UTTARAKHAND : In the rugged terrain of the Kumaon hills in Uttarakhand, the gap between the haves and the have-nots is measured not just in altitude, but in access to quality education. For Geetika Joshi, an administrative officer from Almora, this divide is a moral imperative she is determined to address.
Joshi, who cleared the Uttarakhand Provincial Civil Services (PCS) examination in 2010, sees her role not as a bureaucratic posting, but as a responsibility. At the centre of her work is a firm belief: the fundamental rights guaranteed by the Indian Constitution lose meaning if the quality of a child’s education depends on where they are born.
“A child in a slum and a student at an elite institution like Dhirubhai Ambani International School cannot truly enjoy the right to equality and freedom at the same pace,” Joshi says. “The gap between urban centres and the rural hills of Uttarakhand is stark. If we are to honour our Constitution, we must ensure that the quality of education does not vary based on a child’s socioeconomic status.”
Joshi’s journey as a reformer began in 2015 during her first posting as an education officer. Assigned to inspect primary schools, she expected to find functioning institutions. Instead, she encountered conditions that deeply disturbed her.
Many schools were in disrepair: crumbling infrastructure, dull classrooms lacking stimulation, and an absence of basic amenities. During the harsh Himalayan winters, she saw children sitting on cold concrete floors, often without adequate lighting, heating, or warm clothing.
“How can we talk about improving learning outcomes when children don’t even have a chair to sit on?” she recalls asking herself. The stories her father told her about carrying his own rug to school so he would have somewhere to sit stayed with her. “I couldn’t help but wonder: how far have we actually come, even 80 years after Independence?”
Joshi’s own life has been shaped by the societal pressures often faced by women in the region. Born as the second daughter in a family that desperately wanted a son, Joshi grew up aware of the stigma attached to her gender. “I was born as the second daughter to a family desperate for a son. It was a cultural shock for my mother,” she says. “Fearing the weight of social stigma, she once said in a moment of despair, ‘I don’t want a girl child. Give her to someone, or leave her somewhere.’”
Though her mother later raised her with affection, those early memories left a lasting impact. “Every time that story was mentioned, it strengthened my resolve that one day my parents would feel proud of me,” Joshi says. That personal ambition later evolved into a wider mission to support children who, like her, began life with very little.
Her path to the administrative service was far from easy. At 16, she lost her father. With a younger sister to support and no steady family income, she was thrust into adulthood early. “I started teaching in a private school for a meagre salary of `600 a month—an amount I rarely received in full, as even a single day of leave meant a deduction,” she says. “To save on rickshaw fare, I walked five kilometres to school every day.”
Despite these hardships, Joshi earned a national scholarship after Class XII and eventually topped her campus in Almora. Her faith in the transformative power of education remains unchanged. “Education is the one thing no one can take away,” she says. Her commitment to reform found an unexpected test at home through her 4.5-year-old son, Siddharth. To assess the standard of the schools she oversaw, Joshi proposed an idea to him. “I told him, ‘Siddharth, I think you should take admission in the primary school next to my office,’” she recalls. His response was immediate and honest. “He looked at me and said, ‘No, never! Not unless you make it like my school in Haldwani.’”
That moment, she says, was a wake-up call. If the schools were not good enough for her own child, how could they be acceptable for the children of the state?
Joshi moved beyond paperwork, focusing on mobilising resources, pushing for policy changes, and demanding higher standards of engagement. She worked to bridge the gap between digital learning methods and the basic infrastructural needs of rural schools. Rather than simply repairing old schools, she aims to rebuild a culture of aspiration. She advocates for schools that provide dignity.
Joshi understands that meaningful reform is slow and demanding. Yet she sees her work as both a continuation of her father’s legacy and a response to a society that once questioned her worth at birth. By holding government schools to the standards of elite private institutions, she is not only improving infrastructure but also challenging a system that has long shaped the destinies of children in Uttarakhand.
Joshi’s commitment to children faced its toughest test during the Covid-19 pandemic, when she was asked to shelter two orphaned children. Already raising five children, she could not take in more, but the request compelled her to act.
She envisioned a residential school for orphans, rag-pickers, and child labourers. The challenges were immense: arranging funds and finding a facility. On Covid duty, she shared her idea with others. Her teacher, Sanjeev Vishnoi, offered the Vishnoi Sabha building free of charge.
With support from colleagues Jyoti, Sanjay, Rajendra, and Anil Chauhan, Geetika brought 25 children into the hostel. But sustaining food supplies, staffing, and daily operations soon became difficult.
She approached district authorities, who connected the initiative with the Centre’s Samagra Shiksha programme. The school was later integrated into the Netaji Subhash Chandra Bose residential hostel scheme.