Horibol Bonarjee: How a visually impaired teacher brings light to his students’ lives

In the tea gardens of Sreemangal, where the smell of freshly plucked leaves drifts through the morning mist, both of Horibol Bonarjee's parents worked as tea pickers, their days long and their wages meagre. 

When their son arrived and his eyes remained shut, they were devastated. His parents waited for them to open, but they did not — not the next day or the next week.

A local priest told them not to lose hope and assured them that the child would open his eyes after 21 days. On that day, surrounded by relatives chanting "Horibol, Horibol, Horibol", the baby finally opened his eyes. "It was a miracle, my parents said," he recalled. "That's why they named me Horibol — after the chant that filled the room."

But the miracle did not mean perfection. Horibol was born visually impaired — completely blind in one eye and with very limited sight in the other. "My world was dimly lit," he said. "But it bothered society a lot more than it bothered me."

One of his earliest memories was sitting outside his home, humming a tune he liked. A man passing by tossed him a coin. "I was happy — any child would be — but I didn't understand why he'd given it to me," he said. "Later I realised it was because he thought I was begging."

As he grew older, people told his parents that he would never have a normal life. "They said I would only ever be able to beg," he remembered. His parents refused to accept that. They wanted him to sing. Even when there was barely enough food for the family, they saved to buy him a small instrument. "They believed music would give me a future," he said.

Indeed, music soon became his refuge. He sang to himself, to his neighbours, and to anyone willing to listen. His voice carried through the narrow paths of the tea estate, drawing small crowds. "I think I learned to sing before I learned to read," Horibol laughed.

In 2004, a new opportunity appeared when BRAC opened a small school in the village. Horibol's sister was admitted, and he would follow her every day, sitting quietly while the lessons went on. "I loved listening to English words on television," he said. "I didn't understand them, but I liked how they sounded. I'd repeat them and ask my sister's teacher what they meant."

Then one afternoon, a BRAC teacher came to his house with news that changed everything — the school had introduced Braille. "I could finally go to school," he said. "I was so excited. I remember asking my sister what it would be like, what the teachers looked like, what my classmates would do."

On his first day, he was handed a Braille slate and books. The alphabet felt strange under his fingers. "I remember my teacher guiding my hands across the page," he said. "The words came alive as I touched them."

Horibol flourished. He was chosen as class captain from classes two to five and was known as one of the best students in school. "Those years showed me a new world," he said. "One where I could be anything I wanted."

Between lessons, he continued to sing at local events. His talent continued to grow, and in 2013, he was invited to perform in Dhaka and trained under a renowned singer. "That was the first time I travelled outside Sreemangal," he said. "I couldn't see the city clearly, but I could feel its energy."

Horibol is one of more than 250,000 children and young people with disabilities supported by BRAC’s education programme through adapted curricula, assistive materials and medical support.

When the BRAC school ended at grade five, Horibol was determined to continue studying. He applied to Moulvibazar Government High School, the most prestigious in the area and the only one that offered Braille. His application was rejected. "I was heartbroken," he remembered. "It felt like all my progress had stopped."

An hour away, Hooglichora High School accepted him. It was a good school, but it was not equipped to support students with visual impairments. Horibol refused to give up. He sought help from classmates and teachers and continued to excel. 

His English skills impressed one of his teachers so much that he wrote to Moulvibazar High School asking them to reconsider. The school changed its mind. "My parents cried when they heard the news," Horibol said. "It felt like all their sacrifices were finally worth it."

As he grew older, Horibol began to understand how education — or the lack of it — shaped life in the tea gardens. "People here have worked for generations but never had the chance to learn," he said. "That's why I want to teach."

When the pandemic closed schools, he worried about how children in his community would cope. "I downloaded lessons on my friends' phones and taught a group of 20 students," he said. Later, he began teaching at a small coaching centre. He also created a text-based service for students who wanted to learn English. "They send me 15 Bangla words a day," he explained. "I text them back the English meanings."

"People told my parents I could only become a beggar in life. But I kept teaching myself new things. First, I learned to sing. Then I taught myself English through television. It did not matter that I could not see. The tiny school I joined showed me an entirely different world, one where I could be anything I wanted. Now I teach other children."

English quickly became his favourite subject. "Everyone was surprised and said it was a difficult language," he said. "I told them it was beautiful."

Horibol now dreams of going to university, though he hopes it will have Braille materials. More than anything, he wants to remain a teacher. "It seems to me that people don't value teachers the way they used to," he said. "But teachers shaped my life. I want to shape others' lives the same way."

He often thinks about how far he has come — from a boy expected to beg to a man who teaches others to read and speak with confidence. Even with his limited sight, he sees the world with remarkable clarity. "The tea garden is the only home I've ever known," he said. "I've never seen its beauty, but I smell it in the leaves, I hear it in the wind."

"People once told my parents I would only ever be a beggar," he shared. "Now people beg to hear me sing — and to help them speak English. Maybe that's what miracles really are."

Horibol is one of more than 250,000 children and young people with disabilities supported by BRAC's education programme through adapted curricula, assistive materials and medical support. 

His journey from being seen as a beggar to becoming a mentor for others is more than personal triumph; it is proof of what inclusion can achieve. "I always tried to stay positive. I don't know what the future holds, but I know I'll find a way," he concluded.