Eight-year-old Zubair preferred the streets to the classroom. The narrow lanes of his Kolkata neighbourhood were his playground, a place where he could run without fear of making mistakes. But inside the school walls, it was different. Letters swam on the page. Numbers blurred together. When the teacher asked him to read aloud, his stomach twisted. He mumbled, stumbled, and then fell silent. The classroom felt
too big, the whispers of his classmates too loud. He wished he could disappear.
At home, his father, a daily laborer, left early for work, and his mother, busy with household chores, had little time to check whether he had gone to school. So most days, he didn’t.
The teacher called his name. Zubair’s heart pounded. He stared at the letters on the page-blurred and intimidating. His hands clenched into fists under the desk. ‘Read, Zubair,’ the teacher urged. His throat tightened. He mumbled a word, stumbled, and then fell silent. The classroom felt too big, the whispers of his classmates too loud. He kept his eyes fixed on the desk, wishing the moment would pass.
Then, one morning, the school announced a three-day reading camp, organized by Vikramshila and supported by ITC. Instead of the usual textbooks and worksheets, the camp offered a treasure trove of engaging and interactive activities aimed at making the learning experience both enjoyable and impactful. Teachers encouraged all students to attend. Zubair ignored it-school wasn’t for him. But the teachers insisted. So, reluctantly, he went.
The first morning felt like any other school day. Kids slumped in their seats; latecomers sneaked in quietly. Zubair sat at the back, arms crossed, waiting for the day to drag by. Then, something unexpected happened. A teacher pulledout a bag and asked a student to reach inside without looking. ‘Guess what’s inside just by feeling it,’ she said. Giggles erupted as the student hesitated. ‘An apple?’ ‘No, try again!’
Laughter rippled through the room.
Zubair leaned forward. Then, it was his turn. He reached in, fingers brushing against something round and smooth. ‘A marble!’ he shouted, his voice clear for the first time that day. Interactive games like “Action Song” and “Name Clapping” turned learning into a fun and enjoyable.
By the second day, something shifted. Instead of dragging their feet, the children arrived 20 minutes early. Instead of silence, there was laughter. Instead of textbooks, they played word games and letter puzzles. Zubair discovered that he liked matching words with pictures. He liked writing on the blackboard with colorful chalk. For the first time, learning didn’t feel like something to be afraid of.
On the third day, as the last session was winding down, the teacher clapped her hands. ‘Time to wrap up!’
‘No!’ came a voice from the back. The room turned to look. It was Zubair. His eyes, once wary, now shone with excitement. ‘You teach, we will go home late,’ he said.
The room burst into laughter, but behind the laughter was something more—an unspoken truth. The boy who once ran from learning was now the one asking for more. His words reflected the deep engagement and enjoyment the children were experiencing, showing just how much they valued their time in the process of new learning.
After the camp, Zubair started showing up at school regularly. He raised his hand more often. He read aloud with confidence. His story proves that when learning is joyful, children don’t need to be forced into classrooms—they walk in on their own.
If three days could change Zubair’s world, imagine what a lifetime of joyful learning could do for millions of children like him. What if classrooms weren’t just places of rules and repetition but spaces where children ran toward learning instead of away from it? Zubair’s story is not just his own—it is a glimpse into what education can be when curiosity is set free.
This story grew slowly—through conversations, laughter, and long pauses with early years teachers who welcomed me into their classrooms
and their memories. I began by wanting to write about joyful classrooms. What I ended up learning was something deeper: that joy isn’t a
strategy. It’s how trust, freedom, and play come together when we let children lead—and when adults are willing to join them.
I’m grateful to every teacher who spoke with me, and to the children whose joy quietly steered this story from the background. This piece is just the beginning of a longer listening journey I hope to continue.
About the Author
Subrato Mukherjee is dedicated to creating meaningful change through advocacy, strategic networking, capacity building, and innovative program development. Skilled in documentation and creative design, Subrato uses tools like posters and narratives to enhance communication and engagement effectively.
About the Storytelling Fellowship
This fellowship was created to give people working at the heart of social change a rare space to pause, reflect, and write—not reports or case studies, but real stories. Ten fellows came together to explore what it means to witness, to listen, and to share experiences that are often left unseen. With time, mentorship, and care, they shaped narratives that move beyond data or impact statements—stories that evoke, that remind us what it truly means to care, to act, and to stay present
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