Nonapani Iskul Review: Chandana Sanyal’s Teacher Memoir Preserves the Soul of Education

“No one,” Pascal once said, “dies so poor that he does not leave something behind.” Surely it is the same with memories too—although these do not always find an heir. - Walter Benjamin

Every year, Teacher’s Day is celebrated with immense gusto across the country. Emotions run high. Greetings, and memories of school days and teachers—both fond and not-so-fond—are exchanged among thousands of students and educators, young and old. Yet, within a few days—if not by the very next morning—these sentiments are forgotten, fading into oblivion with only a faint promise to return the following year. The emotionally charged stories and memories are reduced to fleeting fragments, confirming Walter Benjamin’s observation about the diminishing “communicability of experience” in a society that values information over storytelling.

It is within this cycle of forgetting and remembrance that scholars of the history of education must intervene. These memories and narratives hold traces of the past and reveal the evolution of educational institutions—both celebrated and obscure. There is an urgent need to preserve such fragments and archive them, to amplify the significance of those we “celebrate” for a day and neglect for the rest of the year, especially school teachers. It is undeniable that our education system rests on the shoulders of these teachers, who form the base of the ‘pyramid of educators’. Yet, due to their sheer numbers and position within the hierarchy, they remain peripheral and largely unsung in historical accounts.

The history of education will remain incomplete and unidimensional unless the voices of school teachers and the micronarratives of lesser-known schools are acknowledged. In India, the documentation and archiving of stories from these schools and their educators—and the roles they played in the ‘microspaces of their influence’—remain largely unexplored. However, memoirs, including those written in vernacular languages, can play a vital role in recovering the life stories not only of the students and teachers who wrote them, but also of the institutions they were part of.

While we have a rich corpus of autobiographies and memoirs by prominent writers and public figures who share childhood memories of their schools and teachers, memoirs from the perspective of a teacher—those intimate, private recollections—are still scarce or have yet to enter the public domain.

Nonapani Iskul Review

Amidst all that is unmapped, a Bangla memoir titled Nonapani Ishkul (a playful rendition of the name Salt Lake School) stands out as a narrative worth reckoning with. Written by Chandana Sanyal, a Bangla teacher from a neighbourhood school in Salt Lake, on the eastern fringes of Kolkata, it apparently traces the journey of a bright student who aspired to a career in academia but was compelled by circumstance to reluctantly join a then nondescript school.

Sanyal reflects on a rich repository of memories—from her own classroom experiences to the evolving landscape of Salt Lake, and the deep human connections that shaped the soul of the school. Written in a warm, conversational style often peppered with humour, her narrative blends affection for the school and its people with a quiet, poignant sense of loss. The narrative begins on the day of her retirement and gradually shifts from the present to the past. Despite her sadness and trepidation about the uncertain life ahead, she recalls that the entrance she had once walked through many years ago did not feature the cut-out of a local politician, as it does now. This subtle observation, placed right at the beginning, hints at her dismay over the increasing politicisation of educational spaces.

Sanyal gradually turns her gaze toward her relationship with the school, reflecting on how she eventually shed the cynicism and inhibitions of her youth and became one with the institution she had once considered merely a “stopgap arrangement,” as her heart had been set on a greater goal. She acknowledges that it was the founder principal’s advice—that there is a unique challenge in teaching and moulding very young minds—that ultimately changed the course of her life.

As the narrative unfolds, Sanyal introduces a remarkable group of individuals who came together—almost serendipitously—to build the foundation of Salt Lake School. Many were educated abroad, fluent in multiple languages, and accomplished enough to thrive in any field, yet they chose teaching above all else. It was their passion and commitment, she believes, that transformed an obscure institution into something extraordinary. She fondly recalls the camaraderie that once filled the modest staffroom—their shared den—where laughter, potlucks, and spirited debates circled a wobbly wooden table piled high with student copies. But by the late ’90s, fissures began to appear. As the school expanded, staffrooms multiplied, lockers replaced shared spaces, and old colleagues drifted apart. That beloved table, a silent witness to years of connection, disappeared. Through this quiet imagery, Sanyal underscores how the commercialisation of education didn’t just alter the physical landscape of the school—it reshaped the emotional one. It chipped away at creativity, and more poignantly, at the bonds between teachers themselves.

From the outset, she is also critical of the positioning of the vernacular—Bangla—as a second language. One of her earliest disappointments as a teacher was discovering that she would be teaching Bangla in an English-medium school. She writes that her distrust of English-medium institutions stemmed from the sense of alienation she felt toward those who attended such schools in 1960s and ’70s Kolkata, often marked by a highly Anglicised manner and worldview. She further notes that, during her time, the proliferation of English-medium schools was rare and virtually unheard of in the city.

Sanyal reflects on Salt Lake School’s unique blend of modernity and tradition, noting its founders prioritized holistic education over profit. English was valued, but not at the cost of Bangla. However, when West Bengal introduced mother-tongue education, English was removed from Bangla-medium schools, prompting Salt Lake School to go private—though it remained rooted in Bengali ethos. As English-medium schools spread, Bangla-medium institutions were gradually sidelined. The concerns of Bangla teachers in the school over Bangla’s marginalization in the curriculum were so profound that, under the leadership of one of the school’s most progressive principals, a seminar was organized in 2006. It brought together educators from across West Bengal to discuss curriculum reform and the infusion of innovative teaching methods. According to Sanyal, it was a one-of-a-kind event—well attended, widely appreciated, and a significant step toward reimagining language education.

The author briefly assumes the role of a city chronicler. She remembers how difficult it was to reach the school in the 1990s, as Salt Lake was scarcely connected to the rest of the city. It was so deserted that one could hear the howling of foxes, and for miles, there was nothing but open fields. What is now a 10-minute ride used to take more than forty minutes—the city had yet to dream of its caterpillar-like flyovers. For a woman in her late twenties, commuting every day was no small feat, especially on excursion days when it would get late and the surroundings would be eerily quiet. She recalls one particular evening when the founder principal held her hand tightly, waiting with her until she found an empathetic parent who could accompany Sanyal home safely. These personal memories offer more than just nostalgia — they quietly trace the city’s transformation, forming an informal archive of Salt Lake’s evolving landscape.

There are sections in the memoir that read almost like a manifesto for teacher education. Her approach to pedagogy, rooted in creativity, empathy, and cultural relevance, reflects broader ideas about experiential learning and culturally responsive education. She shares a range of innovative activities designed to spark a love for language and learning. Before the Durga Puja break, she would assign letter-writing exercises, asking students to write to her home address—an invitation that blurred the lines between classroom and personal connection, making language a bridge rather than a barrier. To teach Bangla meanings of culinary terms, she asked students to bring in recipes of dishes they had enjoyed during the festive season. In doing so, she transformed the classroom into a space of shared memory and cultural exchange.

Sanyal’s disenchantment with the commodification of education surfaces in her reflections on how once warm, interactive parent-teacher meetings became mechanical, leaving little space for genuine connection. Over time, the clash between the perspectives of newer teachers and the old guard eroded the sense of belonging that once defined the school. Excessive professionalism, constant parental interference in everyday classroom matters, and the looming fear of legal complications turned her beloved profession into something lifeless. The growing pressure to be constantly accountable, the burden of meticulous record-keeping, and the relentless digitisation of every aspect of teaching stripped away its spontaneity. For educators like her, what was once a nurturing space began to feel sterile, and what was once a joyful calling gradually became a weary obligation.

As a chronicler, Sanyal thoughtfully includes the school’s once-strong emphasis on games and extracurricular activities. Her impressions capture the gradual shifts over time—the month-long preparations for Sports Day at the local sports ground, the thrill of welcoming eminent guests, the spirited display of sportsmanship, and the rare camaraderie among teachers, students, and non-teaching staff. But as academic pressures mounted, these traditions began to shrink. Sports events grew shorter and less engaging, and the bugle, the chiming lazims, and the cheers of winning teams slowly faded into memory. She also recounts with detailed enthusiasm the annual function of the school, a homely occasion full of fun and frolic, which later (around the early 2000s) turned into a grander annual fiesta, ‘Rhapsody’. Yet, for the reader, the extended description of Raphsody’s buildup risks flattening the emotional landscape. While she intended to capture the collective spirit of the event, she overlooks those who couldn’t participate—whether due to bias, exclusion, or personal circumstances. Not all students carry equally joyful memories of such events, and her narrative, though celebratory, leaves little room for those quieter, more complex experiences.

Throughout her recollections, Sanyal focuses on relationships, ensuring no one is left behind. Everyone associated with the school finds a place in her narrative—the stern, Hindi-speaking gatekeeper; the quiet gardener tending the lawns; the peon who once carried her appointment letter home like a sacred scroll; and the ayahs, a curious mix of tenderness and authority who managed chaos with firm but gentle hands. Her storytelling feels like a stage, where each character steps into the spotlight, plays their part, and gently fades into the wings, leaving behind echoes of their presence.

The memoir closes with Sanyal’s reflections on teaching during the pandemic—a phase marked by upheaval and resilience. She recounts the sudden shift to online learning, the frantic pace of adaptation, and the emotional toll it took on both teachers and students. The urgency of the transition caught her off guard, yet she rose to the challenge, just as she had years ago when she quietly let go of her dreams, tucking them away in a distant corner of her heart. With quiet strength, she adjusted to the new reality, drawing on the same resolve that had carried her through earlier trials. At the heart of that resilience was her late partner—a steadfast presence who supported her throughout her teaching journey, standing by her like a pillar until his passing, just a few years before her retirement. In this final chapter, her story becomes not just one of professional endurance, but of personal courage and love that lingered long after the classroom lights dimmed.

In sum, Nonapani Iskul is not merely about a school—it’s about the soul of education itself. While the text traces the journey of Salt Lake School from obscurity to prominence, its subtext quietly critiques the dehumanising drift of the modern education system. It feels as though this memoir had been quietly growing within her, waiting for the right moment to bloom. Through vivid classroom anecdotes, heartfelt tributes to those who shaped the school’s ethos, and reflections on the evolving landscape of pedagogy, Sanyal—now retired—seems to be forging a new identity. She becomes a storyteller, chronicling not just a place, but a way of life. 

Perhaps it’s time we recognised these teacher memoirs as a genre in their own right; they’re not just reflections; they’re acts of cultural preservation. Through her story, Sanyal invites those whom Walter Benjamin calls “heirs” to seek out such microhistories—often overlooked, yet rich with meaning and memory. ‘Nonapani Iskul’ was published in 2024 by Lyriqal Books, Kolkata.