Hum Honge Kamiyab – From 'Me' to 'We'

Every morning at The Fabindia School, as we stood in assembly, our voices rose in unison, singing Hum Honge Kamiyab. It was more than just a song; it was a promise—a hope we carried in our hearts. It felt almost like our school anthem, a close substitute for the official school song.

One day, while walking out of school, I noticed something above the exit gate—a green archway that welcomed students, covered in thick climbers and the ever-flourishing karonda tree. Its deep green leaves remained fresh throughout the year, providing an incredible, shaded pathway. But what made it even more exciting were the small, tangy karonda fruits that ripened at just the right time—perfect for students to pluck and enjoy at the beginning of every new term. The entrance wasn't just a passage; it was a memory, a ritual, a place of shared laughter.

But that day, something else caught my eye. Painted in bold letters above the gate were the words HUM HONGE KAMIYAB.

A gentleman (Mr Sandeep Dutt, then the chairman of the Trust that operates the school) in the assembly, addressing the students, told us, "Every time you pass through this gate," he announced, "say these words in your heart. Carry their meaning forward."

I was in Class 6 then, and while the message was inspiring, something about it unsettled me.

A Question That Wouldn't Leave Me

Why just Hum Honge Kamiyab? Where was the rest of the song? And more importantly—why Hum and not Main?

That evening, at home, I shared my thoughts with MaaSa. “Why do we say Hum Honge Kamiyab instead of Main Hounga Kamiyab?” I asked, my young mind wrestling with the thought: Does saying "Hum" make us sound like royalty, speaking in plural like the kings of old?

And then, something else bothered me. The sign above the gate had Honge instead of Hoga. As a typical Rajasthani, I naturally tended to replace "we" with "I," I wondered if the painter had done the same, making a grammatical mistake. A small part of me wished my Hindi teacher, Ms. Rajeshwari, had noticed it. With her red pen, I imagined her circling the words and making us write them correctly ten times over. But then, I realized—maybe she hadn't spotted it because she didn't have a tall ladder to reach the sign! And I certainly didn't dare to point it out to her.

Days passed, but the question remained unanswered.

The Answer That Changed My Perspective

Then, one day, I found my chance. During a Student Council and Editorial Board meeting, I sat across from Ms. Deepika Tandon, our principal. I finally asked her:

"Ma'am, why do we say Hum Honge Kamiyab instead of Main Hounga Kamiyab?"

She leaned back in her chair, a thoughtful smile on her lips. She simply observed me momentarily as if deciding how best to answer. Then she said:

"Kunal, when you become successful, it's never just about you. Your success is tied to the people around you—your teachers, your friends, the driver bhaiya who picks you up daily, the Bai Ji who cleans the school, the librarian who helps you find books and even the gatekeeper who watches over the school. When you succeed, all of them succeed in some way, too. Your journey is never yours alone. That's why it's Hum Honge Kamiyab—because success is a collective effort, not an individual one."

That day, something shifted within me. Schools, education, and life are not shaped by a single person. It takes a community. The teachers in the classroom, the staff in the background, even the smallest contributions—each one plays a role in shaping a student.

From Main to Hum, my perspective changed.

Now, I remember those words whenever I walk through a school gate. Success is never alone. It belongs to everyone who walks the journey with us.

And I hope, one day, I will make the same journey.

KUNAL RAJPUROHIT

Fellow & Analyst

www.schooleducation.com