Tsering Wangmo's teachers were the mountains of Uleytopko. The isolated village 70km from Leh had no school, and she taught her son Sonam Wangchuk all she knew till he was seven: told him stories, sang him little songs, and showed him how to grow food and fleece sheep.
What Wangmo could not teach him, village life did. "I was lucky there was no school, says Wangchuk, 35, who is now synonymous with excellence in education in the Ladakh region of Jammu and Kashmir. "It would have killed my confidence." The village still has no school.
His memories of 18 months of school while staying with his uncle in Nubra Valley—150km from home—are the caning and the agony of having to learn by rote. He joined class one, and finished the year in class three, where children of his age sat. It was "chanting, chanting and chanting", he recollects stringing along words in class. "If it was the Gita or the Koran I would have benefited spiritually."
In 1975, his father, Congressman Sonam Wangyal, became a minister and Wangchuk moved with him to capital Srinagar—paradise on earth to the world, but hell to Wangchuk. The Kendriya Vidyalaya there had classes in English, Hindi and Urdu—a Babel of words to the boy from Ladakh. He felt more humiliated when insensitive teachers kept him out of the classroom.
To make matters worse, Wangchuk developed boils due to migration from the cold mountains to the valley. "I felt like an untouchable," he says about the prolonged isolation.
The simpleton was the butt of jokes in the class. When a boy boasted
of being first in rank, Wangchuk retorted that he had come 31st—a higher rank! Looking back, Wangchuk says his only gain from those three years in school was a smattering of Hindi and English.
Sick of the school, the 12-year-old boarded a train for the first time and travelled alone to Delhi to join the Vishesh Kendriya Vidyalaya for children from the border areas. It was not admission time, yet the young boy pleading his own case probably melted the principal's resistance.
For the first time in years, Wangchuk felt good about the whole thing. "In Srinagar, I was a dumb boy from Ladakh who could not speak Hindi or English. I was insulted, and I had no desire but to commit suicide," he says. "So I was happy to be in a school in Delhi."
In the very first week in Delhi, the class seven back-bencher hesitantly raised his hand to a question posed by a teacher. He knew the answer, as he had spent three months in class seven in Srinagar. The dumb boy now became "that bright boy from class seven".
But he felt insecure. The portions he had learnt in Srinagar were getting over. Desperate, he worked hard to learn other portions in advance so that he could retain the confidence of the teachers.
"I could have done it in Srinagar as well, but only the craft teacher spoke to me in a civilised manner," says Wangchuk, pointing out that a gentle nudge or an encouraging word could make all the difference in a child's world. "I worked hard to please him and even now I am good with my hands."
Teachers in Delhi always lent him a helping hand. In one of the weekly inter-class competitions, and later the inter-school competitions, a teacher egged him on for declamation. "I was nervous, but he pulled me into debates, dramatics and a host of co-curricular activities. I did well at them and started flowering from then on," he looks back with modesty. By now, Wangchuk knew what the ranking system was all about: he came third in a class of 40. He attributes it all to the "good teachers" in the school.
His craving for excellence, however, became a stumbling block at times. He wanted to repeat class X so that he would have a thorough knowledge of the subjects. His father fumed. "He could not appreciate my desire to learn properly," says Wangchuk. "Daddy had his way and I passed with 58 per cent." But he re-studied all the lessons.
After doing class 12 at Model Academy in Jammu, Wangchuk focused, for a while, on concave mirrors. He wanted to use them to light up the dark buildings around, and for cooking. An engineer-uncle told him that he would be able to do all that if he did mechanical engineering. He enrolled at the Regional Engineering College in Srinagar, but his father wanted him to opt for civil
engineering with an eye on cushy government jobs in Ladakh. "I bluntly told him that I was more keen on knowing my concave mirrors," says Wangchuk. "He thought I was being childish again. But this time I would not let him have his way."
The father also had his way—he refused to pay for his son's studies. Hailing from a very poor family, Sonam Wangyal was one of the few Ladakhis who passed matriculation in his time. He became a legislator and a minister, and was famous for effecting land and debt reforms in Ladakh. He could be adamant.
[Wangyal died a few years ago, leaving eight children behind: Wangchuk has three brothers, who run small businesses in Leh, and five half-brothers and sisters. One sister is a doctor in Delhi, another an Indian Airlines pilot in Kolkata, and the third a sub-judge in Leh.]
After walking out on his father, Wangchuk worried about raising the fees—Rs 300 a month. "It then struck me that students in Ladakh needed coaching," he says.
That winter he skipped an all-India tour of the students and started a coaching centre in Leh, charging one-fifth the normal fees but attracting far more students than the established coaching centres. By the end of two months he had earned Rs 17,000, "much more than what I needed to see me through college".
The experience would change the course of his life: he observed that even the brightest students were failing because of their inadequacy in English. Less than 5 per cent of the candidates passed the matriculation exam, and the 12th class exams were an even greater obstacle. "They could answer any question in Ladakhi. Imagine knowing everything and still failing. I had to change this."
Back in college, he bought himself a portable typewriter, a bicycle and a music system. He connected the music system to a clock that set off music and tugged at a string that tipped a mug of water on his face when the alarm buzzed. He also devised a type of air-conditioner for his window. Concave mirrors still held a fascination for him and for the seventh and eighth semesters, he took 'renewable energy' as subject. He graduated in 1987.
The next year, with his brother and five others, he formed the Students' Educational and Cultural Movement of Ladakh (SECMOL) and, to raise funds, decided to organise a cultural show that would touch the heart of every Ladakhi. They got five persons to invest Rs 40,000 in the organisation, promising them 50 per cent interest. The 'Pride of Ladakh' show—slides on Ladakhi culture and life—was a huge success, and three months later, the investors got back their money with interest, and SECMOL had a lakh rupees in its kitty. It also marked the beginning of the revival of Ladakh's cultural pride through the 90s.
For two years, SECMOL coached class X students for the board exams and trained dropouts in trades, but the results were hardly heartening. "One morning in 1990, I felt we would be doing the same thing 50 years from now unless we got to the root of the problem. Our effort so far had been charity, it was at best a patchwork. Now we wanted to reform the system," says Wangchuk.
Thus the goal was redefined and the spirit kindled anew.
From his own experience Wangchuk knew that the change had to be at the elementary school system: it was as abusive and alien as it was 20 years ago. Children speaking Ladakhi at home had to learn their lessons in Urdu, the official language of the state, and English. The textbooks spoke of elephants and lions and not of yaks and snow leopards. There were lessons on monsoon rains but nothing of snow and glaciers. There were chapters on coconut and sugarcane, but not barley and wheat; about Holi and Diwali, but nothing about the Losar festival in the 'Land of the Lamas'.
Teachers were untrained and their sole 'teaching aid' was the cane. But Wangchuk's most important discovery in his journey through schooling in Ladakh was that people had no sense of ownership of government-run schools. There was no agency ensuring accountability of teachers; in the scattered, barren brown mountains of Ladakh, officers did not visit their offices let alone schools. "That's what we've been addressing since," says Wangchuk.
In the late 1950s, after new roads to Ladakh cut short travel time between Srinagar and Leh from two weeks to a couple of days, the government opened a large number of schools in the region, which, however, could not provide enough teachers. Ladakh became a punishment posting for teachers elsewhere in the state. They gave vent to their frustration by abusing and beating the children.
To make up for the shortage, the government appointed Ladakhis who had passed eighth standard as teachers. A few years later, the qualification was raised to 10th and then 12th. These teachers had no proper training; the District Institute for Educational Training, responsible for pre-service and in-service training to teachers, had a backlog of five years.
In 1994, SECMOL took up teachers' training in a big way, and capsuled a month-long training package into 10 days. It introduced child-centred and activity-based teaching methods with games, songs and stories. "Teaching and learning have to be a joy," says Wangchuk. "In Ladakh, teachers doubled up as taxi-drivers and guides." The initial aim thus was for an attitudinal change among teachers.
Sonam Tsering (name changed), who joined as teacher after class X, rarely went to work as he was sure the department would not notice his absence in the remote villages. The people of Tashi Tsering's village recall him playing caroms by the roadside. After training and motivation, the likes of Tsering have become very good. SECMOL has so far trained 900 of 1,000 teachers in Leh.
Still, the schools were at the mercy of an indifferent bureaucracy. To find a solution, Wangchuk pored over the National Policy on Education of 1968 and learnt about Village Education Committees (VEC) for management of elementary education. The policy visualises parents and elders cooperating with teachers to ensure the proper functioning of the school; mobilising resources for maintenance, repair and construction of infrastructure, and helping in determining the school calendar and timings.
Wangchuk went from door to door in Saspol village to form a VEC. The education department allowed the school to recruit teachers from the neighbourhood and assured SECMOL that it would not transfer them for the next five years. SECMOL's efforts led to the systematic introduction of English as the medium of instruction in primary classes, as in private schools and the Kendriya Vidyalayas.
A year after they began, in a seminar under the aegis of the education department, teachers passed a resolution that Urdu and English were a problem not just for students but for them as well. English, they said, had to be taught from the very beginning if matriculation exams were in that language. Wangchuk had no doubt that English would be difficult and unrealistic for children from remote villages apart from being "culturally incorrect" but preferred the “lesser evil".
SECMOL favoured English partly because there is a wide gap between the spoken and written forms of Ladakhi. But it is also working towards a simpler Ladakhi script.
SECMOL's special training helped teachers use creative methods to teach in English. "We expected to demonstrate the success of our model in a decade from 1991. But the results showed in three years," says Wangchuk. SECMOL's success forced a private school to close down, and there were requests from villagers to replicate the model.
But Wangchuk wanted people to 'own' government schools before cloning the model. By an announcement over the radio, SECMOL offered to convert 30 schools on an early bird basis. The villages had to bear the expenses for residential training of teachers. "The response was so overwhelming that we were still left with three schools whose representatives would not go back after we shortlisted 30. So we took them on too," says Wangchuk.
Wangchuk with students at the Government Primary School at Mohalla Pheyang | Arvind Jain
Two years later, in 1996, the Ladakh Autonomous Hill Development Council adopted Operation New Hope—the name of the project—as its official education policy for all 260 schools in the district. This would have been any politician's delight, but Wangchuk was a bit scared. "When quantity exploded the quality of the programme got diluted," he confesses.
Though every school had the Operation New Hope logo, supervision and follow-up became difficult for SECMOL with its overworked and limited staff.
This led to the concept of pilot schools. "We had been nudging the education department to oversee the project closely but with little success," says Wangchuk. To be heard at a higher level, SECMOL converged the VECs into a Block Education Committee (BEC), and these joined to form a District Education Committee (DEC). Ten other NGOs joined to help at the DEC.
SECMOL is now a motivator and the education department the supervisor, a role it found all kinds of reasons to wriggle off—even a "We've-no-jeeps" excuse. SECMOL provided them jeeps and drivers. "I'm not satisfied that our schools today are what our children deserve, we're far from that. But we've come a long way in the last five years," Wangchuk comments.
The Government Primary School at Mohalla Pheyang more than confirms Wangchuk's assertion. The nursery class is lively: all along the wall are charts showing months and seasons, animals, colours, numbers and place value, and farming equipment of Ladakh. Empty condensed milk tins are neatly stacked on the floor to build pyramids and blocks.
Another window sill is stocked with empty Coke and Pepsi cans, cells, cartons of toiletries, butter, cheese, and other articles. "During recess, one student becomes the bus driver and leads others to this shop," says teacher Nahida Bano. "The others buy and pay, and take back the correct change from the shopkeeper." A toffee tin has the money—chart sheet cut into different denominations of currency. "This is definitely one of the better schools. It is a pilot school," says Wangchuk. There are a dozen such pilot schools in Ladakh.
Nahida has attended SECMOL training twice; once in the general training and the second time to run this school as a pilot project. She was studying in class 12 when she applied for the job. She is now doing her MA, and hopes to enrol for B.Ed. "The SECMOL training has helped me a lot with my teaching skills," she says.
According to Wangchuk, the greater goal of Operation New Hope is the 3Hs—a skilled Hand, a bright Head and a kind Heart. "It is only in combination with a kind heart that the head and hands mean anything," he explains.
The Centralized Residential School at Durbuk is a step towards the realisation of this holistic development. Inaugurated in September, the government school has on its management board the executive councillor of the hill development council, the vice-chairman of the Block Education Committee, two council members of the Durbuk block, a representative of SECMOL, two women from the VECs and even two students of the school "so that they too have a say!"
Out of the mouths of babes. Perhaps, there is a child in Wangchuk that makes him realise this. He is insanely playful and loves practical jokes, says Rebecca Norman, whom he married in 1996. Mimicking animal sounds, he often fools people into thinking their farm animals are coming up the stairs into the kitchen. He loves to tell jokes in several languages. Apart from Ladakhi, Hindi, Urdu and English, he can get by in Tibetan and Swedish, and knows a smattering of French, German, Sanskrit and Pali.
He is still interested in designing alternative energy systems. His office cum training centre in Phey is almost wholly powered by solar energy for lighting, cooking, pumping water and heating rooms.
"He loves the ocean, though he hasn't had much time there, but if he gets the chance to go swimming he'll paddle about all day if he can," says Rebecca. "There are very few times when he has been on pure holiday, though."
Rebecca, an M.Ed, from Harvard, has been associated with SECMOL for the last eight years, teaching and writing textbooks and children's story books. Rebecca came to Ladakh as a volunteer for another organisation while doing her degree in development in the US. She later switched to SECMOL, and two years after her marriage, did her Master's in education. She is 'Acheley' (elder sister) to local girls and boys, while Wangchuk is 'Kagalay' (elder brother). He is very firm that he doesn't want children of his own since he feels it would distract him from his work. He works for the benefit of all Ladakhi children.
It is like one big family at Phey. Supper in the hostel is generally followed by a game to enhance English vocabulary and grammar. And after breakfast the children discuss world affairs with Wangchuk.
"I used to be shy and embarrassed when others spoke in English and I could not," says Punchok Dolma of Takmachik village. "But not any more." She plans to become a teacher, preferably at the school in her village which has 60 families. She now volunteers as a teacher in the Girls' Higher Secondary School in Leh. She had attended a SECMOL camp after failing 10th twice. The third time she passed with 42 per cent. Like her, Padma of Liktse village plans a career in teaching. She attended a summer camp after failing matriculation; she is now doing her 12th.
The SECMOL team in Phey is trained in-house. Stanzin Dorje, who attended a summer camp five years ago, looks after the video filming and camera work. His batchmate Kowchok Dorje is the campus manager of the SECMOL Alternative Institute. Rigniz Wanla coordinates the office in Leh.
Help has been mainly from Denmark's Operation Dagsvaerk or 'Operation Day's Work'. Under this project, Danish school students raise funds for a project by cleaning windows, selling coffee or clearing snow a day in November. Then follows the rigorous process of selecting a project from around the world. A professional management team shortlists the best project and its representatives make a presentation before the students who then put the prize to vote. In 1996, SECMOL bagged the grant of Rs 2.7 crore, which has gone into various school buildings, the campus, computerisation, printing and publishing.
SECMOL's publishing wing, Melong Publications, brings out children's story books, magazines, newsletters, posters, and stickers in colloquial Ladakhi. In the last three years, it has also brought out textbooks adapted to Ladakhi culture and environment. There is no John or Mary, but Angmo and Razia (the population of Ladakh is predominantly Buddhist and Muslim, hence a Buddhist and a Muslim name); they grow barley, not sugarcane or coconut.
SECMOL hopes to reduce its dependence on external grants by half in the next three years and be self-supporting in the next five years. ''It doesn't cost much to be a watchdog and carry on advocacy and information," says Wangchuk. "But training will have to be paid for and we've already started making teachers pay. The hostel at Phey is already self-reliant."
There are two huge concave mirrors outside the common room on the SECMOL campus in Phey. Most of Leh has power supply for three hours a day on an average, but the 'Alternative Institute' (another name for the training centre and model of renewable energy centre at Phey) has round-the-clock power supply; the mirrors deflect the sun's rays onto the huge pateelas and degchis in which food is cooked for up to 200 people when a training programme is on.
Ladakh has more than 300 sunny days a year with an average day's length of 14 hours. All the rooms on the campus remain a tolerable 15 to 20 degrees in the coldest winter and students bathe in hot water thanks to a solar water heater designed and fabricated in-house, at a fraction of the cost of similar contraptions elsewhere. What is more, in the barren desert mountains, the SECMOL campus is green, turning other institutes the same shade—with envy. More than a thousand saplings have grown to act as wind breakers, and there are even vegetable and fruit patches.
"This is simply a south-facing location and most windows face the sunny south side. The north walls are buried in the earth, and in winter a greenhouse is added to the south side for additional warmth. It is made of the same ultraviolet-stabilised plastic film used for agricultural greenhouses all over the region," explains Rebecca.
The powerhouse on the banks of the Indus, which flows below the campus, is innovative: the arched three-room set that will house the solar batteries is made of clay mixed with hay. The windows and doors have no wooden frames, reducing the cost further. It took 700 mandays to build the powerhouse, and SECMOL spent Rs 25,000 on it. The government rate: Rs one lakh plus.
"This is what mechanical engineering is all about," says Wangchuk, who is now designing a hydraulic pump. "I am surprised when people talk of me sacrificing a career. Sacrifice is giving up something you enjoy doing. I have not sacrificed anything."
***
From the author
I heard of Sonam Wangchuk from Pinto Norbu, a former MLA from Nubra valley. He told me how Wangchuk had transformed the schooling, learning and teaching in Ladakh, and I was intrigued by his description. However, a day before I was to leave for Leh, I fractured a leg and had to call it off.
But the young Ladakhi's work stayed with me, so I visited his SECMOL campus and caught up with Wangchuk the next year. It was all that Pinto had described, and much more. His sense of purpose is what hits you at first sight. Then his confidence, that he just had to work, and the results will show. He speaks softly, but firmly. Years later, Wangchuk would inspire Rajkumar Hirani to create Phunsukh Wangdu aka Rancho in the runaway hit 3 Idiots.