The Inner Compass: Ashoka Sarma’s Journey to True Inclusion

In a world where educational policies often bend to profit and procedure, Ashoka has chosen a different compass — fairness. From an unshaken childhood principle to a transformative encounter with a single student, Mentor Magazine’s special issue for teacher’s month has chronicled her journey; a testament to listening first, leading later, and building classrooms where every child belongs.

Childhood & Inner Voice

I was, first and foremost, a daughter of the Northeast — though to say so is not quite sufficient, for I was a daughter of many towns, thanks to my father’s long service in the Department of Agriculture. Transfers were frequent and accepted without complaint, for we considered the journey part of the curriculum.

It was during those early years, in the quiet companionship of my father, that my mind was most gently formed. He had a habit of turning walks into lessons — not lessons in arithmetic or grammar, but in people, in decency, in how to look at the world without flinching. These were never delivered as sermons, but as stories, reflections, questions. It was a rich education, and perhaps the beginning of whatever voice I have now.

It must be admitted — and I do so with some hesitation, knowing how fond people

are of dramatic childhood awakenings — that I recall no great injustice befalling me during my school years. Indeed, those days seem, in memory, quite untouched by grievance or rebellion. My teachers were kind, my classmates companionable, and the affairs of the world, for the most part, conducted outside the classroom walls.

If there was any injustice, it was of the quieter kind — unnoticed then and only

faintly discernible now. My real understanding of unfairness would arrive much

later — not with a blow, but with a question.

“Somebody’s misfortune cannot be your source of minting money.”

I believe I said it without preparation, but not without conviction. It was one of

those moments when the heart speaks before the mind has had time to refine the

sentence. And I have stood by it ever since.

A school, I have always believed, is not a marketplace. It must sustain itself, of

course — no institution runs on sentiment alone — but if it begins to see a parent’s

desperation as a profit opportunity, it has departed entirely from its purpose. The

The line between self-reliance and exploitation may be thin, but it is not invisible.

In practical terms, this principle has meant scholarships, fee waivers, and many

quiet exceptions made without announcement. It has also meant occasional

financial difficulty. But it has never meant regret.

The Birth of Inclusion 

The encounter remains vivid in my mind — not because it was loud or dramatic, but because it was so entirely unexpected. A father arrived one morning, polite but weary, carrying a quiet urgency with him. He had gone from school to school, and everywhere the door had been gently but firmly closed. He asked if his child — a girl who, I later learned, was autistic — could study with us.

I knew nothing of autism at the time. I confess that openly. But I knew how to listen. And something about his tone — not pleading, not accusing, simply asking -  unsettled me more than any accusation could have.

I began to read, to ask questions, to observe. I saw not just a child in need of education, but a family in need of hope. And though I had no ready blueprint, I knew at once that we would not be sending him away. That moment, I believe, was

the quiet beginning of our inclusive practice — not born of strategy, but of conscience. 

Classrooms Redesigned? 

I didn’t so much design the classroom as refuse to redesign it to exclude. There were suggestions, of course — “Perhaps a separate room?” “Perhaps a special teacher?” But my instinct was to do the opposite: to bring the child in, not to send

him out. 

We adapted, naturally. Lessons were made more flexible, expectations adjusted, and both teachers and students learned to listen with more than their ears. It was not seamless, and it is still evolving, but we have found that most children, when not hurried or compared, flourish more than expected. Academically, it has required creativity. But I would argue that education ought to require it anyway.

Are All My Teachers, Special Educators? 

Formally, no — we do not claim universal certification in special education. But I would say that many of our teachers have become experts in something more valuable: attention.

The shift happened slowly, and then all at once. We began asking different questions in our staff rooms — not “Did you finish the lesson plan?” but “Did you understand what that child needed today?” From there, things changed. Teachers began seeing themselves not as performers on a stage, but as facilitators in a room

full of individuals.

Not every teacher adapts. Some prefer structure to fluidity. But those who stay, stay because they have found meaning in the messiness.

Understanding Leadership 

Yes, quite dramatically. I used to think leadership meant direction — one hand on

the wheel, the other on the map. But once we began working closely with children

whose needs were less conventional, I realized that leadership sometimes means

not leading, at least not in the usual sense.

It means making room for voices quieter than your own. It means holding space for uncertainty. And it often means admitting you don’t know the answer — but you are willing to sit with the question.

I became less interested in control and more interested in trust. And from that shift, I believe, a better kind of leadership emerged.

A Message to Young Ashoka

I would say — You’ll be fine. Just keep walking. Don’t lose that sense of fairness,

even when the world tells you to let it go.