Hand Over Government Schools to Archaeology Department: Education Department No Longer Capable of Building or Maintaining Classrooms
The condition of some government school buildings across India has reached such an extraordinary stage that perhaps the Education Department should seriously consider a historic administrative innovation: hand over all government school buildings to the Archaeological Department. At least then, someone might finally accept that these structures are ancient monuments requiring urgent conservation, restoration and protection. After all, when classrooms begin looking like archaeological sites, toilets resemble abandoned ruins, walls carry layers of history, and leaking roofs provide a practical demonstration of monsoon science, what better department could manage them than the one already experienced in preserving things from the past?
The suggestion may sound sarcastic, but the joke becomes considerably less funny when compared with recent evidence. The Union government’s UDISE+ data covers more than 14.6 lakh schools, including around 10 lakh government schools. The official data shows substantial progress in several basic facilities, but it also demonstrates that infrastructure gaps have not disappeared. The 2024–25 data, for example, records nearly 9.5 lakh schools with computer facilities, while functional computers for pedagogical purposes are available in about 8.5 lakh. Internet facilities are available in roughly 9.34 lakh schools. These figures represent progress, but they also mean that millions of children continue to study in institutions where modern educational infrastructure remains incomplete.
And then there is the wonderfully optimistic language of government schemes. Additional classrooms, toilets, drinking water, electricity, boundary walls, libraries, ICT facilities and digital classrooms are all regularly listed under programmes designed to strengthen government schools. The Union government itself says that schemes such as Samagra Shiksha, STARS and PM SHRI support states in creating and improving such infrastructure on the basis of gaps identified through UDISE+ data. In official documents, therefore, the school of the future is apparently well equipped, digitally connected and child-friendly. On the ground, however, citizens occasionally discover that the school of the future is still waiting for a functioning tap, a usable toilet, a safe roof or enough desks.
Recent reports make the satire particularly difficult to ignore. In Maharashtra, a government school inspection reported broken classroom and toilet doors and missing taps, with the condition being described as reminiscent of the 1960s. In Mumbai, a civic school audit found a classroom with only 25 benches for around 70 students, along with dirty toilets, broken taps and unused classrooms filled with garbage. In Delhi, a ceiling fan reportedly fell inside a government school classroom, while waterlogging outside the premises added another chapter to the continuing story of infrastructure maintenance. These are not medieval forts, abandoned factories or ruins awaiting excavation. They are schools where children are expected to spend some of the most important years of their lives.
Perhaps the Archaeological Department would actually be more appropriate. Its officials understand the importance of preserving old walls. They know that cracks should be documented, structures should be inspected, historical features should be protected and restoration cannot simply mean putting a fresh coat of paint on a collapsing structure. An archaeologist arriving at a government school might look at a broken window and say, “This appears to be an important historical feature.” An Education Department official might simply say, “Proposal has been sent.” Months later, another inspection might take place. Another proposal might be prepared. Another sanction might be awaited. And the wall, being considerably less patient than the government file, might collapse before the paperwork does.
The Archaeological Department could also introduce a new classification system. A classroom built twenty years ago but never properly repaired could be declared a “protected educational monument.” A toilet without water could be classified as an “architectural representation of early twenty-first-century public sanitation.” A broken boundary wall could become a “nationally significant example of administrative neglect.” A classroom without adequate desks could be preserved as a “living museum of austerity.” And the leaking roof could be promoted to a “heritage water-management installation,” especially during the monsoon.
There would also be enormous savings. Once a school building is declared a heritage structure, nobody would expect rapid modernisation. Students could be informed that the broken windows are not broken at all; they are authentic historical openings. The peeling paint could be protected as an original surface. The absence of a laboratory could be explained as preservation of the building’s “traditional educational character.” Even the lack of digital facilities could be celebrated as an attempt to preserve India’s pre-digital academic heritage. Suddenly, what was previously called negligence could acquire the respectable vocabulary of conservation.
The greatest advantage, however, would be psychological. The Education Department could finally stop being embarrassed by questions about infrastructure. Whenever somebody asked why a school had no proper facilities, the department could proudly respond: “It is under the Archaeological Department now.” Parents asking for a new classroom could be told that construction is impossible because the existing building has heritage value. Students demanding proper toilets could be informed that alterations may damage the historical integrity of the structure. Teachers asking for repairs could submit their requests to a committee whose next meeting would be announced after the completion of the next financial year.
Of course, this is satire. Government schools are not archaeological monuments, and children should not be made to study inside museums of administrative failure. The real point is precisely the opposite: a school building should be treated as critical public infrastructure, not as an optional decoration attached to an education programme. A child does not experience government statistics. A child experiences the classroom ceiling, the toilet, the drinking-water tap, the electricity supply, the desk, the blackboard, the laboratory and the condition of the walls. For that child, infrastructure is not a footnote in a government report. It is the physical environment in which education either becomes possible or becomes unnecessarily difficult.
The irony is that the country already possesses enormous administrative machinery for identifying these gaps. UDISE+ collects detailed information about schools and their facilities, while government schemes are specifically designed to address infrastructure deficiencies. The official 2024–25 data shows that government schools have achieved very high reported coverage of drinking-water facilities, with 99.4% of government schools recorded as having drinking water on their premises. That is significant progress and deserves recognition. But the existence of strong aggregate numbers should not become an excuse to ignore the schools that remain unsafe, inadequate or poorly maintained. A national average cannot repair a broken classroom in a particular village.
Indeed, India has demonstrated that improvement is possible when there is political will, administrative accountability and sustained implementation. Uttar Pradesh’s Operation Kayakalp, for instance, has been aimed specifically at improving government-school infrastructure, including classrooms, sanitation, drinking water and other facilities. The experience shows that government-school buildings are not condemned to decay merely because they belong to the public system. They can be transformed when somebody takes responsibility for the transformation.
Therefore, perhaps the proposal should be modified. Do not hand government schools to the Archaeological Department. Instead, hand the Education Department the seriousness with which the country treats its monuments. Give school buildings the same urgency, inspection standards and maintenance discipline that would be expected if an important heritage structure were at risk. A collapsing roof should trigger immediate action. A dysfunctional toilet should not require a campaign. A missing tap should not become a newspaper story. A school without adequate desks should not need a citizen’s audit to become visible to the administration.
And if the Education Department is genuinely unable to maintain school infrastructure, then perhaps the Archaeological Department should at least be invited to conduct a joint inspection. It could teach everyone an important lesson: when a building is valuable, you do not wait for it to collapse before deciding that it deserved protection. Government schools are far more valuable than monuments because monuments preserve the memory of civilisation, while schools determine its future.
So yes, let us hand over the school buildings to the Archaeological Department—at least as a satirical warning. Let the archaeologists carefully catalogue the broken doors, excavate the missing taps, preserve the ancient desks and place protective barriers around the leaking roofs. Let historians record how a country capable of building satellites, expressways and digital public infrastructure sometimes struggles to ensure that a child can sit safely inside a classroom.
But before the first school is declared a protected monument, there is a much simpler solution: make the Education Department capable of doing the job for which it already exists. Because government schools should not become archaeological discoveries for future generations. They should become the strongest evidence that the present generation cared enough to build a better future.
