The first thing the girl does is find a place to sit where she can lean against the wall.
The second thing she does is make sure the boy is settled.
Only after that does she look up.
She is five. He is two.
It is raining. The roof of the Anganwadi Centre is tin. The sound fills the room.
There are twenty six children in the space today.
Children sit on the floor. Some face the front. Some keep turning around. A few stand up, then sit again.
The boy is asleep against the girl’s side. His head slips. Each time it does, she shifts her arm to hold it up. She does not look down.
The Anganwadi Worker reads from a book. She asks a question.
The girl raises her hand.
Before she speaks, she tightens her arm around the boy. Then she answers.
Water drips from the roof. A steel plate is placed underneath. It rings when the drops hit it.
Some children laugh. One child copies the sound.
The girl keeps looking at the book.
After the story, the Anganwadi Worker brings out green paint and thick paper.
Children line up. They press their fingers into the paint. Some smear it all over their hands. They are sent outside to wash.
The girl stays seated.
The boy wakes up. He stands. He takes a few steps and trips.
She catches him.
He cries for a moment. She lifts him and takes him outside. She wipes his nose. She comes back in.
She sits again.
The plate of paint moves down the line.
Someone says it is taking too long.
When the Anganwadi Worker reaches the girl, she bends down.
The girl shifts the boy higher on her lap.
She dips one finger into the paint. Presses it onto the paper. Then the next. Five times.
The worker takes the paper and adds it to the pile.
The girl wipes her fingers on the mat.
She does not ask for the paper.
Names are called. Children leave in small groups.
The girl waits until the room is almost empty.
She stands. Lifts the boy onto her hip. He wraps his legs around her.
They leave.
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Outside, the path is muddy. Women walk past carrying baskets. A baby sleeps tied to someone’s back.
The girl pauses to let a goat pass. Then she keeps walking.
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In another place, after Anganwadi hours, children wait near a wall.
Dust sticks to their legs.
Someone has biscuits. They are shared.
When tuition ends, bags are picked up. Hands reach for hands.
A boy lifts his younger sister onto his hip. His schoolbag slides down his back. He does not fix it.
They walk away.
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Behind a construction site, a girl cooks rice.
The pot is almost as big as she is.
A toddler sits on the floor hitting a spoon against a tin.
The girl stirs the rice. Turns off the stove. Serves food.
Before she eats, she brushes hair away from the toddler’s face.
They eat.
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In a learning center in the outskirts of Bangalore, children arrive in the morning.
Some come with parents. Many come with older siblings.
An older girl holds her brother’s hand while crossing the road.
Inside, she writes his name in the register. Fixes his collar. Ties his shoe.
She kisses his head and leaves.
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Back in Meghalaya, the girl reaches home.
She puts the boy down.
He runs inside.
She sits on the step.
She rubs her arm.
It is still raining.
She waits.
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We didn’t go looking for this.
It showed up on its own.
The first time, we thought it was just that day. That room. That child.
Then it happened again. And again.
Different places. Different months. Same small movements.
An older child choosing where to sit first. A hand adjusting weight before paying attention. Someone waiting because someone else couldn’t yet.
By the middle of the year, it stopped feeling like a detail. It felt like something we had been missing.
Once we noticed it, it followed us. We saw it everywhere we went.
Again and again, it was siblings holding childhood open.
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This piece is a part of Voices of Care, a Bachpan Manao Collabaction seeded by EkStep Foundation in 2024. It is an ongoing inquiry into the caregiving systems that shape childhood in India. By understanding what enables care to thrive, we uncover what allows children to flourish. This work is anchored by Devina S. at mudito.
This Slate Scribble from our Voices of Care series captures what we saw on the ground: a space that doesn’t just teach, but tends. Where education begins not with a textbook, but with a gesture. A glance. A question.
A deep thank you to the team at Sauramandala Foundation for hosting us in Meghalaya, and for folding us into the everyday rhythms of your work with such trust and warmth. Thank you for letting us listen, linger, and learn, for making space not just for our questions, but for our noticing.
We carry with us the smell of rain on tin roofs, the turmeric-stained palms, the gestures of care passed between siblings, and the feeling of having been briefly, generously, allowed into something deeply held.
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