Of Gates and Graciousness : How a Village School Taught Me More Than My Alma Mater

Two Monks on a Motorcycle: Corporate Zen Stories

Day 35

A few years ago, driven by a wave of nostalgia, I felt a deep urge to visit my old school—the place where I spent some of my most formative years. Eager to relive the memories of my childhood, I imagined the school would welcome me with open arms, perhaps recognizing the bond that exists between an institution and its former students. I envisioned walking through the familiar corridors, feeling the essence of my younger self in the classrooms and playground. With these emotions stirring within me, I made my way to the school, believing that a visit outside busy hours would be a reasonable request.

However, my enthusiasm quickly met an unexpected halt. As I approached the gates and identified myself as a former student, the school security flatly refused to let me in. Politely, I explained my desire to seek permission from the authorities, but I was denied even the opportunity to speak with anyone inside. The gates remained closed, and so too, in a sense, did the door to a piece of my past. While I was initially amused by the experience, I ultimately shrugged it off and allowed the memory to fade.

But just a few months later, a completely different encounter unfolded—one that left a lasting impression on me. It was Independence Day, and I was on a road trip, driving through rural Karnataka, several hundred kilometers from Bangalore. I stopped by a small government-run school in a remote village, drawn by the sight of their flag-hoisting ceremony. Standing outside the school gate, quietly observing, I found myself a stranger in their world, an outsider with no prior connection to the school or its community.

Yet, in stark contrast to my earlier experience, the teachers, parents, and students noticed me and extended an unexpected invitation. They welcomed me inside the school grounds, inviting me to witness their Independence Day celebrations up close. Their warmth didn’t end there. To my surprise, they brought me on stage and introduced me as the "Guest of Honor" for the day. I was overwhelmed, not just by their generosity but by the profound sense of community they exuded. These were people who knew nothing about me other than that I was a passerby from Bangalore. Yet they offered me the kind of respect and warmth one typically reserves for close connections.

The day unfolded like a dream. I witnessed cultural performances, handed out certificates to winners of various sporting events, and shared in their joy and pride. A feast followed, and I joined in, sitting among the students, parents, and teachers, all of whom made me feel like one of their own. Deeply moved by their kindness, I wanted to give back in a small way. Unfortunately, I didn’t have enough cash on me to make a substantial contribution, so I decided to write a cheque instead, asking that it be used to help the school’s needy children.

When I handed over the cheque to the school principal, expecting a quiet acknowledgment, something remarkable happened. The principal took me back to the stage and announced my gesture to everyone. What followed was a humbling moment of gratitude and applause from the entire school. I hadn’t anticipated any recognition; I simply wanted to show my appreciation for their hospitality. But their response was overwhelming, leaving me deeply touched.

In the weeks that followed, I found myself reflecting on these two vastly different experiences. In one instance, my identity as an alumnus counted for little. I was, quite literally, locked out of my past. In the other, I was a complete stranger yet welcomed with open arms and celebrated as an honored guest. The juxtaposition was striking, and it forced me to consider the values that truly matter. While the dilapidated government school lacked the resources and grandeur of my alma mater, it overflowed with something far more valuable—human warmth, inclusivity, and a sense of community.

Perhaps it’s in places that are seemingly broken or neglected where we find the greatest generosity. The contrast between these two schools taught me that hospitality, kindness, and openness do not require wealth or prestige. They are qualities of the heart, found in those who see beyond appearances and recognize the potential for connection in everyone.

I went to that small village school as a wayfarer, and I left as someone deeply moved by the simple yet profound acts of humanity. It was a powerful reminder that sometimes, the greatest honor is found in the most unexpected places.

This story captures the universal truth that true generosity and community spirit cannot be measured by outward appearances. It also raises important questions about how institutions, big or small, should treat those who wish to reconnect with their past or simply witness their present.

?The same can also be extrapolated to Corporates today on how they treat their Alumni.

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