Many of my teacher friends will perhaps remember how often I spoke about the stages of a child’s learning. I would say, almost insistently, that childhood unfolds in quiet phases: up to the age of eight, a child must learn to read; by nine, the child should begin reading to learn. Whenever primary teachers truly understood this transition, their classrooms seemed to find their rhythm, and their children flourished. It was never a slogan for me, but a deeply held belief shaped by years of watching young minds struggle, or soar, depending on how firmly reading had taken root.
By the time a child reaches Grade 3, reading ceases to be a mechanical exercise of decoding letters and syllables; it becomes the gateway to all future learning. This is the moment when a child is expected to read to understand the world, not merely to pronounce words. When reading has settled confidently by then, everything changes - instructions no longer confuse, textbooks feel less forbidding, curiosity finds its path, and imagination learns to stretch its wings. But when reading remains fragile at this stage, every subject quietly turns into an uphill climb. The damage is subtle but profound: confidence erodes, interest wanes, and a child begins to doubt their own abilities long before anyone pauses to notice. Grade 3 stands at this tender crossroads, where fluent reading can anchor an entire academic journey and shape a child’s lifelong relationship with learning. To nurture reading at this moment is to offer not just literacy, but dignity, independence, and the courage to ask, to understand, and to dream.
I have always seen myself as a sensitive and responsive educational worker - someone who listens carefully, reflects deeply, and feels compelled to act when something seems amiss. It was perhaps this sensitivity that made the murmurs of 2015 so unsettling. A troubling rumour began to circulate across Sikkim, whispered at first, then spoken aloud in meetings, that a child in Grade 5 could not read a text meant for Grade 2. The remark travelled quickly, finding its way into media discussions, conferences, and casual conversations. Each repetition felt like a quiet blow, not only to the system but to those of us who had devoted ourselves to strengthening it. Beneath the embarrassment lay a deeper pain - the fear that somewhere along the way, we had failed to protect that fragile, crucial bridge between learning to read and reading to learn.
It was painful - so painful, in fact, that I couldn’t let it pass as just another baseless comment. I began tracing its source. Eventually, I discovered it wasn’t a rumour at all. The data had come from the ASER 2014 Sikkim Rural report, and when I studied the findings in detail, my heart sank.
The statistics were alarming. In 2008, around 63.8% of Grade 3 students in rural Sikkim could read a Grade 1-level text. By 2014, that number had fallen to 48.3%. Similarly, the percentage of Grade 5 students who could read a Grade 2-level text had dropped from 61.0% to just 43.4%. The trend was clear: reading skills among our children were deteriorating, year after year.
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| ASER 2014 |
It was during those days that I felt compelled, whenever I had the chance to visit schools, a privilege seldom exercised by officers at the state headquarters, to sit with the youngest learners in the primary classes. The ASER report was still fresh in my mind, and I would often ask children to read aloud or work through simple sums. In truth, I had always done this, long before ASER, simply because I found a quiet joy in it - listening to their hesitant voices, watching their faces light up when they solved a problem, or gently nudging them forward when they faltered.
But now, the same activities carried a different weight. They were no longer just moments of personal joy but also acts of quiet inquiry. And amid the laughter and innocence, I made a sobering discovery that echoed the ASER findings: many children in Classes IV and V could barely read anything beyond the familiar pages of their textbooks. The world of words outside those prescribed lessons remained, for most of them, a door firmly closed.
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| Assessing students’ reading ability at Chujachen SSS, East Sikkim |
It was a wake-up call. I began to think seriously about what could be done - something that would emphasise reading not as a technical skill, but as a celebrated, public, and emotionally meaningful practice. That’s how the idea of a Reading Competition for early-grade students first took root in my mind. And since I wanted it to extend beyond the classroom, to bring in families, teachers, and the wider community, I deliberately called it the Community Reading Competition.
On July 4th, 2016, I sat at my desk, quietly contemplating whether it was the right moment to share an idea that had long taken root in my mind - an idea not driven by policy directives but by a deep, personal conviction about children, reading, and community. That evening, I updated my Facebook series TRY IT & PROVE IT. Some of my friends on Facebook might still remember this little experiment of mine. It was my modest way of putting new pedagogical ideas into the public space - ideas that could be tested, refined, and perhaps even transformed into practice.
I looked at them and said, perhaps more firmly than they had anticipated:
“I’ve already been invited elsewhere. But I will cancel that invitation - if you can agree to one condition.”
They were taken aback. Rarely, if ever, does a guest put conditions before organisers. One of them finally asked, half-curious and half-anxious, “What condition, sir?”
I replied, “You must include a reading competition for the students of grades 3 and 4. Even if there’s no time to involve neighbouring schools, at least let your own students participate.”
The room suddenly grew quiet as the teachers exchanged uncertain whispers. I could sense their hesitation. After all, it wasn’t easy to say ‘no’ to a condition placed by their Deputy Director. For a moment, I almost felt they were regretting inviting me as a guest at all. I understood their worry - government schools always ran short of funds, and a new competition meant extra expenses, especially for prizes.
Leaning forward, I tried to ease their concern. With a smile, I said, “Don’t worry about the prizes. I’ll take care of that.”
It was as if a weight had been lifted. Their tense faces softened, and in no time, smiles broke out - those unmistakable smiles of relief that say, “Ah, now this is manageable.” One of them even chuckled under his breath, and I thought to myself, perhaps now they’re glad they invited me after all.
That was the very first time I spoke publicly about what I later called the Community Reading Competition. In that Facebook post, I outlined not only the concept but also the practical ways it could be organised - especially during community events like Bhanu Jayanti celebrations. What began that evening, in a modest living room conversation, was the seed of an idea that would slowly grow roots in the years to come.
Readers should note that, even before this initiative, Sikkim already had the practice of involving school children in Bhanu Jayanti celebrations - beginning with the traditional Shova Yatra procession and extending to in-hall events such as Ramayan Path Pratiyogita, self-composed poetry recitations, folk dance performances, and literary or vocabulary quizzes. However, these activities were not designed as compulsory competitions for all students, nor were they aligned with specific grade levels or curricular expectations.
Just three days later, on 7th July 2016, I posted another update further elaborating on the idea. In that post, I discussed the benefits of organising such reading competitions among students, and I also revealed where the first such program in Sikkim would be launched. That post still lives quietly on my page - a digital milestone marking the day a small, silent movement for community-engaged reading began.
A Facebook post on the Community Reading Competition initiative
The very next day, Friday, 8th July 2016, I felt a stirring that I couldn’t ignore. The idea I had quietly introduced a few days earlier was beginning to gather momentum, at least in my heart. It deserved more than a single post. It needed to be extended as a collective appeal - an open call to schools, educators, and all who cared about children and their learning. So, I turned once again to Facebook and posted a message. It wasn’t an announcement. It was a heartfelt invitation. The post read:
There was no formal tone, no official jargon. Just the voice of an educator reaching out to fellow educators, hoping they would see the value in letting children be heard. I wanted them to understand: no circular was needed, no funding sanctioned - only the will to let children read, and the courage to make that act visible, joyful, and public.
And it did go beautifully.
Just a few days later, on July 13th, during Bhanu Jayanti, the first Community Reading Competition took place at Lower Perbing Government Junior High School. My wife kindly agreed to sponsor the prizes for both the English and Nepali reading categories - a gesture that added warmth and encouragement to the event.
But no trophy or certificate could match what I felt in that moment: children, some timid, some confident, standing in front of a gathering, reading aloud with pride in their voices. Their words carried through the loudspeakers across the school grounds, reaching the ears - and hearts - of teachers, parents, and invited guests.
You can picture any public program at a typical village school in the Sikkim hills. Most schools, whether big or small, had a playground that served as the venue. All the events for the day would be held on the playground. On one side, a temporary stage would be set up for VIPs and invited guests, while the rest of the ground remained open for villagers and spectators. Well before the program started, villagers would begin gathering, each eager to secure the best spot.
The most coveted places were not on the ground itself, but on the slopes overlooking the field. Those grassy hillocks offered a far better view than any gallery could. Families would spread themselves out comfortably, children running about as elders claimed their patches of ground. Of course, the latecomers had to settle for whatever space was left, often with only a partial view of the playground.
It was, in every sense, a first-come, first-served arrangement. And, as always, there were a few clever ones who sent a family member early in the morning to ‘reserve’ a good spot, only to arrive much later themselves - smiling as they claimed the space that others had quietly envied.
The chief guest and dignitaries arrived, and the program began with its usual formality. Though I was seated as one of the guests, I quietly slipped into another role - that of a photographer. With my Nikon D5200 hanging from my neck, I moved about capturing moments. I did this not just out of habit, but because hidden within the schedule was something deeply personal to me: the Community Reading Competition.
I may not have recognised every child by face, but I knew their parents well - we belonged to the same village. As the competition unfolded, my eyes drifted from the playground to the crowd. Parents leaned forward, some anxious, some visibly proud. For many, it was the first time they were seeing their children read aloud in public. A few faces flushed with embarrassment when their little ones stumbled, while others lit up with joy as their children read with clarity and confidence.
Watching them, a thought stirred within me: Tonight, these parents will speak differently to their children. Not about homework left undone, nor about marks in the exam, but about how beautifully - or bravely - they had read. In that shift, however small, I felt the essence of what I had always believed: that reading, once seen not as a burden but as a living skill, could truly begin to be cherished.
Officers from the Human Resource Development Department had also come as judges, lending a certain formality and weight to the event. Their presence was felt, especially by the teachers. Some seemed uneasy, aware that not all their students were reading fluently. But that unease had a purpose. It reminded us all that we could not remain complacent.
That afternoon, in a humble village school, something shifted. A simple, voluntary idea, born out of concern and hope, had come to life. The Community Reading Competition had touched parents, teachers, students, and officials alike. It had shown us that reading needn’t stay hidden behind classroom walls. It could be celebrated. Shared. Heard.
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| Winning Student Receiving Prize at Lower Perbing JHS |
Yet, one regret has always lingered in my mind. At that time, children’s books in Nepali were simply not available in the market. So even the winners of the Nepali reading competition received books in English. To this day, I carry a quiet guilt about that. Sikkim, despite its rich linguistic heritage, had a painful scarcity of children’s reading materials in Nepali, while English books were available in abundance.
A few days later, as I walked through the village, I happened to meet the mother of one of the winners. She stopped me with a smile and shared something that left me speechless. Her son, she said, had clutched his prize the moment he reached home and began reading it with unshakable focus. He read through the evening and kept going late into the night, until his father finally scolded him to put the book down and go to bed. The boy agreed - only after his father promised to sit beside him the next day until he finished the story. That night, he placed the book tenderly beside his pillow, as if it were a beloved companion.
For me, that story was worth more than any formal recognition or official success. It was proof - living, breathing proof - that a book in the hands of a child could ignite something powerful and enduring. For a die-hard educator like me, it was one of those rare, heartwarming moments that reaffirm why I chose this path in the first place.
As enthusiasm grew, I began promoting the idea more widely. Its flexibility made it easy to adopt. In schools with larger student numbers, it could be held class-wise. In smaller schools, two or three classes could be combined. Schools with a house system could conduct inter-house competitions. And as more educators reached out, it became clear that the model could scale - inter-school, inter-cluster, inter-block, inter-district, and even state-level competitions were entirely possible.
The word “community” in the competition’s name was never ornamental. It was intentional. I encouraged schools to integrate these reading events into major public celebrations, Bhanu Jayanti, Independence Day, Republic Day, and Annual Day. Students would read aloud, preferably from storybooks, newspapers, or other supplementary materials - on a mic or loudspeaker, in front of an audience of parents and community members. And where possible, parents themselves would serve as judges.
It wasn’t just about student participation. It was about community ownership.
What began with a Facebook post and one village school grew into something far bigger than I’d imagined. And it reaffirmed something I have long believed: when education reaches the heart of the community, learning is no longer just an institutional effort - it becomes a shared celebration.
I forgot to mention an early and significant moment - an encouraging surprise that arrived almost immediately after my public appeal on Facebook. On 9th July 2016, just a day after the post, Phalaichadara Government Junior High School organised an Inter-House Reading Competition, becoming the first school - outside of my direct influence - to put the idea into action. The then headteacher, Mr Suraj Kumar Sharma, sent me photographs of the event, which I proudly shared on Facebook the very next day, 10th July 2016. It felt like the first echo of a larger movement.
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| Reading Competition at Phalaichadara JHS |
And then, in the days and weeks that followed, something wonderful began to unfold.
The Community Reading Competition, which had begun as a modest pilot in one village school, began to ripple outward. Messages started arriving in my inbox - some from headteachers, others from grassroots educators, and even district officers. Some had heard about the event at Lower Perbing; others had seen the photos and updates on my Facebook page. A few reached out for guidance on organising it; others wrote simply to say, “We loved the idea. We’re going to try it in our school.”
It was deeply humbling.
At that time, two major voluntary projects were already underway in Sikkimese schools - the Development of School Infrastructure as Learning Resource and the Reading Corner initiative. With the Community Reading Competition, I was knowingly adding yet another layer of voluntary effort onto already burdened schools. I was fully aware that, to some, this might feel like an extra load - just one more responsibility. But I couldn’t help myself. I believed in the idea too deeply.
And I didn’t just advocate for the concept - I lived it. I shared suggestions, offered practical guidance, told stories, and encouraged schools to adapt the model to their unique contexts. Whether it was a large public event or a quiet classroom activity, I always emphasised the need for a basic structure. Even the smallest of incentives, a pencil, an eraser, or a handmade badge, could light up a child’s face and spark motivation.
I suggested that teachers could keep it simple: invite a colleague during a free period or ask the headteacher to serve as a judge. It didn’t require elaborate planning or financial resources. What it needed was intention, sincerity, and belief in children’s potential.
I also encouraged schools to go a step further by forming junior reading clubs - groups of students who would take ownership of the reading corners. These young volunteers could help maintain the space, organise the books, and support their peers, thereby easing the burden on teachers while fostering a culture of shared responsibility and pride in their learning environment.
In every suggestion, my goal was simple: make reading visible, joyful, and sustainable - not through formal orders, but through shared effort and collective will.
What struck me most was that the initiative didn’t spread because of official mandates or government letters. It spread because people connected with its spirit. Teachers, already managing heavy responsibilities, still found the energy to organise these events. Headteachers, juggling limited resources, somehow made space in their calendars. And across communities, parents showed up - not out of formality, but with pride, to see their own children read aloud in public.
One message in particular still lingers in my mind. A teacher from a remote school in West Sikkim wrote to me:
“Sir, we conducted our first Community Reading Competition last week during the Independence Day program. I never imagined reading could generate so much excitement. One mother cried when her son read fluently. She told me it was the first time she saw him doing anything like that in public.”
It was stories like these that kept me going. The initiative wasn’t just an event. It had become a felt experience - one that touched emotions, shifted mindsets, and made education visible. When that happens, learning transcends obligation. It becomes a celebration.
Gradually, the voice of the Community Reading Competition also reached the schools that were the victims of the digital divide. They also began adopting the model formally. In some schools, competitions were held quarterly. Others began integrating them into regular morning assemblies. A few schools introduced reading badges and certificates. These were not government schemes. They were organic outcomes, driven by the shared belief that children deserved the joy of reading aloud and being heard.
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| Reading competitions started gaining momentum |
Of course, there were challenges. The Community Reading Competition was never a government-sanctioned program, so schools that opted not to adopt it couldn’t be questioned or held accountable. There were no official directives, no circulars, no monitoring or reporting requirements - only trust, goodwill, and voluntary effort. The same had happened with earlier initiatives, too. In such cases, the only force that sometimes worked was peer influence. And when even that failed, the only option left was not to walk away, but to persist, to keep making the effort regardless.
In several instances, particularly during large public events held on school grounds, the headteachers struggled to convince organising committees to include the reading competition as part of the agenda. Sometimes, they were simply overruled. Other times, they didn’t push too hard, fearing resistance or misunderstanding. As a result, participation began to vary widely. Some schools embraced the initiative wholeheartedly; others remained indifferent. Slowly, this created visible gaps across the system—some schools were nurturing a culture of joyful reading, while others continued as before.
What troubled me more was the silence at the policy level. Despite growing public concerns, especially among political leaders who had begun quoting ASER survey findings about low reading levels, there was no official acknowledgement of the initiative. It seemed the system had either underestimated the seriousness of the problem or assumed it would resolve itself with time. In either case, the Community Reading Competition remained absent from the decision-making tables.
Still, I pressed on.
Many schools, once they experienced its impact, began to internalise it. What started as an idea began to take root in school cultures - not overnight, but slowly, steadily. Some made it a part of their annual routine. Others kept it alive through morning assemblies or regular classroom practice. The movement grew - not by decree, but by conviction.
In the beginning, I sometimes feared that I might never be able to take the magic - the honest, heartwarming charm of hearing a child read - to the ears that mattered most. It wasn’t about flawless diction or perfect rhythm. It was about genuineness - a child reading aloud, a little unsure, a little shy, but trying. Each reading, no matter how modest, was a quiet declaration: I am learning. I have a voice.
Ironically, even though the initiative never entered any formal reform document, it began to align seamlessly with larger educational priorities, like the Reading Corner Initiative. Around the same time, the national conversation around Foundational Literacy and Numeracy (FLN) began gaining serious momentum, eventually becoming a cornerstone of the National Education Policy (NEP) 2020. My humble effort wasn’t born from policy, but in spirit, it echoed the same belief: that every child must learn to read with understanding by the end of Grade 3 or 4.
Now, in retirement, between bouts of writing and moments of frustration with the computer keyboard, I often find myself aimlessly scrolling through Facebook on my phone. That’s when I come across photos of reading competitions being organised in schools - quiet reminders of an initiative that once began as a simple idea. Each image pulls me back to those early days, leaving me with a silent sigh of satisfaction.
The idea of using reading competitions as a pedagogical tool was still a relatively new experiment in schools. True, history records library-led competitions - the first in Germany in 1959, followed by Jamaica in 1988, and later the United Kingdom in 1999. But these were mostly community or library-based initiatives, not part of formal classroom practice. Against this backdrop, when we organised a reading competition at Lower Perbing Government Junior High School in South Sikkim on July 13th, 2016, it felt like more than just a small school event.
At the time, it never felt like anything remarkable. It was simply one more small attempt to make learning a little more alive for children - an effort to draw their parents and the wider community into the classroom, not as spectators, but as quiet partners in a shared responsibility. The aim was modest and clear: to help children find their way into reading, to become fluent and confident by the time they reached Grade Four.
Only much later did the larger meaning begin to reveal itself. What had taken shape in the unassuming setting of a village school was, unbeknownst to me, echoing ideas that were gaining ground far beyond our hills. When I look back now, the feeling that surfaces is not pride, but gratitude - gratitude for the reminder that meaningful change does not always announce itself with fanfare. Sometimes, it grows out of ordinary classroom needs, nurtured by concern, and sharpened by the sobering truths laid bare in reports like ASER. And sometimes, those simplest of beginnings carry a weight and relevance far greater than we ever imagined at the moment of their birth.
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| Reading Aloud Activity at Singpheng Primary School |
What began as a simple idea - born of concern, shaped by daily observation, and offered with nothing more than quiet hope - slowly found its way into the lives of children, teachers, and communities. I carry a deep sense of indebtedness to the teachers who trusted it, the headteachers who created space for it, and the parents who sat patiently, listened, and chose to participate. Without their faith and willingness, the Community Reading Competition might have remained no more than a passing thought scribbled in a notebook or a forgotten post on my Facebook timeline. Instead, when I look back today, I see it as a firm chalk line drawn across the broader canvas of Sikkim’s educational journey - a small, humble stroke perhaps, yet one that has quietly left its mark on the unfolding story of progress.
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