Let the paper planes fly high

SCHOOLS are like the elders of a household — silent witnesses to generations of stories, emotions and transformations. In the case of residential schools, this is even more profound. They are not just institutions of learning but living spaces that quietly nurture a thousand tales of growing up.

Having spent my senior secondary years in a hostel and now serving as a principal of a residential school, I often find myself bridging the gap between children’s silent struggles and the expectations of adults. One recent incident stirred this reflection.

It was an ordinary day until my office assistant arrived, slightly out of breath, informing me that a woman and an elderly man were waiting insistently to meet me. Moments later, they were seated in front of me — the woman visibly perturbed.

Without delay, she voiced her concern. They wanted the school newspaper subscription of their child, a Class VIII student, cancelled. I found the request baffling as the boy received the student edition of a leading daily. As an educator, I understand the immense value of newspapers in shaping young, curious minds. I asked the reason for their demand.

The mother explained that during the child’s recent summer vacation, she checked his bag and found newspapers folded into various shapes. She even produced a paper plane made from one of them, placing it on my desk as ‘evidence’. With indignation, she questioned whether newspapers were meant for academic enrichment or for crafting paper planes.

It wasn’t her anger that bothered me, but what it represented — a reflection of a system that increasingly views such innocent acts of childhood as misbehaviour. I gently asked her a simple question: Do you remember the last time you made a paper plane or a paper boat? She was taken aback and visibly irritated. I turned to the man and posed the same question. He smiled.

I followed up with another question: What exactly do you expect from a boy at his age? The reply was painful: “He behaves like a child. He needs counselling.”

What saddened me further was to learn that the mother herself was a teacher. It is disheartening that in today’s world, children are often burdened not only by academic pressures but also by the weight of adults’ expectations. In our pursuit of creating ideal report cards, we are perhaps robbing them of something far more precious — the simple, carefree joys of childhood.

I still remember the many creative uses we had for newspapers, from crafting toys to covering books, long before they were replaced by glossy, store-bought alternatives.

Before they left, I assured the woman that her son would conduct himself like a gentleman. As they departed, I quietly folded the paper plane and slipped it into my pocket, a silent promise to myself that I would continue to protect the childhood of students under my care. That in my school, the skies would always remain open for paper planes to fly high.

Musings