The winter sun was already out, but the cold had not given up.
The journey into the hills had taken us as far as the road could carry us. From there, the only way forward was on foot. The school was somewhere beyond the next ridge, and then the next one after that. The path kept rising and falling, sometimes narrowing to little more than a trail. The wind came up occasionally, carrying the dry rustle of winter grass, and our breath hung in the air as we walked.
We kept walking.
By the time the school finally appeared, the first thing that stood out was not the building. It was the children. They were sitting outside in the winter sun, gathered in the courtyard with their books and notebooks around them. At every school we visited that day, students seemed to have found the warmest place available. The classrooms were cold, but the sunlight offered at least some relief.
At one private school, something else stood out. The children were dressed in their school uniforms, even wearing ties.
And then we looked down.
Some of them had no slippers on their feet.
The contrast stayed in the mind. The uniforms and neatly knotted ties suggested the formality of school, while the bare feet quietly revealed something about the circumstances in which these children were studying.
The day’s activity was about eye care. We had come to talk to the children about their eyes, about looking after them and about problems that should not simply be ignored.
As the conversation progressed, some children appeared to have difficulties with their vision. There were signs that some might need their eyes examined, but noticing a problem and being able to do something about it were two very different things.
The obvious answer seemed simple: get the children examined.
But in a remote part of the hills, even a simple answer could become complicated.
At that time, there was only one government eye doctor in the district, along with one private eye doctor. The government doctor had responsibilities that went far beyond visiting schools. There was paperwork, hospital work and the many other demands that came with being the district’s government eye specialist. Sending a doctor from school to school across remote areas simply was not practical.
The reality became clearer during a meeting with the Deputy CMO.
The problem was explained, and the response was straightforward. If children with possible eye problems could be identified, their names could be sent to the district hospital. The hospital could then take the matter forward.
So the request was made: prepare a list of the students who appeared to have problems with their eyes.
It sounded reasonable.
But once the request was taken back to the reality of those mountain schools, another problem appeared.
How would that list actually be made?
The schools were spread across difficult terrain. Reaching them meant long journeys, sometimes followed by kilometres of walking. There were many children, and there was no practical way for a small group to visit every school and identify every child who might have a vision problem.
The same shortage that prevented the health department from sending an eye doctor to every school also made it impossible for us to prepare the list ourselves.
The list could not be made.
But the need for the list had not disappeared.
That was when the question began to change.
If an eye doctor could not be in every school, who was already there?
The teachers.
They were with the children every day. They knew which child normally sat near the front. They could notice a child struggling to read the blackboard, bringing a book unusually close to the face, complaining of headaches or squinting. They might notice changes that a visitor coming once in a while could easily miss.
They were not doctors, and they did not need to become doctors. But perhaps they could learn what to notice—and prepare the list that the district hospital needed.
That was how the idea of a self-learning manual for school teachers began to take shape. It had to be written in simple language, without unnecessary medical terminology, and focused on things a teacher could actually observe. A teacher did not need to diagnose. The teacher needed to notice the child who squinted at the blackboard, held a book too close, or complained repeatedly about headaches. That noticing could be enough to begin the process. The rest could be left to the hospital.
But the manual was not going to be only a list of symptoms.
Children also needed to understand why sight mattered.
So some of the learning became experiential. In one activity, children covered their eyes with a handkerchief and were asked to find their Hindi notebook inside their school bag. The notebook was there. They knew it was there. Yet a task that normally required almost no thought suddenly became difficult.
In another activity, children worked in pairs, with one child covering their eyes while the other guided them around the school ground. For a few minutes, they experienced uncertainty, dependence and the importance of having someone they could trust.
The manual also helped children recognise signs that should not simply be ignored: difficulty seeing the blackboard, frequent headaches, redness or watering of the eyes, blurred or double vision, or bringing books unusually close to the face. They were encouraged to tell their parents or teachers when such problems appeared.
The teacher could also conduct a simple preliminary vision check and identify children who might need further examination. The purpose was never to replace an eye specialist. It was to make sure that a child who needed attention did not remain unnoticed simply because the specialist was far away.
The manual took shape slowly, tested first in a few schools in Agra and then carried into other parts of the country. It reached teachers across Uttar Pradesh, Madhya Pradesh, West Bengal and the remote villages of Uttarakhand. Over the years, the manual was adapted and eventually made available in digital form. But its heart remained the same: simple things a teacher could notice before a child’s problem became something much bigger.
The story was never really about producing a manual.
It began with a few children in a remote Himalayan school, sitting in the winter sun with ties and bare feet. It began with a practical problem that had no easy answer. There were not enough eye doctors. There was no practical way to reach every school.
And the list that we could not make ourselves could, perhaps, be made by the people who were already there.