Connecting Home and School

There was a time when knowledge didn’t wear spectacles, or sit behind desks. It walked barefoot beside us on cracked mud paths, whispering through corn stalks, hiding in wicker baskets, blooming under apple trees. Our parents—many of whom couldn’t write their names —were the finest vocational teachers we ever had. Not because they quoted Nund Reshi  or Lalded. But because they taught with their hands, their sweat, and their silences.

After school, we didn’t vanish into bedrooms. We were called outside.“To the orchard,” they’d say.“To the vegetable patch,” they’d point.

“Let’s bring the cattle back,” they’d whisper as the sky merged into dusk.

They handed us a sickle—not to scare, but to shape. A wicker basket—not to carry weight, but to carry wisdom.

Our homes were learning centres. The firewood had its rhythm. The seasons were textbooks. The smell of wet soil taught us more about patience than any preacher could. Our parents spoke of crops and seeds, of harvests and hunger, of rain that blessed and rain that betrayed.

And when an elder came to visit, our lesson changed. Reverence stood up with us. We were taught not to greet with lazy nods, but with our hearts. We called them Kak, Touth, Bab, Puph, Lala—names soaked in tenderness. Every syllable carried warmth, every gesture carried meaning.

In those days, a parent didn’t need a manual to be involved. They asked about our teachers. They visited school sometimes. They knew when we stumbled. And when we soared. They didn’t say “I love you” much—but their eyes stayed longer than screens, and their silences were never hollow.

And then, one day, everything changed. Quietly.

The fountain pen was tucked away, like an heirloom no one wanted. The Chelpark ink pot dried up. Books became burden. Ballpoints took over, then ballpoints gave way to keyboards, then keyboards to tapping fingers and glowing screens.

Now, gadgets hum louder than lullabies.

Evenings are quiet—not because there is peace—but because everyone is somewhere else. The child in the virtual maze, the parent in WhatsApp forwards.

The parent, once a partner in the learning process, is now absent. Doesn’t ask. Doesn’t listen. Doesn’t show up.

Seven parents came last time to attend Parent-Teacher meeting in my school. Out of sixty. Fifty-three children waited to be seen. Not by the teacher—they’re seen every day. But by the one who gave them life and then left them alone in the journey for growing up.

No one asks about marks. No one opens the school diary. No one asks, “How was your day? ”What happened to us?

When did sitting beside your child become less important than replying to a forward?

Dear Parent, You are needed. Not as a disciplinarian. Not as a financier. But as a presence.

Sit beside your child in the evening. Without scrolling. Without scolding. Just sit. Once the parents used to smile.

Let them tell you how the teacher smiled when they answered correctly.

Or how they were laughed at because their shoelace was untied.

These are their poems. Their sacred texts. Their truths.

Attend the Parent-Teacher Meeting. Don’t come to argue or justify. Come to listen. Come to care. Come to show your child that school and home are not islands—they are two banks of the same river. Let’s rebuild the bridge.

It’s not gone. Just forgotten. Like the scent of rain on dry earth. Like the softness of calling someone Lala.

Rebuild it—with time. With touch. With the willingness to be there.

Because in the end, the best school is still a home where someone listens.

And the best teacher is still a parent who cares.

The author is a teacher and author from Langate.