Every time I sit down at my laptop to write about my life,
it feels like I’m laying myself bare before the world. The feeling intensifies
whenever I think about revisiting my teenage years at Jawahar Navodaya
Vidyalaya. Something stirs deep inside — a nervous churn in my gut. I can’t
quite tell if it’s fear or a strange kind of thrill that sends my breath
racing.
I carry certain fears and insecurities from childhood that,
perhaps, made my time at Navodaya more challenging than it needed to be. Even
now, when I think about the daily struggle to blend in with the crowd of boys
in the hostel—trying to find my place
among them—a wave of mixed emotions washes over me. I’m still unsure whether I
look back on those memories with a sense of nostalgia or with quiet resentment.
The Good Parts
There were definitely benefits to being at Navodaya. We received free food,
books, and lodging, along with access to playgrounds and sports facilities.
Some seniors and teachers were kind and supportive, guiding us through those
formative years.
- Discipline and Habits - Good habits such as morning exercises, brushing your teeth, and eating on time couldn't have been achieved if I were at home.
The Difficult Parts
However, life there wasn’t always easy. Some seniors misused their authority,
often expecting juniors to run errands for them—like fetching water from
faraway sources when the hostel taps ran dry, or even doing their laundry. It
created a sense of hierarchy and pressure that was hard to navigate.
There were also silent struggles that rarely made it into
conversation. The absence of adult supervision in hostels sometimes gave space
to unhealthy behaviors and boundary violations. Many juniors were left to deal
with confusing, uncomfortable situations in isolation, not knowing how—or if—it
was safe to speak up.
Some teachers, too, could be harsh. A few would lash out at
students, especially those who kept to themselves. These quiet kids often
became easy targets for verbal or even physical discipline that felt excessive
and undeserved. For them, school became less of a place to learn and more of a
place to endure.
Another subtle but lasting impact was the isolation from extended family and community. Spending nearly the entire year at school meant missing out on weddings, festivals, and social events back home. I missed many of my close relatives’ marriage ceremonies and other gatherings in my village. Over time, this lack of exposure affected my ability to connect socially—I often felt awkward or out of place among my own relatives. Some of them hardly know me, and I barely know them. That disconnect still lingers.
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