In Nahana, the rhythm of village life moves slowly—fields shimmer in the midday heat, goats bleat along narrow paths, and the scent of earth lingers thick in the air. But inside the IIMPACT Learning Centre, time feels different. Here, something quietly transformative is always unfolding.
This is where Roshni, Saira, Sawana, and Eyaruna-Nisha first met as children—timid, curious, seated on reed mats, mouthing out letters with the help of their teacher, Chandana Mondal. Years later, now teenagers, they return not as students, but as young women on the cusp of adulthood—confident, determined, and still learning.
They are all enrolled in high school. Each morning they wake early, attend the centre, then change into their navy blue uniforms and head to government school. Their bond remains intact—not just as friends, but as members of Aarambh Manch, an alumni group for girls who have graduated from the centre. It’s a circle of support, of collective memory and shared ambition. Many are first-generation learners in their families. All of them want to continue—at least until graduation.
Roshni, 13, wants to be a doctor.
Saira, 16, says she wants to be a teacher.
“Because of her,” she smiles, gesturing toward her old teacher, Mrs Mondal.
Mrs Mondal, who has taught at the centre for seven years, remembers Saira’s early days vividly. “She couldn’t recognise a single letter when she first came,” she says. “Now look at her—doing well in high school, helping others learn. That’s what the centre gives them—joy in learning, and belief in themselves.”
A mother and a trained IIMPACT educator, Mrs Mondal travels each day from a neighbouring village. Every quarter, she attends further training sessions, where she learns how to use creative toolkits—Jodogyan for mathematics, Agastya for science. “The girls love it. It turns fear into fascination.” But education is never free from the pressures of poverty.
Last year, when Saira was just 15, her father—overwhelmed by financial strain—began to speak of marriage. Saira turned to her friends in Aarambh Manch. Then, together, they turned to Mrs Mondal.
“I knew he was a good man,” she says gently. “He once donated blood for my daughter’s thalassemia treatment. But poverty makes people see no way forward.” So she and the girls staged a small play for Saira’s father—about child marriage, about choice, about girls who dream. Then she met him one-on-one.
“He listened. He understood. He promised to let her study.”
When asked why centres like this matter, Mrs Mondal speaks plainly:
“These are some of the most neglected communities in Bengal. Without these learning centres, the girls would simply fall behind.”
“Most parents are illiterate. They can’t even sign their names. Now, many of them are turning to their daughters for help.”
“There is no ‘failing’ in government schools till Class 8 – so children can pass without learning. But here, we measure, support, and teach to each child’s level.”
And if funds were available?
“I would love to have audio-visual tools—maybe a TV or interactive board. Something to make the world outside feel closer.”
As we leave the village, the afternoon heat thick in the air, the same girls who greeted us that morning walk past again—this time in uniform, notebooks under their arms, laughter on their lips.
In a world where every setback could have pulled them back, they are still walking forward—together.
[Story and Images Credit: Akshay Mahajan]