A child spends nearly fifteen years in school — from the age of four until seventeen or eighteen. These are the years when the accumulated knowledge of past generations is passed down through lessons in mathematics, science, and literature. But these years are also meant for something deeper: learning how to live among others, how to behave, how to treat people with dignity, and how to take one’s place in society. This vital responsibility does not fall on “the system” in the abstract — it rests, quite directly, on the headmasters and principals who shape the culture of each school.

Good manners are not relics from an older, gentler age. They are the everyday habits that make society liveable. They are expressed in tone, in patience, in consideration, and in the small courtesies of daily life — saying “please,” “thank you,” and “sorry,” listening without interrupting, keeping one’s surroundings clean, and showing respect for others’ time and space. These are the foundations of a civilised personality.

Yet, when we step outside, the collapse of manners is impossible to ignore. People spit on roads, cycle or ride motorcycles on pavements meant for pedestrians, jump queues, arrive late without informing, and talk loudly on phones in public places. Many gossip freely, ignore messages, or dominate conversations. Some throw rubbish out of car windows, speak rudely to waiters and guards, or drive as though the rest of the world does not exist. Impatience at home, arrogance at work, and indifference on the streets have become everyday realities. These are not isolated flaws — they are signals of a society where courtesy has decayed.

And every time we see such behaviour, we must acknowledge an uncomfortable truth: somewhere earlier in life, a headmaster or principal failed this individual. Of course, parents, relatives, media, political culture, and society at large shape behaviour. But the school years — the one structured period of a child’s life — exist precisely to prepare them for adult citizenship. If a grown man spits on the road or jumps a queue, if a young man cycles recklessly on the pavement, if a working adult shouts, blames, litters, or bullies, it means that the school where they spent fifteen years did not succeed in forming their character. The school’s leadership failed to make manners a priority. The child passed exams, but did not pass the far more important test of courtesy.

This responsibility begins with teachers, but it is set and enforced by the headmaster. Teachers must be role models of good manners — polite, patient, respectful in their tone, and composed under pressure. Before expecting children to behave well, every teacher should ask: Am I the example they instinctively admire? We do not learn manners by obeying rules; we learn them by admiring people. When a child sees an adult behaving with quiet dignity, speaking gently, or helping without being asked, admiration becomes imitation. That is how manners root themselves in character.

But for teachers to play this role, headmasters must make it a central expectation. Schools should organise regular workshops on manners — not only for students, but for teachers and parents as well. Adults need reminders that courtesy begins with example. The tone of a school mirrors the conduct of its leadership. If the headmaster speaks with calm authority, treats staff respectfully, and creates an atmosphere of order and dignity, the entire institution reflects that culture. If the leadership tolerates shouting, humiliation, and indifference, students will absorb those behaviours instead.

Schools can go further by creating their own learning materials — videos, posters, stories, or classroom activities — showing examples of good and bad manners suited to different age groups. This can evolve into a core subject shaped by teachers themselves, one that transforms the school’s environment and quietly influences each child who walks through its gates. The change does not happen through rules; it happens through culture. And culture is created by leadership.

Good manners have nothing to do with religion, rituals, or forced obedience. They are not patriotic slogans or compulsory songs. They are simply the daily discipline of living courteously in an increasingly crowded, impatient, and competitive world. In a society where cities are bursting and tempers run short, manners are not optional — they are essential.

India has built digital classrooms, smart labs, and modern campuses. But without courtesy, all this learning stands on weak foundations. A well-mannered young person — one who speaks softly, listens patiently, respects others, and carries himself with dignity — is the finest outcome a school can deliver. And that outcome depends overwhelmingly on the headmaster’s vision and commitment.

If our school heads make manners a priority, they will achieve something far more valuable than producing toppers: they will shape responsible citizens for a civilised nation.

If all schools teach from the same books and prepare for the same exams, what makes one school “premium”?

One often wonders what truly distinguishes the so-called “premium” schools of India—those branded, high-fee institutions—from the regular, government-aided or modest private schools that serve most of our children. On the surface, both follow the same prescribed syllabus, set either by the state or national boards. Both are judged by the same public examinations. And both proudly advertise their results as proof of excellence.

If that is so, where exactly does the distinction lie? Shouldn’t elite schools, which charge parents so much more, be doing something beyond what every ordinary school is required to do?

It is high time our educators faced this uncomfortable question. Teaching to the syllabus and producing good exam results is the minimum obligation of any school. It is the foundation—but it cannot be the ceiling. Every school, especially those that call themselves “premium,” should design and nurture its own core curriculum: a distinctive body of learning experiences, values, and exposures that shape students beyond the exam hall.

The idea is not new. Columbia University in the United States has, for over a century, required every student—regardless of major—to complete a unique “Core Curriculum” that emphasizes reading, debate, and exposure to great ideas in literature, science, philosophy, and the arts. Each year, the curriculum evolves; yet its purpose remains the same—to produce thoughtful citizens, not just trained specialists.

Why should Indian schools not do the same? Imagine each school in India—public or private—having the freedom and courage to create its own curriculum that complements the official syllabus. One school might design a reading-based core where students read a dozen carefully chosen books each year, drawn from world literature and Indian writing. Another might focus on environmental exploration, local heritage, or the art of scientific inquiry. The possibilities are endless.

Yes, it requires more work. Teaching from a ready-made textbook is easy; crafting a living, evolving curriculum demands creativity, collaboration, and conviction. It means finding teachers who are curious themselves—teachers who read, who think, who can invite guest speakers and plan projects that expand students’ horizons.

Parents, too, must begin to ask this question when choosing schools for their children: What is your school’s own curriculum? What will my child learn here that they would not learn elsewhere? When schools can answer that confidently, they will have earned the right to call themselves “premium.”

In the end, education is not about marks—it is about meaning. The best schools will be those that prepare young people to think, question, and grow in mind and spirit. It is time we built schools that stand for something more than their board exam results—and reclaimed the true purpose of schooling: to awaken the intellect, enlarge the imagination, and build character through ideas that last a lifetime.

In today’s India, we often speak about the future — of the nation, of our children, of society. But who truly shapes this future? Not politicians or industrialists, not even scientists, but the school teacher. The teacher stands between the wisdom of past generations and the potential of the next. Every lesson is more than mathematics or history; it is preparation for life.

And yet, one truth troubles us: very few teachers in India are serious readers of good books. They earn their degrees, secure positions, and enter classrooms with the mindset of salaried employees. Teaching becomes a job, not a calling. But teaching is not like any other profession. It does not produce goods or services — it produces generations of citizens.

A teacher who does not read is like a doctor who never updates his knowledge. Reading is the lifeblood of teaching. It should extend far beyond textbooks — into history, philosophy, literature, science, and biography. Only then can teachers broaden the horizons of their students.

Children quickly sense whether a teacher is intellectually alive. A line from Gandhi, a story from Tagore, or an image from Carl Sagan brings lessons alive. That spark comes only from reading. Without it, teaching slips into rote instruction — dull, mechanical, uninspiring.

Sadly, our schools are filled with teachers who stop at the syllabus. The lesson ends where the exam begins. Only a handful inspire beyond the textbook. A recent case illustrates this decline: a century-old public school advertised for a headmaster. Over 200 applied, but not one stood out for vision or scholarship. The final choice was made not for intellectual merit, but for institutional familiarity. This shows how shallow our pool of committed educators has become.

The consequences are serious. If teachers are not readers, students are denied role models. They may earn degrees, but they will not learn to think critically or imagine boldly. The teacher is the living textbook. Students may forget details of lessons, but they never forget a teacher’s example of curiosity and depth. If teachers stop reading, we risk raising generations equally uninspired.

We must revive a culture of reading among teachers. Schools should encourage them to read at least one serious book a month, and hold discussions around it. Training programs should include exposure to literature, philosophy, and history. Teacher book clubs and reading circles should be as common as student activities. Above all, society must respect teaching as a vocation that demands constant learning, and provide libraries, resources, and time for it.

To every teacher reading this: when did you last pick up a book outside your subject? If the answer troubles you, let that discomfort spark change. Read not for exams or promotions, but for your own growth and for your students.

India’s future depends on what kind of teachers its children meet. If teachers rediscover the joy of reading, they will once again become intellectual leaders. Let this issue be a challenge: pick up a book, read it, and share it with your students. In doing so, you light the path for the nation’s future.  For in every classroom, the teacher’s mind becomes the seedbed of the nation’s destiny.

In India, parents play an outsized role in shaping their children’s early education. They are the most visible, vocal, and invested stakeholders in school life. This raises the central question: Are parents really the best guides for education, or do they sometimes hinder more than help?

Parents care deeply about their children and want them to succeed. Many sacrifice personal comforts to secure admission to a “good” school, attend meetings, monitor homework, and even provide extra tutoring. Up to Class 10 or 12, their attention can be obsessive. Conversations at home revolve around marks, ranks, and comparisons. At times, parents even try to live out their own unfulfilled dreams through their children — pushing them into medicine, engineering, or government service, regardless of the child’s own interests.

But the picture changes after school. The same parents who tracked every single mark often stop paying attention once the child enters college. This is puzzling, because college is when real education begins — when students specialise, think critically, and prepare for their future.

Even more troubling is the treatment of non-STEM subjects. Parents frequently dismiss the humanities and arts with the question, “What job will you get?” In doing so, they discourage curiosity and exploration. With all the obsession about scoring well in school or clearing competitive exams, parents rarely encourage genuine interest in a subject. This leaves students well-trained to crack tests but poorly prepared to think deeply, creatively, or independently.

Of course, not all parents fit this mould. Many do encourage independent choices, support unconventional careers, and nurture curiosity. And given the intense competition in India, it is understandable that parents push hard to ensure a secure career. But concern must not slip into control.
What we need is a shift: parents must move from being supervisors of marks to partners in learning. This means asking children what they understood, not just what they scored. It means talking about ideas, books, and current events at home, and above all, knowing when to step back and let children make their own choices.

Schools also have a role to play. By celebrating creativity, projects, and problem-solving alongside marks, they can help parents broaden their own definitions of success.

In the end, parents are not always the best guides if their role is limited to pressure and control. But they can be the best guides if they walk alongside their children — supporting, encouraging, and trusting them to find their own way.

And perhaps this is the real question parents must ask themselves: How far might my child have gone if I had not interfered in their choices? Many children, if left free to pursue what truly fascinates them, could discover talents, passions, and careers that parents themselves never imagined.

Parents must remember that they are not the sole guardians of a child’s journey in life. They are companions for a time — but the journey belongs to the child. The greatest gift a parent can give is not direction but freedom, not control but trust.