It was a grey morning at Rosefield Public School, the sort of morning that pressed gently against the windows without asking to be noticed. Mr. Anand walked into the staffroom with his usual quietness, a stack of papers held neatly against his side. The corridors smelled of chalk dust and damp notebooks; students drifted in slowly, still half-asleep, moving with the dull rhythm of routine. There was nothing out of the ordinary in the air. It felt like any other day, steady and uneventful, as though the school had settled into a kind of familiar tiredness.
But shortly after the first bell, a new circular appeared on the staff notice board. Someone had pinned it up hastily, the corners still curling from the force of the thumbtacks. It announced, in stiff administrative phrases, that the academic output targets for the term had been doubled. Teachers were now expected to complete twice the syllabus in the same number of weeks. No meeting had been held; no explanation was given. The circular bore the Principal's signature at the bottom, though most staff members understood that the order came from people far above him—individuals who would never step inside a crowded classroom.
The reaction moved quietly through the teachers, like a ripple under still water. The younger ones whispered among themselves, trying to decide whether this was simply another passing directive. A few muttered that the people who set such targets had never taught a restless class in their lives. One senior teacher gave a short laugh, saying the school had survived many such circulars and would survive this one too. Mr. Anand didn't join any of the conversations. He simply folded the notice, slipped it into his folder, and prepared for his next lesson, as he had done countless times before.
By afternoon, the change had already taken shape. Teachers spoke faster than they normally did, skipping examples, cutting down pauses that students needed to understand the material. The Principal walked through the corridors with a stiff formality, repeating phrases he had clearly been handed, declaring that Rosefield was entering a "new phase of excellence." But the classrooms only grew more strained, the students more confused, and the teachers more tired. Nothing about the rushed lessons resembled excellence; it was merely a tired imitation of progress.
A week later, the changes had begun to fade on their own. Students fell behind, unable to keep pace with the hurried teaching. Teachers slowed down instinctively, returning to the rhythm they knew worked best, even if it meant pretending to follow the new directive. The circular remained pinned to the wall, but no one spoke of it. Even the Principal stopped using the phrase "new phase," as though it had embarrassed him.
Then, one quiet morning, yet another circular appeared—this one thicker, filled with stricter deadlines, detailed reports, and demands for "evidence of productivity." The staff sighed, read it without surprise, and returned to their classes. And Mr. Anand stood by the window for a brief moment, the new circular fluttering behind him, aware that he had stepped once again into the same cycle he had lived through for years: the cycle where those who carried the true weight of the school worked silently, and those who issued the orders believed that their words alone had created progress.