Teaching primary school is not merely a profession; it's a daily adventure written in laughter, smudged with ink, and woven with endless love. While teachers in higher secondary schools emphasize discipline and structured lessons, primary educators thrive on patience, spontaneity, and hearts wide enough to embrace the beautiful chaos of childhood.

My day begins with a familiar ritual: standing in the school ground, wrestling with the online attendance app that endlessly instructs, "Move closer... Move farther," as if I'm performing a comedic dance. Sometimes it shows me, "You are not in the school premises." Before I can sigh, a whirlwind of little champs barrels toward me, their hugs fierce, and their shoes stomping on mine, leaving dusty footprints like love notes etched onto my polished shoes.
Inside the classroom, magic—and mischief—unfold. One student, armed with a leaking pen, grins with a mouth stained blue and unintentionally marks many uneven lines on my white shirt. The shirt has become an autograph for my future, with ink marks making it so special that it can't be thrown away after its usual lifespan.
We wear many hats as primary teachers. Few see the invisible labor behind primary education, where teachers often take on multiple roles: plumber, cleaner, safety supervisor, and sometimes even washing students in washrooms. I check washrooms for water, ensure drinking taps are functional, and double-check locked doors and switched-off gas cylinders.
When I joined my present place of posting, I felt the need for a screwdriver, wrench, Teflon tape, scissors, pliers, hammer, and a lot of nails to repair the school building. My students often ask me, "Where have you learned these things?" And I reply, "I repair almost everything, whether it's your mood or a leaked water pipe."
Even leaving school isn't an escape from the joyful havoc. Students pile into my car, their muddy shoes painting the seats with earthy souvenirs. One observant co-pilot spots the stubborn spider web still clinging to my hair and announces it with theatrical glee. I pull over at a roadside tap, splashing water on my face, scrubbing ink from my collar, and shaking leaves from my hair.
By the time I reach home, my clothes are damp, my hair is wild, and my mother greets me with her usual tease: "It's your childhood habit, making your clothes dirty." Not every teacher can navigate the beautiful bedlam of primary school. It takes a heart that finds music in the noise, art in the stains, and joy in the chaos.
We may not wear polished coats or crisp ties, but our wrinkled shirts tell stories—of the pen-wielding Picasso, the spider web scout, and the chocolate bandit who taught us that sometimes, laughter is the best lesson plan.

Email:----------------------------------bhatsursona@gmail.com