Under the shade of a tall tree in a remote Rongmei village in Manipur, a group of children are busy measuring shadows. Some pace the ground, others argue over angles, a few scribble numbers into notebooks resting on their knees. There is no blackboard, no classroom walls — just the land, the light, and their curiosity guiding them.
Watching them from a distance are Ananya Mukherjee and Kabithui Rongmei, the two educators who imagined this moment long before it became real.
It might seem unusual, even unlikely. But here, this is what school looks like.
At Khaangchu Education Centre, the village itself becomes the classroom — where children do not have to leave behind their language, identity, or lived experiences to learn.
As Kabithui says, “When children cannot see their world in what they are learning, education slowly loses meaning for them.”
Khaangchu is an attempt to bring that meaning back.
A return with purpose
For Kabithui Rongmei, education was never a given. Born into a Rongmei tribal community, spread across Manipur, Assam, and Nagaland — he grew up in the very village where Khaangchu now stands. But his early years were marked by instability in schooling. Government teachers were often absent, classrooms barely functioned, and learning outcomes remained painfully low.
His parents made a difficult decision early on to send him away for his education.
At six, Kabithui moved out of his village. What followed was a childhood spent in constant transition — living with relatives, in hostels, across districts and states — chasing access to education that his own village could not provide.
Under the shade of trees, children learn mathematics by measuring shadows, turning everyday sunlight into a living classroom.
Manipur’s political unrest only made things harder. Frequent strikes and shutdowns meant schools would remain closed for weeks at a stretch.
“I moved from place to place just to continue studying,” he recalls.
After completing his higher secondary education, financial constraints forced him to pause his academic journey. He took up work, searched for opportunities, and eventually found his way into higher education in Guwahati through a subsidised programme.
It was here, through exposure, conversations, and experience — that a question began to take shape: If change was possible, where should it begin?
For Kabithui, the answer was clear — education.
When two journeys met
Around the same time, Ananya Mukherjee was asking similar questions, from a very different starting point.
Raised in Jamshedpur and educated in Delhi, she had spent two years as a Teach For India fellow, working within urban classrooms. But even in cities, she had seen how deeply unequal education could be.
“If it’s this challenging in places like Delhi or Hyderabad,” she says, “what must it look like in regions where there are almost no resources?”
During her fellowship, she had met Kabithui in 2021, and the two decided to stay in touch. So when he reached out from his village, not with a formal opportunity but with a simple invitation to come and teach, Ananya decided to go.
In April 2023, she arrived in the village. What she encountered stayed with her.
Children sitting in classrooms where they could not understand the language of instruction. Textbooks filled with references to distant places and unfamiliar realities. A system that expected them to memorise but gave them nothing to relate to.
And then, within days, conflict broke out in Manipur. Communication lines went dead. Internet shut down. The outside world disappeared.
At Khaangchu Education Centre, learning moves beyond four walls, with nature, land, and community forming the foundation of every lesson.
“And yet, classrooms continued the same way,” Ananya recalls. “Children were still memorising essays about festivals, while everything around them was changing.”
That contrast — between lived reality and what was being taught, made something painfully clear. Education here was not just broken. It was disconnected.
Reimagining what learning could look like
The first steps towards Khaangchu were small. Kabithui began by working with teenagers in the village, many of whom struggled with basic reading and writing. He used an abandoned government school building, focusing on foundational literacy.
But it quickly became clear that the problem ran deeper than skills.
It was about relevance and belonging.
Together, Ananya and Kabithui began to imagine something different — not just a school, but a space where education would be rooted in the lives of the children it served.
Community conversations began in 2022. These were not formal meetings, but ongoing dialogues — understanding what people wanted, what they lacked, and what education meant to them.
Children engage with mathematics, language, and science through real-world observation rather than rote memorisation or textbooks.
By 2023, they launched a small after-school pilot.
In January 2024, Khaangchu formally opened its learning space, built with funds raised online, and physically constructed by the community itself.
“For an entire week, villagers came together to build it; that’s the kind of ownership we have,” Kabithui says.
Khaangchu, built for its children
At Khaangchu, the school day does not begin with a bell.
Children start arriving as early as 8 am, even though classes officially begin at 9. They come to play, to spend time, to simply be themselves.
“That tells you something; children want to be here,” Ananya adds.
The day begins with a morning circle, a space for storytelling, music, and conversation. Much of this happens in Rongmei, the children’s native language.
This is deliberate. For generations, education has often required children to leave their language — and with it, a part of their identity, outside the classroom.
At Khaangchu, that boundary does not exist.
From there, the day moves into structured learning blocks, but these are fluid in nature. Lessons are not confined to classrooms.
A math concept like height and distance is explored under trees, through shadows. Science lessons unfold in open fields. Learning becomes something children experience, not just memorise.
Three times a week, students engage in “community immersion” — learning directly from their environment.
They study Rongmei clans, traditional practices, oral histories, and cultural knowledge, with elders and parents from the community also stepping in as teachers.
Elders and community members step into classrooms as teachers, making education a shared responsibility rather than an institutional structure.
“Anyone who wants to teach is a teacher here,” Ananya explains.
In just a short span, Khaangchu has begun to show meaningful impact. As of 2025, there were 49 children enrolled in the programme, with attendance consistently above 95%. Around 85% of students are performing at or above grade level in English and Mathematics, while 42 have already achieved grade-level reading proficiency.
Perhaps most significantly, over 90% of children who had experienced trauma now show greater emotional stability and a visible sense of joy in their daily learning.
Today, the school has enrolled 120 kids across ages 2.5 -12.
From fear to confidence: What teachers are witnessing
For teachers like Naithaona Thaimei, Kachiamthuiliu Gangmei, and Kungthailiu Gangmei — all from the community, the transformation in children has been deeply personal. They have been teaching these children since the early days of Khaangchu, working with students between the ages of 5 and 11.
“When children first came, many of them were scared,” they recall. “They wouldn’t speak much.”
But within weeks, something began to shift.
“They started opening up. Now they share their thoughts freely, they ask questions, they express themselves.”
Morning circles in Rongmei language help children reconnect with their identity while building confidence in expression and storytelling.
A key part of this change lies in language.
“When they are allowed to speak in Rongmei, they feel comfortable. Their confidence increases,” Naithaona explains.
Learning is also grounded in the environment.
“If we are teaching about trees, we don’t just show pictures — we go outside, we observe, we collect, and we discuss so that it becomes real for them,” says Kungthailiu.
For the teachers themselves, the experience is transformative. “We are not just teaching — we are also learning every day with them,” they add.
A community rediscovers education
For the Rongmei community, Khaangchu represents more than just a school.
It is, in many ways, a reclaiming. “In our childhood, learning felt distant,” says Guloulung Rongmei, a local pastor. “It was about memorising things we could not relate to.”
There was little room for questions, and even less for understanding.
Khaangchu feels different.
“It reminds us of how learning used to happen — through stories, observation, and community,” he says. “But it also brings something new.”
Parents echo this sentiment. “For a long time, education meant moving away from our identity,” says Shanti Gangmei. “Now, it feels like our identity is being respected.”
This shift has had visible effects.
Children are more confident. They ask questions. They engage more with elders and participate actively in daily life.
From silence to confidence, children who once hesitated to speak now actively participate, question, and express themselves freely.
“They are no longer silent; even the youngest ones can stand up and speak,” adds Guloulung.
Curiosity has grown beyond the classroom.
“They ask about stories, about farming, about our traditions; learning has become active for the kids and the community,” say parents Daffodil Rongmei and Shanti Gangmei.
Parental engagement has also increased. Families are now more involved, more invested.
What success looks like, beyond classrooms
For Khaangchu, success is not defined by marks alone. It is about raising a generation that is confident, rooted, and capable of shaping its own future.
Kabithui envisions a time when Rongmei children no longer feel disconnected from education – when learning reflects their lives, their land, and their people.
A future where they grow into leaders who can address local challenges, from sustainability to social cohesion, using both indigenous knowledge and modern skills.
Just as importantly, Khaangchu is designed to belong to the community, not its founders.
Through shared decision-making, local leadership, and community participation, the goal is to ensure that the model sustains itself over time.
For the teachers, the dreams are simple — yet powerful.
Khaangchu represents a shift in education — where learning is rooted in lived experience, cultural identity, and community participation.
“I want my students to succeed in whatever they choose, whether it is studies or farming, but with understanding and confidence,” Kachiamthuiliu says.
Back under the tree, the children have finished measuring shadows.
Now, they are debating what those numbers mean — questioning, reasoning, learning together. There is no fear of being wrong and no pressure to memorise.
Just a quiet confidence taking root, and perhaps, in that moment, education looks exactly as it should — not something imposed from the outside, but something that grows from within.
All images courtsey Ananya Mukherjee
