I was born in Mumbai (formerly Bombay), but my formative years were shaped in Kolkata (formerly Calcutta), where I completed my high school education. From there, I entered IIT Bombay to study mechanical engineering, graduating in 1965. After a brief stint at a small company in Thane, I left for the University of California, Berkeley—an experience that would shape the trajectory of my professional life.

At Berkeley, I chose to pursue a Doctor of Engineering rather than a traditional PhD. The distinction mattered to me. While a PhD was more research-oriented, the Doctor of Engineering emphasised applied work—something I was drawn to because I preferred seeing tangible results sooner rather than later.

My research focused on joining TRIP (Transformation Induced Plasticity) steel, a specialised material being developed at the Lawrence Radiation Laboratory. TRIP steel has the remarkable ability to retain the sharpness of a cutting edge even after repeated use. Under stress, its internal structure transforms in a way that preserves strength. Welding, however, typically weakens metal at the joint. My work aimed to solve precisely that problem: how to retain strength even after welding.

After completing my graduate work, I joined Bell Labs, then the research and development arm of AT&T. Bell Labs was an extraordinary place—not because it assigned people to narrowly defined roles, but because it brought together individuals who could contribute across a wide range of problems.

During my time there, I worked on developing micro gold crossovers on ceramic substrates, a technology used in high-density electronic components for advanced telecommunications systems. Over the years, I participated in both development and research projects. Development projects were implemented in real-world systems, while research projects explored possibilities that often pushed the boundaries of what seemed feasible at the time.

In one such project, I was part of a team that demonstrated the feasibility of transmitting voice, data, and video simultaneously over household electrical wiring—an idea that anticipated a future where any data device could simply be plugged into a wall, much like an electrical appliance. In another, I worked with a colleague who built a prototype computer, roughly the size of a desktop, capable of supercomputer-level performance using commercially available components. Although the technology was not adopted due to the scale of software changes required, it reflected the kind of forward-thinking work that defined Bell Labs in the early 1980s.

Alongside this professional work, I found myself drawn to teaching in an unexpected way. Within the Indian community, we started a small Marathi school as a voluntary initiative. Despite having no formal training as a teacher—and limited formal grounding in Marathi myself, having grown up outside Maharashtra—I decided to teach.

That decision changed something fundamental for me.

I realised that one of the best ways to truly learn a subject is to teach it. My own command of Marathi improved significantly, but more importantly, I discovered that I enjoyed teaching deeply. It offered a kind of immediacy and human connection that was different from research.

Circumstances eventually led me to retire earlier than I had expected. But rather than seeing retirement as an end, I began to think of it as an opportunity.

Teaching, I realised, was something I could carry into my later years—not just as an occupation, but as a source of purpose.

I had already helped my children with mathematics during their high school years, and I had noticed that the way mathematics was taught in the United States differed significantly from how I had learned it in India. Curious and motivated, I decided to pursue teaching more seriously.

To do so, I enrolled in a year-long certification programme to become a high school mathematics teacher. It was a humbling experience—returning to the classroom, this time as a learner preparing to teach.

After certification, I began teaching full-time. This marked the beginning of my second career.

It was, in many ways, a completely new world.

This is the first part of a two-part series. The concluding part will appear in the next issue of Education Publica.

Sudhir M. Ambekar is a mechanical engineer trained at IIT Bombay and the University of California, Berkeley. He spent nearly three decades at Bell Labs working in telecommunications research and development. After retirement, he became a certified mathematics teacher and now tutors students for SAT and ACT college entrance examinations.

First the lightning, then the thunder—that is what we believe we witness. Yet physics tells us the opposite is true. Thunder always comes first; its sound simply arrives later. Bullying follows a similar pattern. What eventually becomes visible conflict often begins quietly, long before anyone calls it by its name.

A joke goes unchecked. A complaint is dismissed as overreaction. A child realises that speaking up changes nothing. In those moments, bullying has already taken root. By the time it reaches headlines or disciplinary hearings, the behaviour has often been normalised within the social fabric of a classroom.

Silence is rarely accidental. It is sustained—by peers who fear becoming the next target, by adults who underestimate the harm, and sometimes by institutions that prioritise reputation over accountability.

Character Over Competence: A Global Shift

Recently, universities in South Korea made international headlines for rejecting applicants with documented histories of school bullying. In several cases, admissions decisions reportedly changed after evidence of past bullying emerged. The message was clear: academic excellence alone is no longer enough if it is accompanied by a record of harming others.

The aftermath revealed something deeper. Some rejected applicants reportedly appeared with parents and legal representatives to challenge the decisions. The controversy exposed a troubling reality: bullying is rarely sustained by students alone.

Parents, often understandably protective of their children, may sometimes pressure schools to minimise incidents. Educators, navigating institutional hierarchies, may feel compelled to preserve the school’s image. Gradually, a culture of quiet accommodation replaces accountability.

The question that emerges is uncomfortable but necessary: who truly sustains bullying—students, families, educators, or the systems that reward silence?

When Schools Stop Feeling Safe

Schools are meant to be environments of learning, curiosity, and belonging. Yet for many students, they become spaces marked by anxiety, humiliation, and exclusion.

Bullying is not a harmless rite of passage or a phase children inevitably outgrow. Decades of psychological research show that repeated harassment—whether verbal, physical, or social—can leave long-term scars on mental health, self-esteem, and academic engagement.

Bullying is typically defined as repeated aggressive behaviour involving an imbalance of power. One individual or group deliberately harms another through intimidation, exclusion, ridicule, or physical aggression. With the rise of digital communication, cyberbullying has intensified the problem, extending harassment beyond school walls and leaving victims feeling trapped even in their own homes.

Understanding bullying therefore requires looking beyond individual behaviour. It requires examining the emotional and social ecosystems that allow harm to persist.

The Psychology Behind Bullying Behaviour

Public narratives often portray bullies as inherently cruel individuals. Psychological research paints a more complex picture.

Some children use aggression as a strategy to gain social status or dominance within peer groups. When classmates laugh, remain silent, or join the behaviour, the bully receives reinforcement. Power becomes socially rewarding.

In other cases, bullying behaviour reflects patterns observed at home. Children raised in environments shaped by conflict, neglect, or harsh discipline may internalise aggression as a way to assert control or cope with insecurity.

Emotional regulation also plays a crucial role. Adolescents struggling with anger, anxiety, or feelings of invisibility may externalise these emotions through hostility towards others. In such situations, bullying can become a maladaptive coping strategy—an attempt to manage unresolved emotional distress.

These dynamics are not merely theoretical. They emerge clearly in lived experience.

SP, now pursuing a master’s degree in psychology, remembers being bullied after transferring schools when her family returned from Dubai. Her accent, mannerisms, and background made her stand out. Classmates mocked the differences that marked her identity.

The bullying subsided only when peers learned she was coping with her parents’ marital separation. The reaction left a lasting impression.

“They seemed comforted knowing I wasn’t happier than them,” she recalls.

For SP, the experience revealed something unsettling: bullying sometimes emerges from insecurity rather than confidence. For some adolescents, targeting others becomes a way to reduce feelings of inadequacy or reclaim social control. Students may even join bullying behaviour simply to avoid becoming targets themselves.

When Authority Becomes Harmful

Bullying does not always originate among peers. At times, it emerges from authority itself.

NSK, another psychology postgraduate student, describes her school years as marked not by encouragement but by humiliation. A mathematics teacher repeatedly mocked her inability to solve problems and singled her out in class. On one occasion, she was forced to kneel for hours as punishment.

When she attempted to report the treatment, she was discouraged from escalating the complaint. Teachers, she was told, always act in students’ best interests.

The consequences followed her home. While her mother recognised the emotional harm, her father prioritised academic performance, reinforcing the belief that endurance mattered more than dignity.

Experiences like these illustrate how bullying can become institutionalised when authority figures remain shielded from accountability.

The Cost of Silence

Perhaps the most damaging element of bullying is not the aggression itself but the silence surrounding it.

Many victims choose not to report their experiences out of fear—fear of retaliation, disbelief, or social isolation. Schools may dismiss incidents as harmless teasing or avoid acknowledging them altogether to protect their public image.

The result is a profound sense of loneliness. Students often leave school having learned not confidence or resilience, but survival—how to endure humiliation without expecting intervention.

Social-cognitive research adds another dimension. Some bullies display distorted beliefs about dominance or reduced sensitivity to others’ distress. Others are socially adept, skilfully manipulating peer dynamics to maintain influence. In both cases, silence allows the behaviour to continue unchecked.

Empathy as Intervention

Breaking the cycle of bullying requires more than punishment.

Rashimi Sreedhar, a former kindergarten head, recalls working with a child whose aggressive behaviour emerged after he was placed in a hostel at a very young age. The abrupt separation created intense loneliness and emotional dysregulation that later surfaced as hostility toward classmates.

Rather than responding with strict discipline, RS chose an empathy-centred approach.

When the child hurt others, she calmly expressed disappointment and sadness, even shedding tears. The reaction unsettled him. Later that day, he returned quietly to apologise.

“Instead of punishing him, I showed him how his actions affected someone he cared about,” she explains. “That emotional connection activated responsibility rather than fear.”

The behavioural change, she notes, proved lasting.

Moving Beyond Punishment

Effective responses to bullying must be layered and relational. Punitive measures alone—such as suspensions or public reprimands—rarely address the emotional dynamics underlying aggressive behaviour.

Victims need safe reporting systems, psychological support, and access to counselling. While building resilience is important, responsibility must never be placed solely on those who suffer harm.

Students who engage in bullying behaviour also require intervention—particularly in emotional regulation, empathy development, and conflict resolution. Research consistently shows that programmes emphasising social-emotional learning reduce bullying far more effectively than punishment alone.

Shared Responsibility: Parents, Schools, Systems

Addressing bullying ultimately requires shared responsibility.

Parents play a crucial role in recognising behavioural changes and maintaining open communication with educators. Early warning signs—withdrawal, anxiety, sudden academic decline—should never be dismissed as ordinary adolescence.

Schools, meanwhile, must cultivate cultures of transparency and accountability. Anti-bullying policies cannot remain symbolic documents. They must be actively implemented, applied equally to students, teachers, and administrators.

Peer-led initiatives, restorative practices, and mental health education can empower students to challenge harmful norms rather than silently absorb them.

Breaking Silence, Building Safety

Bullying is rarely the result of individual cruelty alone. It emerges from silence—silence among classmates, silence within institutions, and silence within systems that prioritise comfort over accountability.

Breaking that silence requires courage from everyone involved: educators willing to intervene, parents willing to listen, and institutions willing to confront uncomfortable truths.

When schools choose transparency over protectionism and care over convenience, they can begin to fulfil their most fundamental promise: to be places where children feel safe enough to learn, grow, and belong.

Note: Names of students quoted in this article have been changed to protect their identity and privacy, given the sensitive nature of their experiences.

Counting beads, tracing letters made of sandpaper, children identifying sounds and phonetics—the classroom hums with quiet concentration as children move freely between activities. The teacher watches from a distance, intervening only when invited. At first glance, the scene may appear unstructured. Yet beneath this autonomy lies a carefully constructed philosophy—the Montessori method—developed over a century ago by an Italian physician who transformed the way the world understands childhood and learning.

Breaking Barriers in a Man’s World

Born on 31 August 1870 to Alessandro Montessori, an accountant in the Italian civil service, and Renilde Stoppani, a well-educated woman with a passion for reading, Maria Montessori emerged as a pioneer who challenged rigid social norms and reshaped the meaning of education.

As her education progressed, Montessori consistently defied expectations placed on women of her era. She initially pursued engineering—an uncommon choice for women in technical schools at the time. Though her parents encouraged her to become a teacher, Montessori aspired to study medicine. Despite opposition from her father and an unsuccessful interview with a university professor, she remained resolute, famously declaring, “I know I shall become a doctor.”

She enrolled at the University of Rome, earning a diploma in physics, mathematics, and natural sciences—prerequisites for medical studies. Facing open prejudice from male peers, Montessori persisted with remarkable determination. In 1896, she became one of Italy’s first female physicians. That same year, during the International Congress for Women, she presented a thesis advocating social reform, including equal pay for women.

Montessori later worked as a surgical assistant at Rome’s Santo Spirito Hospital, treating the urban poor, especially children. Her clinical work soon extended to the University of Rome’s psychiatric clinic, where she encountered children with intellectual disabilities who had been written off by society. What struck her most was not their limitations, but their deprivation—of movement, sensory experience, and meaningful activity.

Her observations led her to study the work of nineteenth-century French educators Jean-Marc Itard and Édouard Séguin, whose methods emphasised sensory training and individualised learning. Montessori translated their writings into Italian and adapted their ideas through systematic observation, laying the foundation for her own approach.

Disturbed by how neglect and institutional failure often pushed children with developmental challenges towards delinquency, Montessori addressed the National Pedagogical Congress, calling for medical-pedagogical institutes and specialised teacher training. Education, she argued, was not merely instruction but social reform.

A decisive turning point came with her appointment as co-director of the Orthophrenic School in Rome. There, Montessori refined learning materials, observed children meticulously, and documented their progress with scientific rigour. During this period, she gave birth to her son, Mario, who would later become her closest collaborator and carry her work forward globally.

The Birth of the Montessori Classroom

In 1907, amid Rome’s rapid urban expansion, Montessori was invited to work with children living in newly built social housing. She opened the first Casa dei Bambini (Children’s House) in the San Lorenzo district. What unfolded surprised even her. When given freedom within a carefully prepared environment, children chose purposeful work, repeated activities with concentration, and displayed discipline without external rewards or punishments.

“I did not invent a method of education,” Montessori later wrote. “I simply gave some little children a chance to live.”

Her philosophy—centred on self-directed learning, sensory engagement, and respect for each child’s pace—challenged the foundations of conventional schooling. Critics questioned the absence of uniform benchmarks, yet the results were difficult to ignore. Within a few years, additional Casa dei Bambini opened across Italy, and educators from around the world travelled to observe her work.

Her approach—rooted in hands-on learning, sensory engagement, and self-direction—challenged rigid, exam-driven systems that dominated education then and continue in many parts of the world today.

A Global Movement Takes Shape

Montessori’s 1909 lectures were compiled into The Montessori Method, published in English in 1912 and translated into more than twenty languages. The movement expanded rapidly through teacher-training programmes, schools, and Montessori societies across Europe, the Americas, and Asia. Her plans for a permanent research centre, however, were disrupted by the rise of fascism in Europe. Her book The Montessori Method became a global reference point, and schools began emerging across continents.

Today, the scale of her influence is striking. According to BBC Future, around 60,000 schools worldwide use the Montessori method in some form. More conservative academic research, including a 2022 global census, estimates approximately 15,763 Montessori schools based on verified data.

The difference reflects Montessori’s dual identity—as both a formal system and a widely adopted philosophy. The United States leads with roughly 5,000 programmes, while countries such as China, Germany, Canada, Thailand and Tanzania also host large Montessori networks. India, too, has a growing presence, with around 400–420 listed schools.

Why Montessori Still Matters Today

For many educators, Montessori is not just a method—it is a response to the limitations of modern schooling.

Arun G. Menon, founder of Kerala-based Dolphinz Preschool, who transitioned from a career at Tata Consultancy Services, says his shift to education was driven by a growing concern. In the corporate world, he observed that while systems were becoming faster and more technologically advanced, many graduates struggled to meet real-world expectations.

“The gap is not just at the higher education level—it begins at the foundation,” he notes, explaining why he chose to focus on early childhood learning.

At his school, Montessori principles are blended with the theory of multiple intelligences. The emphasis is on independence, creativity, and experiential learning—skills he believes are essential in an era shaped by rapid technological change and what many describe as the Fifth Industrial Revolution.

Menon argues that conventional teaching methods are increasingly inadequate. “Children need space to explore, build confidence, and think independently—not just rely on tools like Google or AI,” he says. The goal is to cultivate problem-solving ability, emotional intelligence, teamwork, and decision-making—skills that define human value in today’s world.

Inside the Montessori Classroom

In practice, Montessori classrooms often look very different from conventional ones.

Sapna Raj, a Montessori teacher from CGKG Porbandar, Gujarat, describes a learning environment where children sit on the floor, working with wooden materials and hands-on tools rather than textbooks. “The focus is on activity-based learning and motor skill development before formal writing begins,” she explains.

Notebooks come later—typically only in the early primary years—allowing children to first build coordination, understanding, and confidence through experience.

This approach, she says, makes learning both joyful and lasting. “Children understand what they learn. They don’t just memorise and forget.”

Critiques and Debates

Despite its global influence, the Montessori method has faced criticism from educators and researchers. Some argue that its emphasis on self-directed learning may not suit all children, particularly those who require more structured guidance or thrive in competitive environments. Others question the lack of standardised assessment, raising concerns about how learning outcomes are measured and compared. Critics have also pointed to the high cost of many Montessori schools, which can limit accessibility and make the model less inclusive. In some cases, loosely affiliated schools adopt the Montessori label without adhering to its core principles, leading to inconsistencies in quality. At the same time, proponents argue that when implemented faithfully, Montessori education produces strong outcomes in independence, creativity and problem-solving—qualities increasingly valued in a rapidly changing world.

A Legacy Beyond Classrooms

Montessori’s journey also brought her to India in the late 1930s, where she conducted training programmes and engaged deeply with Indian philosophical thought. Influenced by thinkers such as Rabindranath Tagore, she developed the idea of Cosmic Education—a vision that connects learning with peace, ecology, and universal responsibility.

Following her death in 1952, her son Mario Montessori carried forward her work, ensuring its continuity.

Today, Montessori classrooms across the world—from urban India to Europe and Africa—continue to reflect a simple yet radical belief: that education, when rooted in respect for the child, can shape not just individuals, but the future of society itself.