post”, then I turned to my
phone, scrolling through my contact list, and started sending texts and
WhatsApp messages to all my contacts, thanking them for their support and
asking for their companionship on the journey ahead.
That day, my spirit was a mix of
fatigue and hope. Anyone sitting across from me might have seen the shadow in
my eyes - but they would also have seen the fire that refused to go out.
 |
| A Journey of Change. [Nandugaon Suntalay PS, South Sikkim] |
Gradually, the replies began to arrive - messages from teachers, headteachers, friends, local authorities, and well-wishers - each expressing their support for the journey. Some schools took it upon themselves to repaint their walls and create fresh curricular designs. Others launched new projects in areas that had not yet been covered.
Seeing these efforts stirred something in me. The fatigue I had been carrying gave way to renewed energy and zeal. I began advocating more strongly for a holistic approach to school construction, urging the adoption of a whole-school plan. Even without a formal policy to mandate it, I pressed, at least informally, for the inclusion of a print-rich environment, something our initiative had already been demonstrating in practice.
With each passing day, I became more
particular about the details of the school infrastructure. In many social
gatherings, I would half-jokingly remark, “Does the police arrest us if we
paint the school buildings with colours other than saffron yellow?” The
laughter that followed carried its message - sometimes, change begins with a
question that refuses to stay polite.
 |
| A post meant to inspire others now tells its own story of change. |
In 2016 CE, two additional supplementary projects, “Reading Competitions” and “Children’s Book Donation Campaign,” were introduced, further elevating the scope and impact of the initiative. These activities are discussed in detail in different topics. By 2017 CE, the original project, Development of School Infrastructure as Learning Resource, had become almost organically embedded in regular school practices, even though it still lacked government funding. However, the government’s introduction of a two-year kindergarten system and the allocation of funds for creating learner-friendly, print-rich environments, closely mirroring the goals of our project, rekindled my hope that this long-standing voluntary initiative might eventually gain formal recognition and sustained support.
By 2018, the two-year kindergarten
system of pre-primary education had become fully operational in all government
schools across Sikkim. Some of the ICDS centres were also thoughtfully
relocated to more suitable locations to ensure that children aged four and five
had access to early childhood care and education. The provision of a print-rich
environment, however, remained mostly confined to kindergarten classrooms.
Even
after retirement, I remain quietly connected to this journey. I follow schools’
progress from afar, sharing their posts and photographs in the same Facebook
album where the initiative was first documented. The page Innovations in
Schools and the group Making the Dream Schools still exist - silent
witnesses to a chapter of change that many may not even remember started as a
voluntary effort.
And
yet, interestingly, to this day, no one has ever asked how such a quiet
transformation unfolded - without government funding, without official orders.
No one has paused to wonder who planted the first seed, or who gently nurtured
the movement that reshaped the face of Sikkimese government schools and gave
rise to a culture of learner-friendly, print-rich learning environments.
And
that’s perfectly fine.
Inspiring Classroom Wall. [Syaplay Sardaray SS, East Sikkim]
Because some revolutions don’t come with banners or headlines. Some just take root quietly, like children learning to read, like walls coming to life with colour and meaning, and grow stronger every day, simply because someone, somewhere, believed it was worth doing.
As I conclude this chapter on the
development of School Infrastructure as a Learning Resource, I feel the urge to
speak from the heart. During the later stages of the initiative, we
deliberately stopped using the term BaLA to describe the Development of
School Infrastructure as a Learning Resource. Instead, I reverted to the
original name, even though it was long and difficult to say for a few days,
because we were convinced that this single word, BaLA, had overshadowed the
entire story behind the years of effort, persistent perseverance, and countless
hours of planning and persuasion, all aimed at giving Sikkim’s children a
better place to learn and grow.
It felt as if our decade-long labour
had been tucked away under a convenient label, the richness of our journey
reduced to an acronym. The long, broad chalk line we had drawn with such care
seemed to vanish under the weight of the term, invisible to the casual eye.
And yet, for those who care to look
closely, the chalk line is still there - clear, unbroken, and indelible - etched
into the story of Sikkim’s schools. Time may soften memories, but it cannot
erase the truth of what was built, or why we built it.
&
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