We had been to three schools in Jaipur by the time we reached the fourth one, and I was tired of the standard tour. The principal was telling us about their “state-of-the-art smart classrooms” and “annual sports day,” and I was trying to imagine my seven-year-old sitting in one of those neat rows, raising his hand politely.
Then we stepped out to see the playing field. Or what was supposed to be a playing field. It was a sandy patch with a few tyre swings, and a group of Class 1 kids were running after a football. One little girl was not running. She was standing near a neem tree, quietly crying, and a young teacher was crouched next to her, not saying much, just letting her lean against her shoulder. The principal kept talking about the upcoming basketball court. But I kept watching that teacher. She didn’t notice us. She just let the girl hold her hand and waited until the tears slowed down.
That moment did more to shape our school decision than any brochure or academic promise.
We had started the search like most parents probably do. I had a list: good teachers, manageable class size, some form of sports, not too much homework, and a school that wouldn’t push my child to read before he was ready. But every school tour made me realise that saying “academics and sports and overall well-being” is easy. Actually balancing it in a child’s day is another thing entirely.
The first school we visited had a beautiful campus. The classrooms were airy, there were separate rooms for art and music, and the sports area was genuinely well-maintained. The principal talked about their “academic rigour” and how they introduce conceptual maths in Class 1 itself. I nodded along. But when we spoke to a parent waiting outside, she told me that homework takes about an hour every evening, and that the school expects children to be able to read short sentences by the end of the first term. My son still mixes up ‘b’ and ‘d’. That school was not for him.
The second school was almost the opposite. The campus was old and cramped, but the teachers seemed warm. The classrooms had colourful charts, and the children looked relaxed. When we asked about academics, the coordinator said, “We follow the child’s pace.” That sounded lovely, but when we checked the curriculum, I noticed they did not have a single period for physical education in the Class 1 timetable. There was a morning assembly with some stretching, but that was it. My son needs to run. He needs to climb and fall and swing. Sitting cross-legged and singing “head, shoulders, knees and toes” in the hall would not do.
So by the time we reached that fourth school, I was not expecting much. But that little moment with the crying girl stayed with me. It made me wonder: how do schools actually handle a child who is not okay? Not the dramatic tantrum in the middle of a lesson, but the quiet sadness that happens on a regular Tuesday morning. How do they respond when a child misses home, or has a bad breakfast, or just doesn’t feel like talking to anyone?
I started asking that directly on the next school visits. And I got some interesting answers. One school said, “We have a counselling team. They visit each class once a week.” That sounded nice but also vague. Another school said, “We send the child to the library to calm down.” That one made me pause. A library can be comforting, but sending a child away to manage their own emotions seems like a lot of responsibility for a six-year-old.
The school we eventually chose had a different way of putting it. The admission counsellor said, “We don’t have a fixed script for that. It depends on the child. Our teachers are trained to stay with a child who is upset, not to distract or punish. We let the child feel it and be done.” That explanation was not polished. It didn’t include a name for their program. But it was real.
I also paid attention to how the sports period actually works in that school. They have daily PE for all classes, including Class 1. It’s not just free play or a chorus of jumping jacks. They rotate activities: basic throwing and catching, balancing on low beams, simple relay races, and sometimes free play. The PE teacher, a wiry man in his thirties, told me something useful during one of our visits. He said: “We don’t teach sport. We teach movement. If a child doesn’t like football, they can try badminton. If they don’t like that, they try yoga. The point is to find the thing that makes their body feel good.”
That made sense. In Class 1, the goal is not to build a future athlete. The goal is to help a child feel confident in their own body. That includes coordination, strength, and also learning how to lose without crying. The school organises small inter-class games where teams are made by the children themselves. They don’t keep score on a board. The teacher quietly notes who is struggling emotionally. I remember watching a relay race where one boy tripped and fell. He lay there for a few seconds. The teacher did not rush over. Another boy from the other team bent down and offered his hand. They finished the race together, walking. The teacher later said they would talk about that moment in a class circle.
Academics, in this school, are not ignored, but they are kept in a realistic frame. The Class 1 curriculum covers reading and basic addition, but the head of the primary section was clear about something we really needed to hear. She said: “If your child is writing their name with some letters reversed, that is normal. If your child is still counting on their fingers, that is normal. Our job is to give them time, not to make them feel behind.” That conversation changed my perspective. I had been so worried about keeping up with other parents that I forgot my child is not a checklist.
That school also does one thing that I have since recommended to every parent I meet: they hold “parent observation mornings” once a month. Not parent-teacher meetings. Just observation. You can sit in your child’s classroom for half an hour and watch how the teacher interacts, how your child responds, and how the other children behave around your child. It is not for evaluation. It is for understanding. This was the most practical, low-friction piece of guidance we found in the whole process. You don’t have to rely on the “progress report” that a school prints. You can see your child in their actual environment.
Our decision came down to a set of very simple questions:
– Does the school have a daily physical activity period, not just a weekly one?
– What happens to a child who is visibly upset? Ask for a specific example, not a policy.
– How does the school communicate with parents about non-academic things? Do they only call when there is an issue, or do they share small observations too?
– And finally, watch the children. Not during a performance, but during a regular transition time. How do they move from one activity to another? Are they shouting, fighting, or quietly waiting? That tells you more than any mission statement.
We have been at the new school for five months now. My son has come home with muddy knees and a smile more times than I can count. He still reverses ‘b’ and ‘d’ sometimes. The school hasn’t sent a single complaint about it. Instead, his teacher wrote in a note: “He wrote ‘dad’ today with the last letter flipped. We smiled and made a joke about ‘mirror letters.’ He laughed and tried again. He is doing fine.”
That note told me we made the right choice. Not because the school is perfect. It isn’t. The classrooms are a little crowded. The lunch break is only twenty-five minutes, which feels short. And the PE teacher does have an occasional habit of turning everything into a challenge, which not every child enjoys.
But sitting in that observation morning last week, I watched my son sit in a circle with five other children. They were discussing what they wanted to build out of old cardboard boxes. He said something, and the girl next to him laughed. Not at him, with him. He turned his body towards her, not away. That moment of confidence, of feeling like he belongs, is the thing I was really looking for.
We are still figuring out whether this school will hold up in the years to come. Whether the balance of academics, sports, and well-being will stay balanced as the syllabus gets heavier. Whether my son will still love school when homework becomes more than a reading card. I don’t know yet. But for now, he jumps out of the car in the morning without me having to tell him twice.
That is a good enough sign.
Please indicate: Thinking In Educating » We had been to three schools in Jaipur by the time we reached the fourth one, and I was tired of the standard tour