Unsung Heroes: How a Karnataka teacher is helping children find their way to school

Long before Ambarish C M became a college lecturer, earned multiple postgraduate degrees and a doctorate, he was a student who struggled to afford even the basics needed to stay in college. The 36-year-old remembers asking his mother for Rs 200 to buy a notebook.

When she scolded him for asking for money, he returned it and walked away, vowing never to ask his family for another rupee for his education. It was a promise he kept through years of odd jobs, unpaid work, and financial hardship—a struggle that gave him a deep understanding of what education can mean to a child with little.

His sister had to discontinue her education after Class 9, while his brother failed his Class 10 examination. When neighbours mocked his father, telling him his son would never study, his father broke down. He held Ambarish’s hand and told him, “Whatever happens, you must at least make it to college.” Education did not come easily to him.

He barely passed Class 10, secured a second class in PUC (Pre-University Course), and failed his first three semesters of college. After clearing the subjects in revaluation, something changed. By his fifth and sixth semesters, he was among the top students in a college of nearly 1,600 students.

The same student who once struggled to stay in college eventually completed an MA in Kannada, Sociology, and History, an MSc in Yoga, a BEd, an MEd, a Kannada Ratna diploma, and a PhD. While studying, Ambarish worked at a printing press from 6 pm to 10 pm, initially without pay.

He later took up a job at a ‘Buy 1 Get 1’ clothing store in Gopalan Mall for Rs 4,000 a month, on his feet for hours even when his legs hurt. He eventually found work as a catering worker at five-star hotels such as Ashoka and Vivanta, but even getting inside was initially a challenge.

“I remember standing outside because security would not let me in. I did not have a white shirt, black pants, black shoes or even a clean shave,” he says, recalling his struggle between 2011 and 2014. Once he received the uniform, his first task was to move chairs.

He worked so hard that HR noticed him and paid him Rs 220—two Rs 100 notes and two Rs 10 notes. “I cried holding that money because it was the first time I had earned something through hard work,” he recalls. The work soon became more lucrative.

Ambarish began bringing friends for hotel events and earning commissions, supplying anywhere from four to 100 workers a day, earning between Rs 5,000 and Rs 10,000 on some days. But just as the money started coming in, a friend reminded him he was still a student and should not lose sight of his education.

His association with the children ended after a boy ran away from the centre one night when Ambarish was away. A police complaint was filed, and questions were raised about his supervision. He left the job and joined a college as a lecturer in 2015.

In 2017, Ambarish got married and began another chapter of his life—but the children he had worked with stayed on his mind. For nearly five years after his marriage, he and his wife could not conceive, and during that period Ambarish began thinking about the children he had left behind.

“Somewhere I felt that leaving those children behind had cost me something. I felt I had to do this again, on my own,” he says. He rented a space in Nayandahalli and started teaching children from nearby slums. “Maybe it was a coincidence,” he says.

“But I decided that day—whatever difficulties come, I will not stop this.” That resolve eventually grew into the AGS Charitable Trust in Bengaluru, formally registered in 2021. Since then, the trust has helped 618 out-of-school children get admitted into government schools, without taking a government grant.

The trust is run by a four-member team—Ambarish, three volunteers and a teacher—working mainly in Nayandanahalli slum pockets, reaching children from single-parent homes and children who have lost a parent. At the Nayandahalli centre, 35 children between the ages of five and 15 currently attend classes, receiving basic lessons, a morning snack and an afternoon meal before returning home to their guardians.

For older children who have never been to school, the trust spends about a year teaching basic literacy before helping them into an age-appropriate class. One such child was Nagesh, 23, who came to Bengaluru from Yadgir after his family sold their goats to fund his sister’s wedding.

He dropped out in Class 3. The trust got him admitted directly to Class 8 in a private school and later supported his volleyball training—a sport he has since gone on to play at the national level. “Education was always important to me.

I completed my degree in Kerala while playing for the Inter-University and South Zone teams. Some exams clashed with matches, so I missed them, but I’m now continuing my degree in Gulbarga and am in my second year,” he says.

Through Ambarish’s Karunada Kala Siri Balaga initiative, he recognises Kannada teachers whose students score full marks in the subject. As part of the initiative, 5,011 teachers have been honoured over three years, including around 1,000 who received the ‘Uttama Sadhaka Shikshaka’ award this year alone, alongside 2,800 certificates issued to students who scored 100 marks in Kannada.

All of this comes at a personal cost. The Nayandahalli centre costs between Rs 80,000 and Rs 1 lakh a month to run, including food and staff salaries. Ambarish has never taken a government grant or actively sought donations, funding the trust instead through his own earnings—Kannada guidebooks that sell 30,000 to 40,000 copies a year, and a small correspondence admission centre for distance-learning colleges.

“My teaching salary is only for my family. The trust runs on my books and my own earnings,” he says. Ambarish has received 593 awards and recognitions over the years for his contributions, including the Ambedkar National Award and the Rashtrakavi Kuvempu Sadbhavana Award.

But while he values the awards, it’s the children who...