Somewhere beyond the reach of noisy cities and spotlight-chasing headlines, at the foothills of the Ayodhya Hills in West Bengal, lies a village that doesn’t show up in glossy brochures or social media reels. Jilingseling, a tribal village in Purulia, is the kind of place where time is told not by clocks but by the rustling of sal leaves and the hum of cicadas. Here, in a mud house barely distinguishable from its neighbours, lives a woman who is changing the story of her village—one child, one chalk stroke, one page at a time.

Her name is Malati Murmu.

She is not a government-appointed teacher. She has no salary, no job title, and no institutional support. What she does have, however, is a rare kind of courage—the kind that builds something from nothing.

It was the year 2020. The world was in lockdown. Schools were shuttered. Online education became the norm—for those who had smartphones, internet, and a quiet room.

But Jilingseling had none of that.

Instead, the village had Malati—then a new bride and a new mother, who looked around and saw what others had overlooked for generations. The children of her village—mostly from the Santal community—had never gone to school. They didn’t know how to read, write, or even recognize their own names in print.

And so she decided to change that.

With her infant in her arms and an unshakable resolve in her heart, Malati opened the doors of her mud house. That house became a school. That school became a lifeline.

She began with just a handful of children. She taught them Santali, their mother tongue, using the Ol Chiki script, alongside Bengali and basic English. There were no benches, no blackboards, no funding—just mats on the ground, hand-written notes, and the patience of a woman who believed learning should not come at the cost of identity.

Malati’s classroom is not just a space of learning—it is a space of belonging.

In most mainstream schools, tribal children are often forced to leave their language at the doorstep. Lessons are in unfamiliar tongues. Culture is diluted. Confidence is quietly chipped away.

But in Malati’s school, language is not a barrier—it is a bridge.

She teaches in Santali, the language of lullabies, festivals, and folktales. Her students learn to read and write not as outsiders in an alien script, but as participants in a familiar rhythm. The response has been overwhelming. Children who once wandered aimlessly now sit attentively, eager to learn. This is not just education—it is empowerment through cultural affirmation.

Ironically, there is a government primary school not too far from Jilingseling. Yet, more and more families are choosing Malati’s humble clay classroom with a tin roof.

Why?

Because Malati knows each child by name. Because she teaches with heart, not hierarchy. Because she listens, explains, encourages, and never forgets the weight of the dreams carried by her students’ bare feet.

Her husband, Banka Murmu, supports her unconditionally. They share the household chores, raise their child, and manage the logistics of running a school—all without pay. They worry about the lack of resources. There are no computers. No charts. No audio-visual aids. Just chalk and willpower.

And yet, something extraordinary is happening here.

Educators and academics have started to take note. Professor Shripati Tudu of Sidho Kanho Birsha University has called Malati’s work a blueprint for rural and tribal education in India. Her efforts are increasingly being seen as a model of grassroots, women-led educational reform, the kind that bridges not just the digital divide, but also the cultural one.

But admiration alone doesn’t sustain a school. Malati’s classroom still lacks basic amenities. There’s no library, no reliable electricity, and no means to scale her work. Everything runs on goodwill—her own, and that of the villagers who have stood by her.

In our times, we are quick to celebrate influencers who go viral for lip-sync videos and dance challenges. Fame often follows spectacle.

However, Malati Murmu, who teaches tribal children in a clay room without seeking applause, remains hidden from the public eye.

She is not trending.
She is transforming.

She reminds us what it truly means to educate—not just to deliver syllabi, but to ignite self-worth. She reminds us that the soul of India doesn’t reside in smart classrooms or elite academies—it breathes in the forgotten corners where women like her quietly shape the future.

As I write this, I cannot help but think of the phrase we so often throw around: Bharat vs. India. Malati’s story is not one of that divide—it is of a bridge. A woman who embodies the very essence of what education in India could be: inclusive, empathetic, rooted in identity, and radically transformative.

Her classroom may be built of clay, but its foundation is far stronger than concrete. It stands on vision, resilience, and the unshakable belief that every child deserves to learn in a language that speaks to their soul.

To Malati, With Gratitude

You may never receive a national award. You may never be invited to a TED Talk.

But to those sixty children—and to all of us who still believe in the quiet power of everyday heroes—you are nothing short of legendary. You are a movement, a mother of change, a living lesson in what it means to care.

Thank you for showing us that in the farthest corners of our country, where systems have failed, the human spirit still prevails. 🙏 You are not just the pride of Jilingseling. You are the spirit of a better, fairer, more empathetic India. You are the school we all wish we had attended.

Let us not forget her. Let us not fail her.