Where Diwali meets Eid: The Ayodhya educator who teaches unity, not division

March 25, 2025 by News Desk

Anahita Koshur

On January 26, 2013, the air at Udaya Public School in Ayodhya buzzed with anticipation. Thousands of students sat in neat rows, expecting the familiar tributes to national icons. Speeches on freedom fighters, patriotic songs, and a ceremonious flag-hoisting—it was a ritual they had seen year after year.

But Apurva Tripathi, standing at the podium, had something else in mind.

Instead of recounting the lives of well-documented leaders, she turned to the people who kept the school running—the often-overlooked support staff. The janitors, the cooks, the security guards, the clerks. “Udaya stands tall because of them,” she declared. A hush fell over the hall—not of disinterest, but of surprise. A shifting silence. The kind that precedes a realization. Then, a wave of applause.

And something deeper.

For the first time, the support staff—who had spent years blending into the background, acknowledged only in passing—sat with their backs straight. Their eyes, so accustomed to looking downward, lifted with something unfamiliar: recognition. Dignity.

One of them, a middle-aged man who had swept the floors of the school for over a decade, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, as if unsure whether he was allowed to feel this moment. “I never thought we mattered that much,” he later said.

That speech was more than just a moment of acknowledgment—it was a quiet rebellion against hierarchy. A reminder that respect should not be conditional.

And for Apurva Tripathi, it was only the beginning.

Challenging the Status Quo

Tripathi’s journey to becoming one of Ayodhya’s most influential educators was far from ordinary. A gold medalist from Delhi University, a postgraduate from The Graduate Institute, Geneva—her academic credentials could have opened doors to prestigious institutions and lucrative careers. But she chose a different path. “People told me I was wasting my education by returning to Ayodhya,” she recalls. “But how can education be wasted if it’s used to challenge the way we think?”

Ayodhya, a city often viewed through the lens of religious and cultural divides, was not the obvious place for an experiment in inclusivity. But for Tripathi, that made it the perfect place. At Udaya Public School, she refused to let education be reduced to rote learning and rigid traditions. She believed schools should reflect the world we aspire to create—one where difference is not feared but embraced.

Under her leadership, the school began celebrating all festivals—not as token gestures, but as a statement of shared belonging. Diwali lamps glowed alongside Christmas stars. Holi colors mixed with the sweet scent of Eid’s seviyan. The Saraswati Vandana was sung with the same reverence as a Christmas carol. “In my classroom, a Muslim child shouldn’t feel like an outsider on Saraswati Puja. A Hindu child shouldn’t feel excluded on Eid. If they grow up respecting each other’s faiths, maybe, just maybe, they’ll build a better world than the one we gave them,” she says.

Her approach was met with skepticism from some corners. Critics questioned whether such inclusivity blurred cultural boundaries too much. But for Tripathi, the answer was simple: “If education doesn’t teach us to coexist, then what are we really learning?”

Education as an Equalizer

For Tripathi, education was not just about acquiring knowledge—it was about breaking barriers. Inspired by B.R. Ambedkar’s vision of dignity and equality, she saw nationalism not as a weapon of division, but as a bridge. She believed patriotism should not be measured by how loudly one chants slogans, but by how one uplifts others. She adopted a government primary school in Kishundaspur—not as an act of charity, but as a declaration that quality education should not be a privilege reserved for the wealthy.

“How can we claim to love our country if we ignore the children who sit in broken classrooms, with no books and no future?” she asks. To dismantle financial barriers, she launched the Kanak Tripathi Memorial Scholarship (KTM). In 2023-24 alone, the scholarship awarded ₹6,35,520 to students across economic and social backgrounds. “Talent should determine success, not circumstance,” she insists.

Project PAHAL: Making Inclusion Real

Beyond academic access, Tripathi understood that true inclusion means emotional safety. Thus, she created Project PAHAL (Promoting A Holistic Approach to Learning)—a school-wide initiative focused on mental well-being, gender sensitization, and identity awareness. “How can we expect children to thrive when they’re too scared to be themselves?” she asks.

At the heart of PAHAL is the School Inclusion Team, which works to create emotionally safe spaces in classrooms. Students are encouraged to speak about their struggles—whether it’s anxiety, gender identity, or discrimination—without fear of judgment. Mental health workshops, gender sensitization programs, and discussions on personal identity have transformed the school’s culture. Students no longer whisper their fears in corridors. They speak openly. They seek support.

“I was afraid to talk about my depression,” says a student. “Now, I know I’m not alone.” The result? A shift from silence to self-expression. From fear to freedom.

Rewriting the Rules of Learning

Tripathi’s vision of education extends beyond textbooks and exams. Her personal library, open to students, is stocked with books on caste, gender, self-acceptance, and narratives often ignored in traditional curricula. “Schools should teach more than history. They should teach children to question history,” she says. Her activism isn’t confined to the classroom. She marches at Pride parades—not as an ally, but as one among many voices. She ensures that Udaya’s internships and jobs are open to all—regardless of caste, gender, or background. She documents struggles, victories, and quiet revolutions in young minds.

“Education isn’t just about what we teach—it’s about who we uplift,” she told The Kashmiriyat.

The Power of Being Heard

Over the years, Tripathi has sat through countless conversations that have changed lives. Some in classrooms. Some in corridors. Some in whispers of uncertainty, fear, and quiet hope. Her book, Between Us, is a testament to these moments. “It’s not just an educator’s reflections,” she says. “It’s a study of how deep listening transforms lives.”

Because the most profound lessons don’t always happen in classrooms. They happen in the quietest moments—when someone finally feels truly heard.

A Legacy Beyond Labels

One evening, a message arrived from Anika (name changed), a former student. She had passed 12th grade while carrying burdens no one saw—personal trauma, financial struggles, and a quiet battle for survival. Five years ago, she had seen Tripathi honor the school’s support staff. That moment of kindness had stayed with her.

Now, she reached out—not for sympathy, but for a chance.

Tripathi took her in—not just as an intern, but as a human being in need of dignity. She ensured Anika worked in an environment free from discrimination, where she could earn, heal, and rebuild. Today, Anika thrives—academically, professionally. But her greatest milestone wasn’t a degree or a paycheck. “It was realizing she wasn’t invisible. “I found a mentor, a guide, and in Apurva, a mother,” she says.

Teaching Tolerance in an Age of Hate

At the heart of Apurva Tripathi’s work lies a simple, radical belief: No one should feel unseen. She often quotes a line from Humko Mann Ki Shakti Dena: “Dusron ki jai se pehle, khud ki jai karein.”

“Empowerment isn’t about validation from others,” she explains. “It begins when you see yourself, accept yourself, and fight for yourself.” In a time when divisions are deepening, she stands firm in her conviction: education must heal, not harm. And in every student she teaches to think freely, to love without fear, she isn’t just shaping minds.

She’s shaping a future where tolerance is not just an idea. It’s a way of life.