Two Memories That Shaped My Commitment to Children

The little girl who wanted her name written on her palm, and Balaswamy, the child who feared he would die

My commitment to children did not begin with an organization, a plan or a formal programme. It began with two experiences that stayed with me long after the moments themselves had passed. One happened when I was a little girl, travelling to a village with my family. The other happened when I was a college student, walking behind a group of children and hearing one of them describe a frightening experience. They were different incidents, separated by years, but both made me look more closely at the lives of children whose needs can easily go unnoticed.

I did not understand everything these experiences meant at the time. I was young, and my understanding grew gradually as I studied, taught and met more children. Looking back, however, I can see how these memories planted questions in my heart: What happens to a child who wants to learn but has no opportunity? What happens to a child whose daily life is shaped by poverty, begging and danger? And what can one person do when a child’s circumstances seem much larger than the help that person can offer?

These are the two stories I have carried with me.

1. The little girl who wanted her name written on her palm

I was about eight or nine years old when we travelled by bullock cart to Parsa Palli, a village near Zaheerabad. I remember the journey and, even more clearly, what happened when we arrived. The village children gathered around us with curiosity. I looked different from the girls they were used to seeing. I had a boy-cut hairstyle, while the girls had long hair, neatly braided and decorated with ribbons. They wore long skirts and blouses. My appearance seemed unusual to them, and soon a crowd of children surrounded me.

I loved pens. My father used to give me fountain pens filled with ink, and I liked carrying them with me. At that age, a pen was a treasured possession. It made me feel proud that I could write, and I enjoyed the simple pleasure of putting words on paper. I did not imagine that a pen in my hand would become part of a memory I would carry for the rest of my life.

A little girl came forward, held out her palm and asked me, “Can you write?”

“Yes, I can,” I replied.

She wanted me to write her name on her palm. It was a small, sweet request. She was not asking for a book, a classroom or a school admission. She wanted to see her own name written on her hand, something she could look at and perhaps show to her friends. I began to write for her.

Before I could settle into the task, more children crowded around me. They too wanted their names written on their palms. Each child was eager to be next. The children pressed closer, pushed one another and tried to reach me. Some hit or pinched me as they demanded their turn. What had begun as a happy encounter became confusing and overwhelming.

I was only eight or nine years old myself. I did not know how to manage a crowd of excited children or how to ask everyone to wait patiently. I tried to keep writing, but little hands appeared from every direction. The children were jostling and calling out, and I found it difficult to concentrate. Their hands were sweaty, and the ink did not always flow well. Sometimes the writing came out clearly; sometimes it did not. The more I struggled, the more helpless I felt.

I can still remember the confusion of that moment. I wanted to satisfy the children, but I could not cope with all of them at once. I was being pushed and pinched, and I became upset. In that moment of embarrassment and helplessness, I spat, and my spit landed on the hand of a child.

It was the hand of the very first little girl who had approached me.

She began to cry. “You spat on my hand! You spat on my hand!” she kept saying.

Her words stayed with me. I had not gone to the village intending to hurt anyone. I had been a child myself, overwhelmed by the crowd and unable to respond wisely. But knowing that I had been overwhelmed did not remove the pain of having hurt her. The little girl had come to me with a simple request, and she ended up experiencing disappointment and humiliation instead.

I never learned her name. I never met her again. I could not return to Parsa Palli and look for her, and I had no way of knowing what became of her life. Yet the incident did not disappear when we left the village. It followed me into adulthood in a way I could not have predicted.

Years passed. I continued my education, completed my Bachelor of Education, and eventually began teaching in a B.Ed. college. I was learning how children develop, how education can shape a person’s future and how teachers can influence young lives. Even then, the memory of the little girl would sometimes return, including at night when I was studying or thinking quietly by myself.

I would remember her outstretched palm and her question: “Can you write?” I would remember how much she wanted her name written there, and how the moment ended in tears. I could not change what I had done. I could only think about what the incident had revealed to me, even if I understood its meaning more fully much later.

As I grew older, I began to think about children whose desire to learn is greater than the opportunities available to them. How many children want to read, write, ask questions and discover the world, but do not have anyone to teach them? How many children are ready to learn, yet are held back by poverty, distance, family hardship or a lack of educational support? How many children wait for a small opportunity that adults may not even realise they need?

The little girl’s request was so simple, but it opened a lasting question in my mind. A child may have curiosity and willingness, but those qualities alone cannot create an opportunity. Children need someone to make room for them, to teach them patiently and to recognise their hopes. The wish to learn must be met with a real chance to learn.

2. Balaswamy, the begging child who feared he would die

The second experience happened during my degree studies. One day, as I was walking home from college, I was behind a group of children who were talking among themselves. I was not part of their conversation, but their words caught my attention. A boy named Balaswamy was describing something that had happened to him. He said that a woman had poured so much water on him that he thought he would die.

The children belonged to a community in which some adults sent children out to beg. The children had learned ways to attract the attention of passers-by and encourage people to give them money or food. One method involved choosing a street corner where women often sat or stood outside their houses, talking together. A child would fall to the ground and kick about as if having a fit. People who saw the child might believe that something terrible was happening. They would pour water on the child, hoping to bring them around, and afterwards might offer food or a few coins.

Balaswamy was describing an incident connected with this practice. A woman had poured a great deal of water on him. The experience had frightened him so badly that he feared he might die. I could imagine how helpless a child might feel in that situation: lying on the ground, surrounded by people who did not understand what was happening, with water being poured over him. Even if the people meant to help, the child could experience the situation as terrifying.

I did not want to remain someone who heard a painful story, felt sorry for the children and then walked away. I followed them and eventually found their settlement beside the Krishna River. Their families lived in small, temporary tents. The place was very different from a settled neighbourhood with houses, classrooms and the everyday facilities that many people take for granted.

I began visiting the community and trying to become friendly with the children. I did not arrive with a formal programme or a well-equipped school. I came as a young woman who wanted to know them and who believed that they deserved attention and an opportunity to learn. Whenever I had holidays and could find time, I went to the settlement. I spent time with the children and began teaching them alphabets and songs.

It was an informal evening school, not a regular institution. There were no proper classrooms, rows of desks or elaborate materials. What mattered was that we gathered, spent time together and began learning. I taught what I could, and the children welcomed me. Their willingness to join me made those visits meaningful. They responded to the attention and the chance to learn, and a relationship gradually grew between us.

Those sessions taught me that education does not always begin with a building or a formal timetable. It can begin when someone sits beside a child, learns to know them, speaks with them and offers a first step into learning. Alphabets and songs may seem small compared with the many difficulties a family faces, but they can create a connection. They can show a child that learning belongs to them too.

Balaswamy’s story made those concerns personal. I did not know every detail of his life, and I could not solve every difficulty faced by his community. But I had heard a child say that he thought he would die. I could not pretend that this was simply an amusing street incident. It was a reminder that the lives of children can include fear and danger that adults outside their world may never see.

The children I knew beside the Krishna River have grown up over the decades. Some may now be grandparents. I cannot claim to know the later story of every child or what each one remembers from those evenings. What remains with me is the experience of meeting them as children, spending time with them and beginning to teach them. Those visits helped shape my belief that children deserve to be approached not as a problem to be moved aside, but as human beings with abilities, feelings and possibilities.

3. How these two memories shaped my life

The little girl in Parsa Palli and Balaswamy beside the Krishna River belonged to different stages of my life. One was a child who wanted her name written on her palm. The other was a boy describing an incident in which he had feared for his life. Their experiences were different, but together they helped shape my understanding of children’s needs.

The little girl made me think about the desire to learn. Her request was simple, yet it has stayed with me because it represented a child’s wish to take part in the world of writing. I began to think about all the children whose eagerness might never be met with opportunity. Balaswamy made me think about the conditions in which children live and how poverty and begging can expose them to fear and danger. His story reminded me that learning cannot be separated from safety and dignity.

As I studied and later worked in education, I became increasingly aware that a child’s future can be influenced by whether someone offers encouragement at the right time. Education can open possibilities, but children need access to it. They need adults who believe they are capable of learning, even when their circumstances are difficult. They need patient teaching and consistent support, not only kind words.

I also learned that compassion must lead to action. Feeling sad about a child is a beginning, not an answer. The next step is to ask what can be done, however modest that action may be. In Balaswamy’s community, that meant returning when I could and teaching alphabets and songs. In my wider life, it meant continuing to pay attention to children whose needs were easy to overlook and seeking ways to support their education and well-being.

The two memories also taught me humility. I could not solve everything. I could not return to the little girl, learn her name or undo the hurt I caused. I could not erase Balaswamy’s frightening experience or change every circumstance around the children I met. I had to accept the limits of what I could do while refusing to use those limits as an excuse to do nothing.

The little girl remains unnamed in my memory, but her wish is clear. Balaswamy’s name remains with me because his words revealed a child’s fear. Their stories remind me that children should not have to prove that their needs are important before adults notice them. A small wish to learn deserves attention. A frightening experience deserves to be heard. Every child deserves to be treated with respect.

These are the roots of my commitment to serving children. I do not tell these stories because I believe I acted perfectly. In the first story, I remember a mistake and a regret. In the second, I remember a child whose words made me stop and look more closely at his circumstances. What matters is how these experiences continued to work within me, shaping my concern and guiding the choices I made later.

I cannot say what became of the little girl in Parsa Palli. I cannot know exactly what Balaswamy’s life became after those days beside the river. I can only carry their stories honestly, without inventing endings for them. Their experiences became part of my own story because they helped me see that the needs of children are not distant social issues. They are human realities that ask something of us.

For me, the motivation to serve children grew from that recognition. It grew from the regret of hurting a little girl whose simple request deserved a kinder response, and from the concern I felt when I heard Balaswamy describe being so frightened that he thought he might die. One memory drew my attention to educational opportunity; the other drew my attention to protection, dignity and the circumstances of children’s lives. Together, they strengthened my resolve to do what I could.

I could not go back and rewrite either moment. But I could allow both to shape the way I lived afterwards. I could respond to children’s needs with greater patience, listen to their stories, make opportunities for learning and refuse to believe that a child’s difficult circumstances define the limits of their future.

That is what these two memories mean to me. They are not just incidents from my past. They are reminders of why I chose to serve children: because every child deserves the chance to learn, to be safe, to be heard and to grow with dignity. The little girl and Balaswamy may never know how deeply their stories stayed with me. Yet their experiences helped form the motivation I carried into my life’s work, and they continue to remind me why that work matters.

These lessons still guide my work.

— Jones Manikonda

Story 1: The Little Girl Who Wanted Her Name Written on Her Palm

What do you think the little girl was feeling when she asked, “Can you write?”

Why might such a small wish—to see her name written on her palm—have meant so much to her?

What does this incident teach us about children's curiosity and desire to learn?

How can a child's eagerness to learn go unnoticed in our society?

Jones was also a child and felt overwhelmed by the crowd. How can we understand her reaction while acknowledging the little girl's hurt?

Have you ever experienced a small incident that stayed in your memory for many years? What did it teach you?

What opportunities can we create today for children who want to learn but lack educational resources?

Story 2: Balaswamy, the Child Who Feared He Would Die

What were your feelings when you heard Balaswamy describe his frightening experience?

What does his story reveal about the risks children may face when poverty and begging become part of their lives?

Why is it important to listen to children rather than judge them by their circumstances?

What might a child lose when childhood becomes focused on survival instead of learning, playing and growing?

Why did Jones choose to follow the children and visit their community instead of simply feeling sorry for them?

What can we learn from her decision to begin teaching alphabets and songs in an informal evening school?

How can education, child protection and family support work together to create a safer future for children?

Connecting Both Stories: From Memories to Action

What connects the little girl who wanted her name written on her palm with Balaswamy, who feared he would die?

How do these two experiences show that children need more than sympathy?

Can one small act of kindness change the direction of a child's life? Why or why not?

What is the difference between feeling compassion for children and taking responsibility for their well-being?

How can teachers, parents, social workers and community members work together to ensure that no child is denied the opportunity to learn?

What can we do when we notice a child who is out of school, vulnerable to exploitation or struggling with basic needs?

If you could change one thing in the life of a vulnerable child today, what would you do?

What childhood memory or personal experience has influenced your own sense of responsibility towards others?

What happens when we stop seeing a child as a problem to be solved and start seeing the child as a human being with dreams, dignity and potential?”

Take a moment to reflect: How might this change the way we educate, protect and support children?