I watched them today—these children, bent over white sheets of paper in the hushed halls of Government Degree College, Handwara. Their pens moved hesitantly at first, as if the thoughts inside them were fragile, unsure of the world beyond their minds. A slight pause, a careful dip into the ink. And then the words came. Slowly, steadily, cautiously, as though the act of thinking itself demanded reverence. It struck me how long it had been since any of us had felt that trembling — that electric anticipation — when words wait to be noticed, to be coaxed out of the silence.
The essay competition, organised by the Tabinda Memorial Society in collaboration with the National Book Trust, India, under the aegis of the Ministry of Education, was presented as an event, but it was far more than that. It was a quiet reclamation of attention. A small revolt against the brightness of screens, the constant hum of notifications, the fragmented lives that rarely pause to reflect. Here, reading and writing were not tasks or duties—they were acts of presence. Reading, the children were silently reminding themselves, is to the mind what exercise is to the body. But it is more than that. Reading is rebellion. It is intimacy. It is the refusal to forget oneself in the rush of a world determined to fragment thought into endless pixels.
About a thousand students had come. Their notebooks were pressed close, eyes alert, faces lit with a shy intensity. They wrote about Transformative Reforms for Viksit Bharat 2047, about Technological Advancement, about Environmental Sustainability. And yet, as I watched, I realized the topics themselves were secondary. What mattered was the act of thinking slowly. Of allowing ideas to bloom inside the mind, unhurried, uncoerced. The children were learning to be alone with their thoughts—and in that solitude, they were learning to be fully alive.
The air in the halls changed. Pens moved in rhythm with deep, concentrated breathing. Time seemed to bend, becoming elastic as moments stretched into quiet eternity. Scattered thoughts gathered like autumn leaves, forming coherent sentences. Teachers watched from the sidelines, a mixture of pride and nostalgia in their eyes, memories stirring of their own younger selves when books were friends, confidants, perhaps even secret lovers. It was as if the collective act of reading and writing had momentarily suspended the ordinary hum of life, replacing it with something almost sacred.
Yes, there were prizes: ₹30,000, ₹25,000, ₹20,000. Yet the monetary rewards felt almost irrelevant. The true prize was the hours these children had spent with themselves, the stillness they had claimed, the intimacy they had nurtured with their own minds. Something larger was quietly taking root, imperceptible yet vital. The culture of reading, once gasping, faint, and dusty in the Valley, had inhaled a little fresh air.
Kupwara has always known the sacredness of words. Poets and mystics have walked these hills, leaving behind verses that still resonate in the folds of memory. Words were treasures, almost tangible. And yet, somewhere along the way, the thread of that reverence loosened. Phones grew brighter than pages. Screens replaced ink. Libraries remained silent, gathering dust. The essay competition picked up that loosened thread and began to weave it back into the lives of young minds. It reminded children that curiosity is not a lesson; it is a discovery. That reading is not a chore; it is an intimacy, a friendship, a quiet love affair with thought itself.
The act of writing, too, carried its own weight. It was not simply an exercise in compliance. Every stroke of the pen was an act of patience, of listening, of daring to make private ideas public in the most careful of ways. Students wrestled with abstract concepts—sustainability, development, technology—yet their struggle was also with language, with the responsibility of expressing what mattered. There is a rhythm to thinking deeply, a cadence that must be earned, and for many of these children, it was their first encounter with such deliberate intellectual labor.
As the hours passed, something subtle happened. The hall seemed to vibrate with a different energy. It was quieter than usual, yet charged. Each pen, each page, each pause contributed to a collective consciousness that was both fragile and powerful. The students’ faces reflected more than concentration; they revealed wonder, hesitation, courage, and finally, relief—relief at finding that their thoughts could exist, could matter, could be given shape and substance.
When the essays were done, the students walked out slowly, clutching their pages as if they were treasures. Some smiled, quietly, almost imperceptibly, perhaps without knowing why. Perhaps they had touched a calm they had been missing—a calm born of surrendering to words, of allowing themselves to be fully present with their minds. Somewhere, between the sentences they had written and the thoughts they had left unsaid, the pages began to whisper again.
This competition was not merely a contest. It was a lifeline. A soft, urgent rebellion against the diminishing culture of reading. Every school, every college, every classroom in Kupwara—and beyond—could do this. Because when children return to books, society itself expands, slows down, and becomes richer in possibilities. Reading cultivates patience, reflection, empathy, and critical thinking. It nurtures imagination, invites debate, and sustains hope. A society that forgets to read forgets to dream. And a valley that forgets to dream forgets to live.
What was remarkable about this event was not just the act of writing but the atmosphere it created. Teachers spoke in whispers, giving guidance without intrusion. Volunteers moved between the rows, offering water, encouragement, and quiet reassurance. There were no loud announcements, no fanfare, no distractions. Even the light filtering through the windows seemed to bend in respect for the activity within. And in this cocoon of stillness, the children discovered an essential truth: that thinking, like breathing, requires space. That ideas must be allowed to exist in the mind before they are released. That words, once captured and set free, carry a power that extends far beyond the paper they inhabit.
It was also a lesson in patience—for adults as much as for children. In our fast-paced world, we are taught to value speed, efficiency, and output. Yet here, in these quiet halls, slowness was celebrated. Thoughtfulness was honored. Care was rewarded. And in this slow rhythm, the children discovered joy—a joy that comes from engaging fully with the mind, from letting curiosity lead, from seeing one’s own ideas take form.
Kupwara, like many places, has seen the encroachment of screens into every aspect of life. Children now grow up in a world of fragmented attention, where everything is immediate, transient, and disposable. The essay competition offered a different model—a world in which patience is a virtue, reflection a delight, and imagination a treasure. It reminded participants that the value of words is not just in what they convey but in the act of articulating them. Writing is not merely communication; it is creation, it is discovery, it is liberation.
And there is hope here. Hope not measured in medals or certificates, but in the rekindling of a relationship between mind and paper. In the recognition that reading and writing are not obsolete, that intellectual curiosity remains vital, that children can still find quiet spaces to think, to imagine, to grow. Every essay written, every sentence crafted, every thought nurtured in silence, is a tiny revolution against the culture of distraction.
As I left the hall, I glanced back at the empty desks, at the crumpled scraps of paper, at the faint traces of ink left behind. The halls seemed to hum with possibility. The echoes of pens on paper lingered in the air, a soft reminder that words endure, even when screens scream louder. The culture of reading is not dead; it is only waiting for spaces like these—quiet, patient, intimate spaces where children can rediscover the pleasure of thought.
Organizing such events is not merely a matter of curriculum or policy. It is a statement of values, a declaration that words matter, minds matter, children matter. It is a recognition that the future of a society is tied to its ability to think, to reflect, to dream. By nurturing reading, we nurture empathy, critical reasoning, imagination, and resilience. By encouraging children to write, we teach them to listen—to themselves, to others, and to the world.
And so, in the hills of Kupwara, in the quiet halls of Government Degree College, something important has begun. It is slow, subtle, and often invisible, but it is happening. Words are breathing again. Pens are trembling again. Minds are waking up again. And perhaps, if we continue to cultivate such spaces, the Valley itself will remember what it means to dream, to think, to be fully alive.
The essay competition ended, but its ripple will continue. Students will take home more than prizes; they will carry an experience, a feeling, a memory of intimacy with their own thoughts. Teachers will remember that education is not just instruction; it is invitation. Communities will see that nurturing curiosity is not a luxury; it is a necessity. And in this quiet rebellion, a small yet profound truth emerges: when children return to books, the society they inhabit becomes wider, quieter, and infinitely richer.
Yes, there were prizes. Yes, there were certificates and applause. But the real victory was invisible, delicate, and enduring. It was in the silence between sentences, in the pause before a word was written, in the realization that thought can be slow, profound, and life-affirming. It was in the whisper of words, the return of attention, the reclaiming of imagination.
In the end, the competition was not about essays, awards, or even education alone. It was about memory and presence. About restoring a culture that allows minds to breathe, hearts to imagine, and voices to be heard—not in shouts, but in whispers. It was about reminding an entire generation that words are treasures, that reading is rebellion, and that thinking slowly is the most radical act of all.
And somewhere in Kupwara, amid the mountains and rivers, the children walked home with pens still trembling in their hands, carrying within them the quiet, enduring power of a mind that has learned again to notice, to reflect, and to dream.

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