Written by: Aanchal Dhull (LEC Participant 2026)
When I received an email from the LEC team asking if I would write a blog about my experience, I did not hesitate for a second, even though writing has never been my strongest suit. Just a few months ago, I was reading and rereading every post on the Bookworm website, trying to make sense of the course I was about to embark on. Finding myself on the other side now, writing a piece of my own, feels truly surreal. It is moving to realise that the very blogs that once guided me are the ones I am contributing to now.
While reading those posts earlier, I noticed that the common thread running across all LEC cohorts was transformation. Yet, it is hard to truly grasp that shift until it is lived. My own experience was no different. Before I dwell on my learnings, which could easily turn into a chapter book in its own right, I would like to introduce the “I” in this piece. The reason is that we humans are complex beings; our own microhistories and histories at large shape us, and I would not have been at LEC if not for my past experiences. This context becomes especially relevant as this field is entirely new to me, and I have no background in education.
The “I” in the Piece
Coming from a family of educators and government employees, my social location and parental support were critical to my entry into academia, which culminated into a PhD in Gender Studies. However, after a brief stint in the development sector and a few years in higher education, I found myself disillusioned with both. The work I was doing began to feel misaligned with my values. The fast-moving pace of these sectors and the stifling, rigid culture of academic writing left me in immense turmoil. I wanted to step away from the pressure of result-oriented, actionable outcomes, and find a space where I could simply slow down and search for something more, even without quite knowing what that ‘more’ might be. Looking back, I recognise the privilege and the support system that sustained me through that uncertainty, when most people simply cannot afford to.
And then, books happened to me. Since my own reading journey started only in college, I had hardly read any children’s literature and as an adult, it wasn’t even a genre I considered until I had my child last year. A very generous friend gifted me a collection of books published by Tulika. Those books, which I initially thought were meant for my child, opened windows for me into an entirely new world. The writing felt so alive, not simple but free of academic jargon.
As I was learning to be a mother, I was also growing as a reader. One unexpected joy of having a napping baby was finding uninterrupted time to read, and boy, did I wait for him to sleep so I could immerse myself in books! Somewhere down one of those reading spirals, I came across a wonderful compilation of debates and discourses on children’s literature. There, I encountered a chapter by one of our facilitators that deeply resonated with me. Tracing her work led me to Bookworm, and through it, I discovered the LEC course. My confinement with books and baby was asking for more, what I really needed was direction; an interest in reading alone was not enough. I needed somewhere to belong, to be guided and LEC turned out to be exactly what I had been looking for.
With that background, my LEC journey began. One of my initial doubts was that I had never worked with children before. However, just a few minutes into our introductions, those worries began to fade. I listened to my course mate ,, a homemaker who had been collecting books ever since her daughter was born, share that she was hoping to “find a method to her madness.” It was such a joy to connect with people who were also trying to find their feet, and to realise that everyone was welcome regardless of their experience.
Shifting Perspectives
The contact period began with a welcome unlike anything I expected. We entered a room brimming with joy and energy, filled with dance, music, pom-poms, and, of course, books. At first, it was difficult to make sense of such high energy when I had arrived to study something “serious.” But that became my first lesson: there is no learning without joy. That loud welcome symbolized our first major shift in perspective: that libraries are anything but silent. Yet the opposite of silence is not chaos; it is facilitation.
As we further reflected on our own journeys into reading, and most of us agreed that we became readers when we found relatability and meaning in books. But meaning-making does not happen in vacuum; it is shaped by the social, cultural, and linguistic capital that allows one to enter the world of reading.
We further explored this idea in one of the most emotionally difficult units: childhood(s). There is always a tendency to romanticize childhood as something cosy and warm. I was trained in academia, I had long engaged with the idea of intersectionality, and theoretically, I knew childhood is complex. But the latest numbers and trends, put together by the course facilitator , gave me a jolt: the increase in dropouts post-COVID, declining literacy (how we measure literacy was yet another debate), and the persistent realities of caste discrimination.
The response, one I experienced myself and also witnessed in our discussions, was often an overwhelming recognition of privilege. That awareness, however, can easily leave one feeling helpless, or even lead to a saviour complex. One of the facilitators intervened at precisely that point, reminding us that no single person can carry the weight of systemic issues alone. I remember her speaking about how educators working in elite schools sometimes become uncomfortable with the inequalities surrounding them. But she asked us to imagine this: “what if even one child in their own cocooned world begins to question inequality, or starts understanding the difficulties faced by others? What kind of adult might that child become? Isn’t that, in itself, remarkable?”
I was deeply moved by the philosophy that small is big. We were reminded that library work cannot be measured through conventional ideas of “achievement.” and in times when meaning is hard to find, libraries become spaces of social justice. They help us think, give us windows and sliding doors. Perhaps there is nothing more powerful in these times than reading. Reading is powerful; it is political. It is resistance.
The philosophy throughout the course was learning by doing. We were not simply taught theory; we inhabited it. The Bookworm team constantly reminded us that teaching is not didactic. They created spaces for us to debate, think, discuss, create, and genuinely experience learning. Book talks became lively rounds of story sharing. . Discussions on displays led to creating displays ourselves. Genres were explored by identifying books, while conversations around the values and vision of a library emerged through intense debate. And when we had to imagine what a vibrant library space could look like, there were the visits to the Mala library and various community libraries, spaces that have now become our prototype of a library.
A Basket Full of Fruits
There are countless activities I could write about, but what has stayed with me most is a read-aloud session. I had always imagined myself working with older children and was convinced that younger children would be difficult to engage. And yet something drew me toward a session designed for the 3-6 years age group.
The activity began with a basket full of fruits, all of us touching and feeling them while slowly discovering the themes of the story together. The book was Handa’s Surprise by Eileen Browne, a beautifully illustrated story about a young girl named Handa and her plan to surprise her friend. The entire read-aloud became memorable not because of the plot alone, but because of the narration and the collective joy of experiencing it together. I was struck by how such a simple story could provoke questions about friendship, sharing, and so many other themes.
I also learned how attentive read-alouds must be to language. Questions of context, linguistic diversity, accessibility, and voice kept returning. What does it mean to make literature accessible? What does it mean to truly listen to children? A major takeaway was that while questions may come from the facilitator, the answers must come from children, and that there is never just one right answer. All responses are welcome in order to create a truly collaborative exercise.
Much of the work was about enabling children to claim their own voice. That session shifted something in me. I had always assumed that younger children would find me dull, but I also came to realise that performance is only one aspect of a read-aloud. The themes that we spoke about were just as layered and complex that can be discussed with older children. Watching the facilitator work, I saw the preparation that a read aloud demands, so different from my earlier understanding that it was simply about reading a book aloud. And so, the very first book I borrowed from the Bookworm Library was Handa’s Surprise, in the hope of engaging with an age group I had once assumed was beyond my reach.
The contact period felt nourishing. Yet the LEC team ensured that we did not leave carrying any intellectual heaviness or confusion. The last exercise asked us to share one word we were leaving with. My word was JOY. The joy of finding myself again. Of feeling liberated. Of leaving the disillusioned self behind. Of slowing down. Of becoming a reader, and perhaps, an educator. I want to end with a dedication, from one of the very first books I read during the contact period because it covers it beautifully. “For my son Julian, books are the roads to the promised land.” — W.M.