Sneha had never planned to be a teacher. She had dreamt of corporate offices, high-flying deals, and a six-figure salary. But life had its own script.
One summer, during her final year of business school, she volunteered at a rural education camp. She had expected it to be just a checkbox on her résumé, but something unexpected happened. The sparkle in a child’s eyes when they grasped a concept for the first time—that feeling stayed with her.
To her parents’ surprise, she chose teaching over corporate life. “But teaching is a humble job,” they said. She smiled and replied, “Only if you make it so.”
For ten years, she dedicated herself to her students, pouring her heart into every lesson. But at the annual school function, when awards were handed out, it was always the students who received applause. Teachers were simply expected to give and give.
Then, everything changed.
At the start of the new academic year, the school introduced teacher evaluations—by students. It was a radical move. Every month, students would rate their teachers on clarity, engagement, and effectiveness. Some teachers rebelled. “Since when do children judge professionals?” one senior teacher scoffed.
Sneha had mixed feelings. What if her students found her boring? What if years of effort amounted to nothing? The first report card arrived.
“Miss Sneha explains well, but she hurries through the hard parts.”
“She cares about us, but sometimes we’re too scared to ask questions.”
“Her stories help me understand! But she doesn’t notice when I’m lost.”
Her heart sank. She thought she was doing her best. But had she been ignoring the quiet ones at the back? She looked around her classroom differently that day.
Instead of rushing, she slowed down. Instead of asking, “Does everyone understand?” she asked, “Tell me one thing you found difficult today.” She added real-life connections, humor, and even the occasional game.
The second month’s report arrived. Her scores had risen.
By the fourth month, she was one of the top-rated teachers in the school.
One evening, as she packed her bag, she overheard a conversation in the staffroom.
“She’s just playing to the students. This isn’t a popularity contest,” said one teacher bitterly.
“She’s manipulating the system,” another whispered.
Sneha clenched her fists. No one had ever questioned a doctor’s skills if their patients improved. No one accused a businessman of playing to the market when his profits soared. Why, then, did a teacher’s success feel like something to be ashamed of?
She fought back her anger and focused on her students.
Months passed. Sneha was no longer just a “humble” teacher. She was a respected professional, sought after by parents and admired by students. The school saw a rise in student engagement, and other teachers started adopting her methods.
One day, she received a letter from a boy who had barely spoken in class before.
“Miss Sneha, I used to feel invisible in class. But now, I know I matter. You made me want to learn.”
Tears welled up in her eyes.
The year ended with a grand ceremony. For the first time, the Best Teacher Award wasn’t given based on seniority. It wasn’t based on what the principal thought or who was “due” for recognition.
It was based on impact.
And when Sneha’s name was announced, she walked up to the stage not as a humble teacher, but as a revolutionary one.
A teacher who had earned her place.
And this time, the applause was for her.
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