Whatever Happened to Having a Hobby?

 

Whatever Happened to Having a Hobby?

Growing up in Allahabad, whenever new commemorative stamps were released, I would make my way to the General Post Office. There could be 100 or 150 people queuing to buy a first-day cover, followed by another queue to have it stamped with the special postmark. Nobody seemed to mind the wait; there was an excitement about being part of the occasion. Looking back, I sometimes wonder how many children today have a collection of anything: something they can hold, add to over time and take a quiet pride in.

I still have hundreds of those first-day covers and probably thousands of stamps. Among them is a family collection I particularly treasure. My grandfather passed his stamps to my uncle, who eventually gave them to me. Some are more than a hundred years old, including complete sets in mint condition. They are more than just stamps to me; they carry a little of our family history.

Stamps were not my only interest. I collected Christian holy pictures, while soft-drink companies gave us booklets in which to paste flags of different countries. Picture postcards were another favourite. Foreign holidays were less common then, and a postcard from someone travelling abroad offered a glimpse of a place I had never seen. I would look at those pictures repeatedly, imagining what it might be like to visit those places myself. Comics were equally popular. We read them over and over before swapping them with friends, and finding someone who had the comic you wanted, then negotiating a swap, was half the fun.

Not everything we collected could be bought. I gathered shells, washing them, drying them in the sun and studying their shapes and colours. Leaves from different trees were pressed between the pages of thick books until they dried and revealed their delicate veins. A friend collected 40 or 50 different types of birds' eggs, carefully blowing out their contents through tiny holes to preserve the shells. I was fascinated by the collection, although we now understand the importance of protecting birds and their nests.

Looking back, these hobbies gave us much more than the objects themselves. They encouraged patience and observation, and taught us to take an interest in the world around us. We pursued them simply because we enjoyed them, without expecting a prize, certificate or recognition.

My collecting continued into adulthood, although the objects changed. At one time, I had around 80 beer mugs from different parts of the world, of which I still have perhaps 20 or 30; the others I gradually gave away. I also built up a large collection of music cassettes, only to dispose of them when cassette players became obsolete. CDs eventually followed the same route. It is remarkable how quickly something we once treasured can become outdated.

Family photograph albums were another way of preserving what mattered to us. We would sit with our parents, turning the pages as they told us the stories behind the photographs. We saw them as children and our grandparents on their wedding day, recognizing some relatives while discovering others we had never met. Today, we take thousands of photographs on our phones, but how often do we look at them again? We have become very good at taking pictures, but perhaps less good at revisiting and sharing the memories behind them.

Collecting itself has certainly not disappeared; the objects have simply changed. I know someone in Pune who has hundreds of miniature cars and bikes, carefully maintained and displayed, while several gentlemen in Dubai have impressive collections of cricket memorabilia. Yet the collectors I meet are mostly adults. I rarely come across a child with a collection of their own, which makes me wonder whether we are doing enough to introduce the younger generation to this simple pleasure.

Schools could play a part. I recently suggested to The Bishop's School in Pune, where I worked for 20 years, that they set aside a room as a small museum for old school magazines, trophies and photographs. I have seen something similar in another school and think it is a brilliant idea. Former students would love to find their names and faces on the walls, while current students would get a glimpse of their school's history and the people who helped shape it.

The idea could extend beyond school memorabilia. Schools could start collectors' clubs, with a small exhibition each term and a day for swapping, just as we swapped comics. A child collecting coins might become curious about other countries and their histories, while someone collecting leaves might begin asking questions about trees and the natural world. Such interests can open doors to learning without making it feel like another classroom exercise. There is no need to turn everything into a competition with certificates and prizes; the satisfaction of building something over time should be reward enough.

I once visited an elderly gentleman in Europe who had been collecting for more than 70 years. His home was filled with miniature cars, beer mugs, shells, antique clocks and model ships. I asked him what would happen to it all. His wife had passed away, his daughter had no interest in the collection, and he suspected that once he was gone, someone would simply be called in to clear the house. I found that rather sad. More than seven decades of searching for things, arranging them and looking after them could simply come to an end. What one person treasures for a lifetime may mean very little to someone else.

That thought makes me look at my own collection differently. I do not want my stamps to end up forgotten in a cupboard. One day, I would like to open the albums with my granddaughters and tell them the stories behind the collection, just as my family once did for me. My grandfather's stamps have travelled through three generations, and perhaps they will interest a fourth. The beer mugs and cassettes may be gone, but the memories remain.

Perhaps that is the real value of collecting: not simply what we accumulate, but the curiosity it encourages, the enjoyment it brings and the memories we can pass on.

Morning Reflection: The Song You Had to Wait For

You're Never Too Old to Rock and Roll

I can still picture that old Bush transistor radio sitting on a stool outside, with my cup of tea beside me. I would turn the dial slowly, listening for a familiar voice or a tune, then move the antenna, hoping to get a clearer signal. Sometimes the music came through beautifully. At other times, all I got was crackle. But I wasn't going anywhere. I had a song I was hoping to hear, and I was prepared to wait for it.

That song was "Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On" by Jerry Lee Lewis. When those opening notes finally came through, I would sit up and forget all about the wait. It was worth every bit of fiddling with the radio.

I never imagined that a few years later, at eighteen or nineteen, I would be singing that very song on stage at the Anglo-Indian Club in Allahabad, guitar in hand. The boy who had once waited patiently by the radio was now performing it himself.

I went on to play with some of the best bands in Allahabad and sang dozens of songs. I was also a great Elvis Presley fan and performed plenty of his numbers. There was even a running joke that I would end up becoming a "band-baaja-wala"!

People danced to all the songs we played, but when "Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On" began, the excitement went up several notches. There was more energy, more dancing and plenty of screaming. It was quite something to watch.

The song has stayed with me all these years. Decades later, I sang it with the band at both my daughters' weddings in Dubai. The reaction was much the same on both occasions. Before long, everyone was on the dance floor. I gave it everything I had, and thankfully, my back held up! I've always believed you're never too old to rock and roll.

There was something else about those days. If you wanted to learn the lyrics of a song, you had to listen carefully and write them down. Getting every word right could take days. And if there was a disagreement about a line, there was no Google to settle the matter. You simply had to argue it out!

Today, I can find almost any song, any singer, from any year, along with the lyrics, in seconds. I can play the same song ten times in a row if I wish, and sometimes I do. I wouldn't want to give up that convenience.

Yet no song I play today quite gives me the feeling I got when "Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On" came through that old Bush radio. Perhaps it was the excitement of being young, but I suspect it was also the anticipation. I knew exactly what I was waiting for, and when those notes finally came through, it felt like an occasion.

We have made life wonderfully convenient. Music, like almost everything else, is available at the touch of a button. But perhaps there is a small price to pay when we no longer have to look forward to things. We get what we want immediately, but sometimes miss the pleasure of waiting for it.

If I could go back for just one morning, I'd do exactly what I used to do. Make a cup of tea, take the Bush radio outside, put it on the stool and tune in. And if Jerry Lee Lewis came on, I'd turn up the volume. Some neighbours might not appreciate it, but I doubt I'd be too concerned!

#MorningReflection #MusicMemories #WholeLottaShakinGoinOn #JerryLeeLewis #ElvisPresley #AllahabadMemories #GrowingUpInIndia #NeverTooOldToRockAndRoll

 

The Tyranny of Small Decisions

Big problems often begin with small things we choose to ignore.

Over the years, I've often wondered how people reach a point in life they would never have imagined for themselves. Someone who once had a good job, a family and a reasonably settled life suddenly finds themselves drinking too much, deep in debt, out of work and facing the breakdown of a marriage. How did things get so bad? I doubt they ever set out to reach this point. Like most of us, they probably wanted a happy family, a decent life and a little security.

When you look back, it is rarely one big decision that gets someone there. More often, it is a series of smaller ones, each seeming harmless enough at the time, but gradually taking them in the wrong direction.

It doesn't happen overnight. It might start with one extra drink, another evening out with friends, another swipe of the credit card because the bill isn't due until next month, or an argument at home that we keep putting off. I've seen substance abuse gradually take hold until someone loses their job. I've also seen family disagreements, left unresolved, grow into something that eventually tears a family apart. The difficulty is that we don't always recognise what is happening. We tell ourselves it's only one more drink, one more purchase or just another argument. Before long, what was occasional becomes routine.

Of course, there are all sorts of reasons why people get into these situations. It could be pressure from society, expectations within the family, financial difficulties or, sometimes, simply having more money than they know how to manage. Life doesn't treat everyone kindly, and I don't think we should be quick to judge. But understanding why someone has got into difficulty is not the same as saying that their choices don't matter. At some point, each of us has to take responsibility for the direction our lives are taking.

Money is a good example. Debt can happen to anyone, perhaps through losing a job, an unexpected expense or a hospital bill. But sometimes it begins with a dinner out, a new gadget or something on sale that we didn't really need. When I was growing up, we called it keeping up with the Joneses. It meant trying to live like the neighbour without necessarily earning what the neighbour earned. We see what others buy, but rarely what they owe. Keeping up appearances can turn out to be a rather expensive exercise.

I think we make a similar mistake with children, and here parents have a particularly important role. A child makes a small mistake and we let it pass. Homework isn't done, there is some rudeness or trouble with another child. When the school raises a concern, it is sometimes easier to blame the teacher, question the school's approach or suggest that the other children are responsible. We tell ourselves they will grow out of it. Perhaps they will, but perhaps they won't. Children learn from what we allow as much as from what we teach. A little attention to these things early on can save a great deal of heartache later.

What I find interesting is that we often know when something isn't quite right. We see the signs, but somehow convince ourselves that things will sort themselves out. It is rather like walking along a railway track with our eyes closed, hoping no train will come, when we know ten trains pass every day. And this happens to sensible, educated people too, including those who are perfectly capable of giving everyone else sound advice. When it comes to our own lives, however, common sense occasionally takes an unexpected holiday.

Perhaps it is worth stopping every now and then and asking ourselves a simple question: if I carry on like this, where am I likely to be a year from now? It might mean putting a limit on the credit card, having that difficult conversation at home or admitting to someone we trust that we need help. There is no shame in doing any of these things. Pride can sometimes prevent us from taking the very steps that could make things better. And when drinking, debt or another difficulty has taken hold, seeking professional help is not a sign of weakness.

The good news is that this works both ways. Small, sensible decisions can also have a lasting impact. Paying a bill on time, having an honest conversation, spending a little more time with the children or resisting a habit we know isn't good for us may not seem particularly significant. But they count.

Perhaps we should pay a little more attention to the small decisions we make every day. We tend to think that the big events in our lives determine where we end up. Sometimes they do. But quite often, it is the little things we repeatedly do, or choose not to do, that get us there. And by the time we notice, we may have travelled a rather long way in the wrong direction.

 

The Art of Saying Sorry

An apology costs nothing, yet the reluctance to offer one can sometimes cost us far more.

When did someone last make you feel belittled, dismissed or deeply offended? Perhaps it was a sharp remark, an insensitive response or an occasion when someone treated you with little consideration. Did it stay with you? And if that person had sincerely apologised, would it have made a difference?

Now turn the question around. When did you last make someone feel belittled, dismissed or upset? Did you recognise the impact of your words or behaviour? And did you apologise?

We are quick to remember when others have wronged us, but less ready to recognise our own part. Most of us have a fairly healthy opinion of ourselves. We consider ourselves intelligent, capable and good judges of people. Some of us even behave as though the world would struggle without our contribution. Admitting that we are wrong does not always come easily.

We can cause distress in the most ordinary situations: at home, at work, in a shop or on the road. It could be a sharp remark, an impatient gesture, a glare or simply turning away. We may regard it as a passing irritation. The person on the receiving end may remember it for much longer.

We can be particularly inconsiderate towards those who are less powerful and unlikely to answer back: a junior colleague, a driver or a service employee. Then there are those closest to us. Spouses, children, parents and siblings often receive our sharpest words. We assume they know we love them and will understand. But familiarity is no excuse for taking their feelings for granted.

Technology has made it easier to distance ourselves from the impact of our words. We send a curt WhatsApp message or email, feel we have made our point and move on. A message takes seconds to send; the emotional impact can last much longer.

I feel strongly about this because I remember, from a few decades ago, people being rude or abrupt with me, pushing me aside or making me feel small. What stayed with me was not just what happened, but the absence of an apology. Some incidents weighed on me for months, affected my peace of mind and, at times, my health. I still wonder why they behaved that way. Was it indifference, a sense of superiority or simply an inability to recognise the distress they had caused? Even today, remembering some of those incidents can make me angry.

Some of those people are no longer with us. I do not say this to reopen old wounds, but sometimes I find myself thinking how much a simple apology would have meant.

Those memories have made me more conscious of my own behaviour. I have not always got it right. There have been occasions when I have been abrupt and later realised that I should have handled things differently. I have gone back and said, "Listen, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have spoken to you like that. I was under pressure, but that is no excuse."

I have seen the relief on the other person's face, particularly when that person reports to me. A sharp remark from a senior colleague can leave someone anxious or unsure of where they stand. A sincere apology can lift a weight we may not even realise we have placed on someone. Seeing that person relax is reward enough.

This is why I believe we must teach children to apologise from an early age. I remember my mother telling me, when I was a tiny tot, "Say sorry." She would say it with the authority that parents perhaps exercised more freely in those days. Those two words have stayed with me all my life. As I think of her, particularly around her birthday, I am reminded of how some of the simplest lessons taught by our parents leave the deepest impressions.

The lesson begins at home, with mothers, fathers and grandparents. We have all seen little children snatching toys, throwing things at someone, hitting their parents, pulling someone's dress or tugging at another child's hair. Most of us probably did similar things when we were young. There is often something amusing about a toddler's mischief, and adults sometimes smile, laugh and let it pass. After all, they are only children.

But these are precisely the moments when children begin learning what is acceptable and what is not. We should not expect them to understand everything immediately, but we should gently explain when their behaviour has caused distress or embarrassment to someone else. They need to learn that other people have feelings, that actions have consequences and that an apology is sometimes necessary.

Saying sorry should not simply be a word repeated because an adult demands it. Children need to understand why their behaviour was inappropriate and learn to take responsibility. The intention is not to make them afraid of making mistakes, but to help them recognise when they are wrong and put things right.

Schools, too, can reinforce what is taught at home. I would like every school to set aside an hour, perhaps once a term, for an open discussion about apologising. In a class of 30, children could talk about occasions when they have been belittled, received an apology or found it difficult to say sorry. If even five leave that session thinking differently about how they treat others, the hour will have been well spent. They may carry that lesson into their adult lives.

Of course, an apology must be genuine. It cannot be a convenient way of escaping responsibility, particularly if the same behaviour continues. Nor does saying sorry guarantee forgiveness. That is for the other person to decide. But acknowledging that we have caused distress or offended someone is an important first step.

Is there someone you owe an apology to? It may be worth putting aside your pride and making that call. Anyone can insist on having the last word. It takes rather more character to go back and say, "I'm sorry."

 

Leadership Is Measured in Moments, Not Meetings

Those who know me professionally will probably not be surprised to hear that I have never been particularly enthusiastic about meetings! This is a personal quirk, shared entirely in jest, and certainly not a reflection on my current role, the organisation I work for or any of the schools I have had the privilege of working with. I have been fortunate to work alongside wonderful colleagues and teams, and I fully appreciate the importance of discussion, collaboration and collective decision-making.

Over the years, when asked what I enjoy most about my work, my answers have been remarkably consistent: being in classrooms, talking to children and watching teachers and pupils interact. I particularly enjoy seeing good teaching in action, the curiosity of children, the exchange of ideas and those moments when learning comes alive. Raising standards, attending school functions, mentoring staff, developing future leaders and being involved in the many things that make a school tick have always given me enormous satisfaction.

I also thrive on challenging situations, particularly those that require me to think deeply, consider different perspectives and work towards a solution. There is something immensely satisfying about tackling a complex problem and finding a way forward.

This certainly doesn't mean I am a loner or someone who prefers working in isolation. Quite the opposite. I believe strongly in delegation, sharing responsibility, listening to different viewpoints and encouraging healthy debate. Good leadership is about bringing people together, drawing on their collective experience and creating the conditions in which the best ideas can emerge.

I recognise that meetings are an important part of this process. They allow us to exchange ideas, challenge thinking and arrive at decisions. However, I suspect most of us have occasionally sat through one that could have been considerably shorter, or perhaps replaced by a brief email. And then comes the familiar suggestion: "Let's arrange another meeting to take this forward!"

I must confess that I have developed quite an appreciation for online meetings. They are convenient, save valuable time and allow us to connect and exchange ideas without the logistics of travelling between locations. That's technology working exactly as it should!

And while we are on the subject, PowerPoint presentations deserve a mention too! They certainly have their place, particularly when presenting data and complex information. However, even a relatively straightforward discussion can sometimes be accompanied by an impressive number of slides, colourful graphs, bar charts and arrows pointing in every conceivable direction! There is, of course, value in a well-prepared presentation, but perhaps we should occasionally remind ourselves that the real strength lies not in the number of slides, but in the clarity of the message.

Having spent much of my professional life in education, I have always believed that some of the most meaningful aspects of leadership happen away from the meeting room: encouraging a teacher, listening to a child, supporting a principal through a difficult decision or helping a colleague discover their potential. These moments may never appear on an agenda or feature in the minutes, but they can make a lasting difference.

Perhaps we should occasionally measure our leadership not by the number of meetings we attend, but by the difference we make through the people we lead and the decisions we take.

After all, leadership is measured in moments, not meetings.

 

The Perils of Being Too Agreeable

Why the desire not to offend can stop us from speaking our minds.

I sometimes wonder how many people in meetings and everyday conversations nod in agreement when, deep down, they think quite differently. They listen, smile and endorse an idea, not because they agree, but because they do not want to offend the person putting it forward. They would rather keep their reservations to themselves than risk an awkward moment or being seen as argumentative.

There is nothing wrong with being considerate. But when does politeness come at the expense of honesty?

I have never believed in disagreeing simply to make a point. Equally, I do not believe that getting along with someone requires me to agree with everything they say. If I think something does not make sense, I would rather say so politely than sit through a meeting nodding and later wonder how we arrived at such a decision. I have been wrong, and I have changed my mind. But a sensible disagreement is far more useful than an agreement nobody really means.

Mind you, there is another kind of person altogether. We have all met them, at committee meetings, family gatherings or on the odd WhatsApp group. They disagree with everything, and not because they have thought about it. Fix the date and they want it a week later. Fix the venue and they know a better one. And if you finally say, “All right, let’s do it your way,” they look almost disappointed, because the argument was what they were enjoying. It has little to do with the idea and a great deal to do with being heard, and a healthy dose of self-importance usually comes along with it. I have scratched my head more than once and felt like saying, “Give us a break!”

But they are not who I am writing about. I am thinking of the quiet, thoughtful ones who keep a worthwhile view to themselves.

Many people have told me about meetings where everyone agrees, heads nod and nobody seems to disagree with anything! There is a term for this: groupthink, where the desire for consensus discourages independent thinking. Does everyone genuinely agree, or does nobody want to spoil the party? To be clear, none of this is about any one organisation. It is what I have heard people talk about, and what I have seen over a long career.

Years ago, I worked with a gentleman who taught me something about this. He was a very decent person, mature and sensible, with a sharp mind. In meetings he was polite, listened quietly and stayed non-committal. He never pretended to agree. But later he would come to see me and tell me, quite clearly, that he did not agree, and explain why. He never pushed me to change anything. He made his point and left the decision to me.

I admired him for it. He was not frightened to speak his mind, but he understood that a roomful of people is not always the place to tell someone they have got it wrong. So he found the midway. He did not embarrass me, and he did not stay silent. When I rethought the decision, as I often did, he was very often right.

He was also the first to say that this was the next best thing, and that it would have been better said in the room. That made me think. Perhaps I had not given him the opportunity. It was a lesson in leadership for me, to be a little softer and make it easier for people to speak. I wonder how many good ideas I missed from people who never came to see me afterwards.

I am not suggesting we challenge every decision or turn every meeting into a debating society. But there is a difference between choosing not to speak and being afraid to speak.

This is why I feel strongly about how we bring up our children. Many of us grew up hearing, “Children should be seen and not heard.” A child who asked why was quickly labelled cheeky. Thankfully, we have moved on. Today we make sure children speak out, debate and clarify their doubts, and all educators know that silencing a child for asking questions is a problem. Teach them to support their arguments and to recognise when someone else has made a better case. Changing your mind when presented with a convincing argument is not weakness. It shows you were listening. Respect for elders and teachers remains important, but it should never be confused with unquestioning agreement.

And when these children enter the workplace, I hope they carry that confidence with them. Listen to those with more experience, but do not assume seniority makes someone right, or that being junior means you have nothing to contribute. Humility is admirable; making yourself invisible is not.

I will not pretend this is easy, especially when the other person is senior. It takes courage, and while speaking up sounds straightforward in principle, putting it into practice can be quite another matter. Much depends on the person listening and how they respond. If speaking up in front of everyone is too difficult, do what my colleague did and approach the person afterwards. It is still better than saying nothing. You do not have to win every argument. But if you believe something needs to be said, say it thoughtfully and with good reason.

I would much rather be known as someone who can be reasoned with than someone who can be persuaded to agree with absolutely anything.

Being pleasant and being agreeable are not the same thing. You can respect people, value relationships and still have the courage to say, politely, “I don't quite agree.”

A cup of tea please

 Morning reflection 

A SIMPLE CUP OF TEA, PLEASE!

Early morning is probably my favourite time of the day. The world is still quiet, the phone hasn't started demanding attention, and I can enjoy one of life's simple pleasures: a good cup of tea.

Now, I am quite particular about my tea. Nothing complicated. Tea leaves or a good old tea bag, plenty of hot water and just a little milk. And when I say a little, I mean a quarter teaspoon. Half a teaspoon, if I'm feeling particularly generous!

But I have noticed that people have some rather interesting ideas about how tea should be made.

Take the milk brigade, for instance. They pour in so much milk that the tea turns almost white. In fact, there is so little tea in it that I sometimes wonder whether the milk was introduced to the tea or the tea was merely invited to join the milk!

And then there is the other category. The spice brigade.

Cardamom, cinnamon, cloves, ginger, black pepper, star anise, fennel, nutmeg and goodness knows what else. The entire contents of a spice cupboard seem to find their way into one saucepan.

And then comes the performance. Boil, strain, boil again, strain again. Add a little more ginger, perhaps another cardamom pod. By the time they are finished, I am not sure whether I am being offered a cup of tea or a bowl of curry!

Honestly, whatever happened to tea being just tea?

I have nothing against people enjoying their tea however they like. To each his own. But surely there is something to be said for keeping things simple.

Tea should taste of tea. It should have a little strength, a lovely colour, a proper aroma and perhaps the tiniest suggestion of milk.

That's it. No elaborate recipes, no spice exhibitions and certainly no need to put the saucepan through an endurance test.

I shall continue to enjoy my uncomplicated cup of tea.

And to those who prefer theirs with half a dairy farm or the contents of an entire spice market, please carry on. Just don't ask me to join you!

Some things in life are best left alone. A good cup of tea is one of them.