I have been thinking about learning, not as something we gather, but as something that quietly settles into us. Some of it sits lightly, like facts we can revise or forget. Some of it, however, stays. It holds its place even when we grow, even when we know better, even when we try to change.
Why is it that certain things cannot be unlearned once they are deemed learnt?
I do not have a single answer. But I find myself returning to a few moments from my own life, small and ordinary on the surface, that seem to carry this question within them.
I remember returning to Chennai as a child, after my father’s work took us away for a while to Kudremukh. School calendars did not align, and so I found myself repeating UKG. At that age, I did not understand what it meant to redo a year. It simply felt like I was stepping into something I had already seen before.
In one of those classrooms, during an art period, I drew a scene that has never left me.
A fisherman stood by the beach, hanging his net out to dry. A little distance away, there was a two-storey house. From a window above, his wife looked down at him. I do not remember what the teacher said about it. I do not remember if it was praised or corrected.
But I remember the feeling.
There was a quiet joy between the two figures. A sense of connection. The image felt complete to me. Even now, I can see it as clearly as I did then.
From very early on, I understood the world through images. Shapes were not just shapes. They held meaning. They carried stories.
But alongside this, there was something else I carried.
I wrote in mirror images. With my left hand.
Letters did not always move in the direction the world expected them to. What I saw and how I expressed it were not always aligned with what was being taught. Around me, there was a shared belief that I needed to change. To move to the right hand. To write in the accepted way. To follow what was considered proper.
So I tried.
And in that trying, something became uncertain.
The alphabets that could have been shapes, like a tent or a doorway, became something I had to get “right.” Direction mattered. Form mattered. Correction mattered. What was once intuitive slowly became effortful.
Looking back, I do not see that as a mistake.
I see it as my first experience of how learning settles, not just as understanding, but as adjustment.
We often say repetition builds a strong foundation. That learning in steps makes things strong. But within those steps, something else can quietly take root. A child learns not only the lesson, but also how much of themselves must change to fit that lesson.
And that stays.
Learning, however, does not remain within classrooms.
It travels in unexpected ways.
As children, we used to receive a small A5-sized newsletter called Soldiers of God. It carried stories of Christ, stories of kindness, generosity, and care. I read them. I understood them in some way. They felt gentle, like suggestions offered to the heart.
But I did not yet know what they meant in my own life.
One morning, on my way to school, I was in a pedal rickshaw driven by Srinivasan. We were a group of children, fitting ourselves into small spaces as we always did. That day, he asked me to move. First to the side, then to a narrow space between the seat and the shade at the back.
I moved without question.
After a while, there was a small shift again, and I changed places.
Then, suddenly, an accident.
It happened quickly. A racing mini truck. A moment of impact. The girl who had taken my earlier place was injured.
What stayed with me was not just the accident, but the realization of how easily it could have been me.
A few days later, when she returned home from the hospital, something within me responded.
No one told me to go.
No one asked me to help.
But I wanted to see her. I wanted to know she was alright.
So I took my sister, and we walked to her house. On the way, I stopped at a small Murugan store and bought a large Cadbury chocolate for her. Something that might bring a smile.
We bought smaller ones for ourselves. It felt natural.
And then my sister said we should give her ours too. She was the one who had been hurt.
I do not remember the final decision about the chocolates. But I remember the feeling of that moment.
And I remember asking myself, quietly:
Where did this learning come from?
Was it from the stories I had read?
Was it from my home?
Was it from simply seeing another person in pain?
This learning was different.
It was not repeated.
It was not tested.
It was not corrected.
And yet, it stayed.
Years later, I stood in a classroom, now as a teacher.
I carried with me a sense of what was right. A belief in good manners. A structure that I had inherited and accepted without much question.
To me, certain words did not belong in a classroom.
One day, a student wrote the F-word.
It startled me.
My reaction was immediate. There was anger, disagreement, a firm insistence that this was not acceptable. The rule was clear. No bad words.
In that moment, I was holding on to what I had learnt.
But after the class ended, something did not sit well.
So I reflected.
This child came from a family that was struggling. The summer camp was not just a learning space, it was also a place that held him while his parents managed their lives. When I spoke to the parent, I spoke from correctness. From what I believed was right.
But I had not paused to see the child fully.
I had not asked where this word came from, what world he was navigating, what he was carrying into the classroom.
And I realized something uncomfortable.
I had learnt something long ago, and I had never questioned it.
Good manners meant certain words were unacceptable. That was my foundation. But in holding on to it rigidly, I had overlooked something equally important.
Compassion.
This is where the question deepens.
Why is it so difficult to unlearn?
Because what we learn is rarely just information.
It is tied to:
- the body that repeats an action
- the emotions that accompany it
- the approval or correction we receive
- the belonging we feel when we get it “right”
A child learning alphabets is not just learning letters. She is learning direction, correction, expectation.
A child learning kindness is not just hearing a story. She is living a moment, feeling its weight.
An adult holding a rule is not just following instruction. She is holding identity.
Unlearning, then, is not a simple act.
It asks us to return to something we accepted once, often without question, and to look at it again. Not to discard it, but to see it more fully.
And that is not easy.
Because to unlearn is also to admit that what we held as certain may have been partial.
When I look back now, I do not feel the need to reject what I was taught.
The alphabets gave me structure.
The stories gave me direction.
The rules gave me clarity.
But life, in its own quiet way, added something more.
It asked me to see again.
To allow that:
- a child may see a letter differently
- a moment of kindness may arise without instruction
- a rule may need to soften in the presence of a human being
Perhaps learning that cannot be unlearned is not a limitation.
It is a sign of how deeply something has been lived.
And unlearning is not about erasing it.
It is about holding it with more space, more context, more care.
So I find myself returning, not to correct what I learnt, but to meet it again.
Gently.
Asking, each time:
Can I see this differently now?
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Itinerant Storyteller 