Beyond the Hills: My Days in Attappadi

Every journey changes us in some way. But when we travel together, something even
more special happens—it creates memories we carry in our hearts. My visit to Attappadi was one
such journey, filled with moments that were both touching and unforgettable.

Life had been busy, and I found myself thinking, “Maybe I need a break… maybe a trip to clear
my mind.” And just then, an unexpected opportunity came—a chance to travel to Attappadi.

Before the journey, I imagined a place marked by hardship—where children suffer from
malnutrition, development is minimal, and smiles are rare. A remote hill village, beautiful but
burdened. These were the thoughts I carried as we set off.

We began on a Friday night at 10 PM, planning to reach by morning. As we drove through the winding hills, surrounded by greenery, nature seemed to welcome us with open arms—offering peace, quiet, and healing.

The purpose of our visit was simple, yet profound: to meet the children studying at the APJ Abdul Kalam School in Attappadi, whom Trenser supports through its CSR initiative

When we arrived, the first thing I saw stopped me in my tracks—the bright smiles of children, their hair uncombed, their eyes full of innocence and joy. It felt like I had stepped into a golden world.

I never imagined such a peaceful, well-kept school could exist in such a remote place. But this was just the beginning of many heart-touching moments.

The children welcomed us with pure happiness, their laughter filling the air. The principal kindly told us that breakfast had been arranged in the school canteen. The school provides three meals a day for every child—thanks to a dedicated cook who ensures no child goes hungry.

After breakfast, we joined a cultural program, introduced by Uma teacher, the school’s founder. As we watched, a little boy came up to me and gently held onto me. At first, I wasn’t sure what he wanted. Then I realized—he just wanted to be picked up.

I lifted him into my arms. His face lit up with a smile.

“What happened, little one?” I asked.

He replied, still smiling, “No one usually lifts me like this, sir.”

I stood frozen, unable to speak. Soon, more little hands reached out to me—each child wanting to be held. I was overwhelmed. In that moment, I felt a mix of emotions—helplessness, guilt, and deep sorrow.

Back in my room, I couldn’t move for a while. A quiet heaviness filled my chest. I didn’t know how to describe what I was feeling.

Later, as we walked through the school, Uma teacher showed us a file full of letters written by the children. In their free time, they write down their dreams, thoughts, and sorrows. She keeps every letter safe.

One letter read:

“Teacher, I saw a movie today. In it, a child had a mother and father who gave her food and took her to the park. Will that ever happen to me?”

Another said:

“The child in the movie had enough food. Why don’t I have that at home?”

Reading these words broke my heart.

We asked Uma teacher about her vision for the children. She smiled and shared:

“We follow the Finland model of education. The children clean the school in the morning, feed the hens, care for the fish, and take part in activities that teach responsibility and life skills. From what they earn, they even donate a small part back to the school.”

“We encourage them to explore the world. When they do well in exams, we take them on learning trips. This year, we’re planning to take them to Ladakh. After their schooling, we offer vocational training alongside higher education.”

Hearing this, I thought about our own education system—rigid, unchanged, and often disconnected from real life. In our world of comfort, we seldom pause to rethink the way we live or learn. That, perhaps, is the real poverty.

Later that day, we spent more time with the children. They came running to us with joy, resting their little heads on our shoulders. There was no sadness in them, no fear of tomorrow—only the happiness of the present moment.

As evening came, they performed songs and dances for us. They even asked us to join them. One child called me “sir,” and I smiled and said, “You don’t need to call me sir. Just call me a friend.”

That night was magical—filled with music, laughter, and togetherness.

The next morning, our work was done, but my heart was still full. I called over a child and asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

He looked at me with innocent eyes and said, “I want to be like you.”

That answer stayed with me. I hugged him gently and whispered,
“Be someone better than me. Be a good human being.”

Saying goodbye was not easy. As we got ready to leave, the children waved and softly called out:

“Ta-ta… Ta-ta…

That image—a small child waving goodbye—will forever live in my heart.

What I Learned

If someone asked us, “When was the last time you smiled?”, many of us wouldn’t remember.

But if you ask these children, they would answer without hesitation:

“This moment.”

We are often so busy chasing tomorrow that we forget the gift of today.

We forget how blessed we are. We forget to live, to laugh, to love. We forget ourselves.

But these children—without comforts or luxuries—reminded me of life’s true richness: to be fully present, to be grateful, and to find joy in this very moment.

This journey gave me memories I will always carry with me. Like a photograph that never fades, Attappadi is now a part of my soul.

And every time I think of those little hands waving goodbye, I remember what truly matters.

Indeed, Attappadi breathed life back into the canvas of my mind, painting over the emptiness with a vibrant and unforgettable image.

With a heart forever changed,
– Amal Nair