The Morning Assembly Taught Me More Than I Thought

Each school morning started in the same manner — straight lines, uniforms impeccable, shoes shined, hair well-combed. We'd mutter through the prayer, attempt not to be caught yawning, and wait for the final "Thank you, Ma'am" so we could hurry to class.

I used to think that the morning assembly was a mere formality, an adult-imposed thing to "discipline" us.

But now, I look back and I see it was a still teacher.

It taught me consistency.

Rain, heat, biting cold — we stood there. And life, I've found, makes the same demands of you. You turn up every day, even when you don't want to.

It instilled in me respect.

Whether it was listening to the principal speak or applauding someone receiving an award, we learned how to direct our attention towards other people. In a world that is always yelling, that's a hard-to-find talent — to merely stand firm and listen.

It instilled in me unity.

Glancing around at scores of us all clad in the same attire, I realized: sometimes, in life, you're not supposed to stand out, but stand together.

Today, when I look at others speeding through life, neglecting the "little things" because they are convinced that they do not count, I smile.

Because sometimes the little things are humbly molding you for the grand ones. 

Lessons From the Last Bench

I spent much of my school years on the back bench — not that I was a rebel, but because I was sitting with my friends. From that spot, I viewed the class in a different light. I viewed the teacher's reactions when no one was watching. I viewed students assisting each other discreetly during pop tests. I viewed the reserved ones who never raised their hands but always got the correct answer.

The back bench taught me perspective.

If you're not up front, you're not just looking at what's on the board. You're looking at the people.

It taught me self-sufficiency.

Teachers never paid attention to whether we spaced out out there, so I had to make the decision — was I here to just pass time, or to actually learn? That choice made me take responsibility for my education, rather than waiting for someone to prod me.

It taught me judgement outside of marks.

Some of the most brilliant individuals I know weren't on the front row, and they didn't obtain the best grades. They possessed ideas, creativity, sense of humour, empathy — qualities no exam could assess.

I believe life contains many "last benches" — careers, circumstances, stages where you're situated in the background. Yet perhaps that's where you observe the details that matter most. 

The Canteen Queue and the Art of Waiting

At school, the canteen was our small stock market — crowded all the time, noisy all the time, full of hurried buyers all the time.

During recess, all of us scrambled in as if the samosas would disappear in an instant (and sometimes they really did). I discovered early on that if you wanted your Frooti or aloo patty, you could do one of two things — elbow your way to the counter, or wait patiently.

Most days, I waited. Not because I liked being last, but because my parents had taught me to believe in fairness. Waiting in that line taught me something I didn't fully appreciate at the time:
In life, you won't always be served first. You'll see individuals cut in front of you — in jobs, opportunities, even relationships. You'll want to rush, push, and yell "Hey, I was here before you."

But here's the thing: patience is what comes from waiting. And patience creates a sort of quiet confidence that no shortcut can provide. The samosa tasted just as good, if not better, after the wait.
Lesson:
Sometimes things are worth waiting for. And occasionally, what you end up becoming in the process of waiting is more valuable than whatever you're waiting for.

The Canteen Queue and the Art of Waiting

At school, the canteen was our small stock market — crowded all the time, noisy all the time, full of hurried buyers all the time.

During recess, all of us scrambled in as if the samosas would disappear in an instant (and sometimes they really did). I discovered early on that if you wanted your Frooti or aloo patty, you could do one of two things — elbow your way to the counter, or wait patiently.

Most days, I waited. Not because I liked being last, but because my parents had taught me to believe in fairness. Waiting in that line taught me something I didn't fully appreciate at the time:
In life, you won't always be served first. You'll see individuals cut in front of you — in jobs, opportunities, even relationships. You'll want to rush, push, and yell "Hey, I was here before you."

But here's the thing: patience is what comes from waiting. And patience creates a sort of quiet confidence that no shortcut can provide. The samosa tasted just as good, if not better, after the wait.
Lesson:
Sometimes things are worth waiting for. And occasionally, what you end up becoming in the process of waiting is more valuable than whatever you're waiting for.

I recall passing by my school playground one afternoon after everyone had left home. The swings were quiet. The football was forgotten in a corner. The same space that, a mere few hours ago, echoed with noise and laughter now seemed nearly lonely.

It reminded me: isn't life like this? Individuals enter your existence, bring it to life, and then, at some point, they leave — to elsewhere, to other tales. The earth stays, but the actors shift.

School showed me not to cling too hard to moments or individuals. Not that they aren't important, but that they can't remain. Friendships evolve, teachers retire, classmates move away. But the memories… they linger on. They remain with you, like intangible chalk lines tracing where a game had taken place.
Lesson

All things in life are temporary — the cacophony, the quiet, the individuals, the functions. Appreciate it while it lasts, and when it dissipates, smile at the fact that you were fortunate enough to have been present when it occurred.

The Empty Playground

I recall passing by my school playground one afternoon after everyone had left home. The swings were quiet. The football was forgotten in a corner. The same space that, a mere few hours ago, echoed with noise and laughter now seemed nearly lonely.

It reminded me: isn't life like this? Individuals enter your existence, bring it to life, and then, at some point, they leave — to elsewhere, to other tales. The earth stays, but the actors shift.

School showed me not to cling too hard to moments or individuals. Not that they aren't important, but that they can't remain. Friendships evolve, teachers retire, classmates move away. But the memories… they linger on. They remain with you, like intangible chalk lines tracing where a game had taken place.
Lesson

All things in life are temporary — the cacophony, the quiet, the individuals, the functions. Appreciate it while it lasts, and when it dissipates, smile at the fact that you were fortunate enough to have been present when it occurred

The Day I Sat Next to a Stranger in Class

It was a Monday morning in 7th standard. My best friend was not there, and the seat next to me was vacant. I was unpacking my books when a boy I hardly knew approached me and asked, "Can I sit here?"
I shrugged. "Sure."

He was one of the quiet ones — not the sort you hear in group laughter during breaks, not the sort who raises his hand to respond to questions. For the majority of the year, we had moved past each other like strangers in the same building.

That day, we had to share a pencil, exchange erasers, and share some awkward jokes. We had found common ground in cricket and pani puri by lunchtime. By the end of the week, we had exchanged numbers.

It dawned on me how many individuals we go through every day without ever understanding who they are. At times it's because we're so caught up in our own little bubble. At times we think they're "not our type." At times we simply do not notice.

School, I came to understand, is like a train — same journey, different carriages. You may be sitting beside someone new and discover that they have been carrying a part of your narrative all along.

Even today, out of school, I consider how many times we underestimate those around us — the coworker we've never shared a lunch with, the neighbor we greet but never talk to, the person in line behind us at a coffee shop. One chat can change a whole attitude.

Lesson:
Never undervalue the strength of being seated beside a stranger. Oftentimes, the smallest "yes" can result in the most surprising friendships.

The Lesson From My Shattered Geometry Box

During 8th grade, I had a geometry box that I adored — not because it was extraordinary, but because it belonged to me. It contained my initials etched on the top, a small sticker of a cartoon character, and a pencil that seemed to always sharpen to the perfect point.

One afternoon, during maths class, it fell off my desk and landed on the floor. The metal lid warped, the divider screw dislodged, and my precious compass couldn't keep the pencil any longer. It was rendered useless.

I recall looking at it, having a stupid onslaught of sadness. It was merely a geometry box, but I didn't wish to have it replaced. The teacher noticed me struggling and gave me a spare compass from the cabinet. It functioned well, but it felt different.

I came to understand that day something I couldn't at the time: replacement is difficult when attachment makes the function the same.

It's not necessarily about the thing. It's about the memories that are coiled around it. The way I had employed that box for all the diagrams, all the exams, all the doodles at the back of my notebook. It was not merely steel and plastic — it was time, and time is non-replaceable.

Now, as I've aged, I notice this lesson in humans, as well. We meet new people, and they're great, but they do not replace the void of those we've had years with. And they shouldn't have to. Every connection is its own form, and no compass ever plots the same circle twice.
Appreciate what you have while you have it. Not because it's irreplaceable in function, but because it's irreplaceable in significance.

Discipline & Routine – The Hidden Strength from School

Looking back at my school days, I know that the most significant thing it taught me was not knowledge from books but discipline and routine that became the basis of whatever I do now. It was a chore then — waking up early, dressing in the same uniform all day, rushing to class on time, doing homework ahead of the deadline. But today, standing at the threshold of manhood, I realize how those little habits honed me in ways that I could not even realize then.

The Morning Bell that Taught Punctuality

The ringing school bell in the morning is still vivid in my memory. For years, it commanded when we came to class, when we departed, and when we ate lunch. It seemed mechanical at the time, but now I understand it instilled in me punctuality. Life waits for no one, opportunities wait for nobody, and people respect those who respect time. Whether it is arriving at college lectures, meeting people, or even arriving for a friend, punctuality has served me well in being noticeable in little yet significant ways.

Uniforms & the Lesson of Equality

Getting dressed in the same uniform each day was dull. But later on, I understood that it represented equality. In a room filled with students from various economic, social, and cultural backgrounds, uniforms eliminated the apparent differences. That's where I learned one of the most valuable lessons — that respect is not gained based on how you appear, but on how you act.

Homework & Deadlines

There were moments when I disliked homework. It seemed like school was encroaching on my private life. But today, I see what it actually taught me — dedication and regularity. Deadlines in life are present everywhere. Work, projects, even personal objectives. School was preparing me for that world masquerading as an educational institution.

Teachers as Life Coaches

Teachers were not only there to instruct us on subjects; they were my initial life coaches. Some of them taught me patience, some taught me perseverance, and some taught me how to venture out of my comfort zone. I still recall the tough math teacher who never accepted late submissions — she inadvertently programmed me for the professional world where excuses are a waste, results alone count.

Discipline: The Invisible Strength

Today, when I see myself waking up early, planning my day, completing tasks on time, or even respecting people’s time, I silently thank my school. Discipline may sound boring, but it is the very thing that gives us freedom. Freedom to pursue our passions, achieve our goals, and live without chaos.

School gave me my first taste of discipline, and that has become the unseen superpower I carry everywhere.

Friendship, Teamwork & Growing Together

If I were asked what the most beautiful thing about school life was, my response would not be books, exams, or results. It would be friendship. It was in school where I formed some of the most genuine connections, the ones that didn't require status, money, or social media likes to survive. These experiences of friendships and teamwork were the stepping stones for the way I interact with people now.

Lunchbox Friendships

There is some kind of magic in lunchbox sharing. Even if you had forgotten bringing tiffin, you were never hungry because friends never let you down. It was not about the food — it was learning to share, care, and give without wanting anything back. It is that small gesture of sharing that still identifies how I relate with others today.

Teamwork in Sports & Projects

Whether it was football, cricket, or even a straightforward relay race, it was all about teamwork. I discovered that winning is sweeter when done together, and losing is less painful when it is shared. School assignments, pesky as they were at times, also did the trick of teaching me collaboration — listening, adapting, and giving in. These are valuable skills because life after school is the working together whether it is at college or in the workplace.

Fights & Forgiveness

I won't deny it — friendly fights were a normal thing. Sometimes for a seat, sometimes for ridiculous misunderstandings. But school friendships were beautiful in the sense that fights never lasted long. We'd be fighting by evening, and next morning, we'd be chuckling together. That educated me on forgiveness, on letting go, and treasuring people above ego.

Growing Together

The best about school friendships is the fact that we grew up together. We witnessed each other's fears before exams, supported each other in competitions, and remained pillars in failures. These memories remind me even to date that life is not meant to be lived separately — we become stronger when we grow together.

School friendships were not all about fun. They were the place where I was trained to work together, empathize, and realize what support meant.

Failures, Lessons & the Courage to Try Again

School life wasn't all about achievements, medals, and certificates when I look back. It was also about failures — and more so, the resilience I developed to stand up after them. School provided me with a secure environment where I could fail, learn, and try again. That, in my opinion, is one of the strongest lessons I take with me into adulthood.

The First Taste of Failure

I recall even now the sinking feeling of having failed a math test. It was the end of the world at that age. But more importantly, something else happened. My teacher urged me to do better, my peers assisted in practicing, and my parents reassured me that one failure doesn't measure my worth. That was the first time it dawned upon me — failure is not permanent, it is feedback.

Losing in Competitions

Not everybody wins the debate competition, not all sports teams win the trophy. And yes, I too experienced instances of disappointment when efforts did not yield results. But in those instances, I learned humility, resilience, and respect for other people's success. Losing honorably is as vital as winning with pride.

Courage to Try Again

The most valuable lesson learned from failure was the strength it provided me to attempt once more. Whether it was studying harder for the next test, training better for the next tournament, or simply not throwing in the towel — school taught me that resiliently getting up is greater than the act of falling down.

Small Failures, Big Lessons

Sometimes, the failures were minor — forgetting homework, doing poorly in a presentation, or tripping on stage. But those minor missteps taught me responsibility, preparation, and the value of practice. Each mistake was a stepping stone.

Why I Value Failure Now

Now, I don't fear failure as a child would. Instead, I view it as a lesson. Each rejection, each missed opportunity, each mistake — each one comes with a lesson. And I owe this perspective to the little, safe failures I had way back when I was in school.

School didn't only teach me how to be successful, it taught me how to deal with failure — and that is arguably the most valuable life skill there is.