It's Not About Caring More

Kindness, empathy, compassion, helpfulness and softness are different responses. Understanding them can make us better leaders.

Have you ever walked away from a conversation thinking, I meant well, but somehow I didn't help?

Most of us have.

We listened. We reassured. We offered advice. We genuinely wanted to make a difference. Yet we were left with the uncomfortable feeling that, despite our best intentions, we had somehow missed the mark.

Why does that happen?

English is a wonderfully nuanced language. Words such as kindness, empathy, compassion, helpfulness and softness often seem interchangeable, yet each carries a different meaning. But this isn't really about language.

It's about people.

These qualities are different ways of responding to another human being. The real challenge is not understanding the words. It is recognising which response the moment calls for. That, perhaps, is one of life's most underrated skills.

When I first stepped into leadership, I thought having the answer was part of the job. Looking back, I realise people were often looking for something else. Some needed encouragement. Others needed someone to listen. A few simply needed to know they weren't facing the situation alone. That lesson took me years to learn.

Kindness is often our first instinct. A smile, a thoughtful message, a patient conversation or simply giving someone our time can change the course of an ordinary day. It reminds people that they matter.

But there are moments when kindness alone isn't enough.

Someone carrying disappointment, anxiety or grief may not want reassurance or advice. They simply want to know that someone understands. Seeing the world through another person's eyes without rushing to fix it is one of the hardest things we are ever asked to do. Yet it is often the greatest gift we can offer.

There are also times when understanding must lead to action.

Recognising another person's struggle is one thing; deciding to ease it is another. Compassion quietly turns concern into action, often through the smallest of gestures—a phone call, a visit, a helping hand or simply being present.

Helpfulness has its place too, but it requires judgement. Solving every problem for someone else can quietly rob them of the confidence that comes from solving it themselves. The best help builds capability.

Then there is softness, perhaps the most misunderstood quality of all.

A gentle approach is often mistaken for weakness, while firmness is mistaken for strength. Yet during my years in education, I have known exceptional leaders who rarely raised their voices. Their calmness was not hesitation. Their gentleness reflected quiet confidence. They listened more than they spoke. They corrected without humiliating. They were firm without being harsh. Their authority came from character, not volume.

Equally, I have known leaders who were direct and decisive, yet deeply kind and compassionate. Style and substance are not the same thing.

Over the years, one lesson has become increasingly clear. The finest leaders do not succeed because they possess more admirable qualities than everyone else. They succeed because they recognise what each person and each situation call for.

The mistake is rarely that we don't care. More often, we offer the response that comes most naturally to us, rather than the one the other person actually needs.

Leadership is not measured by how much we care.

It is measured by whether we recognise what another person needs from us.

The finest leaders know the difference.

On having difficult conversations

 Reflections on feedback, trust, and the discipline of speaking honestly in leadership

The hardest conversations in leadership are rarely about what is being said. They are about what has already been indefinitely delayed.

I’ve worked in leadership for over 40 years and if there is one lesson that endures, it is this: most leadership failures are not failures of systems, but of conversation—things left unsaid until they become heavier than they needed to be.

Giving honest feedback is never easy. It must be polite and it must be diplomatic, but it also has to be direct. Say it plainly, without circling it, without softening it into ambiguity, and without stretching it beyond what is necessary. Clarity is the aim, delivered with respect, and brought to a proper close.

In my early years, I was very careful not to upset people or rock the boat. many were older and more experienced than me. Looking back, I can see how that sometimes delayed conversations that should have happened earlier. What I have learned since is simple: what you avoid does not disappear. It accumulates.

“What you avoid does not disappear. It accumulates.”

I have not had many of these conversations, but a few stay with me—not because of their frequency, but because of what they revealed. More often than not, they were with people I worked closely with every day. That is what makes them difficult. Not only the issue itself, but the weight of the relationship around it.

And yet the question remains—how do you tell someone they are underperforming, disengaged, or affecting others, when there is history, trust, and shared work between you? It is not only about language. It is about holding a tension between honesty and care, between standards and relationships. That is where leadership is most exposed.

In any organization, these issues rarely remain contained. Left alone, they do not declare themselves; they spread quietly. Standards drift, trust thins, and culture changes slowly, often without a clear moment of origin.

Handled well, these conversations do something simple but essential: they restore clarity, and clarity, in any organization, is a form of respect. One of the harder lessons in leadership is this: people can tolerate discomfort, but they struggle with uncertainty. What is left unsaid does not vanish; it reappears elsewhere as frustration, withdrawal, or decline in standards and we all know what that can lead to. .

Over the years, I have had to give difficult feedback, including formal warnings, to people I genuinely valued. In some cases, those relationships not only held—they matured. But only when the conversation was honest and without aggression, firm without ego, and focused on behaviour rather than personality. That distinction matters. You are not defining the person. You are addressing what needs to change. And once it is said, it should be left there.

I have often shared a cup of tea afterwards with the same colleague, talking about everything except what was just discussed. That matters more than it sounds. It restores normality and separates correction from rejection.

Much of this also comes down to credibility. People do not reject feedback easily; they reject inconsistency. So the question is always present: are you fair, are you steady, do your standards shift depending on the person or the moment? Trust is built long before the conversation begins.

Feedback is never only about words. It is tone, body language , facial expression, timing, restraint, and presence. I have seen conversations fail because they were delivered in frustration, and I have seen difficult truths accepted because they were delivered calmly, without ego.

The principle is simple, though never easy: be clear, be specific, be human. If someone is repeatedly late, say it. If they are disengaged, name what you observe. If behaviour is affecting others, do not blur it into language that removes meaning. People can only respond to what is real. But we must always remember that clarity does not require force.

I once had to tell a colleague—someone I genuinely liked—that their attitude was affecting the team. It was direct, but not personal. A few weeks later, the change was visible not only in behaviour, but in atmosphere. On another occasion, I spoke to a leader whose disengagement had become visible over time. When the focus shifted from identity to impact, the response changed quickly.

A few principles have remained constant. Start with shared purpose—you are protecting something, not attacking someone. Be specific, because vagueness creates defensiveness. Stay anchored in behaviour, not character. Allow silence to do its work. And remember that what happens after the conversation matters more than the conversation itself.

So there is something I have often pondered over - Is feedback a science or an art? It is both. The science explains how people respond to clarity and threat. The art is judgement—when to speak, how to say it, and when to stop.

But the real discipline is restraint, knowing when to speak and when not to overstate what has already been said. These conversations are never comfortable, but discomfort is not the problem—avoidance is.

In the end, this is not separate from leadership; it is leadership. And perhaps the real test is not whether you can have the conversation, but whether trust remains afterwards.

omfortable, but discomfort is not the problem—avoidance is.

In the end, this is not separate from leadership; it is leadership. And perhaps the real test is not whether you can have the conversation, but whether trust remains afterwards.

Say what needs to be said. Say it clearly, and with care. Then leave it there.

Say what needs to be said. Say it clearly, and with care. Then leave it there.

Who owns the first hour

 Here is your final full LinkedIn article with the chosen closing line integrated cleanly:

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Who owns the first hour?

I often think about this early in the morning, before the day starts asking for attention. Before messages, before noise, before everything starts pulling at you.

I wake at five. Not by design—it just became my rhythm over the years. My mother was the same, already awake, moving quietly through the house, like the morning belonged to her before anyone else showed up.

That time feels different. The world hasn’t fully started yet, everything is slower, less crowded, and there is a kind of stillness you don’t really get later in the day.

I make tea and just stand there for a bit, no phone, no messages, no noise. My cat comes and settles beside me like she’s always been part of that hour. The house feels calm in a way that is hard to explain.

Sometimes my mind drifts without effort—childhood mornings, old friends, the games we played, things that felt so large back then but now just sit quietly in memory.

It reminds me how attention used to feel, not something you managed, just something that was there.

And how easily that has changed.

If I pick up the phone first, the day breaks into pieces immediately. Messages, emails, urgency that doesn’t really belong to me but still takes over. I see the same thing in work too—people walking into meetings already divided in their attention, physically present but not fully there.

We talk a lot about productivity, but much less about attention, even though attention is what actually shapes the quality of everything else.

We are not short of time. We are short of attention.

If I leave the phone alone, even for a while, the day begins differently. Thoughts return at their own pace. I notice more. I think more clearly. I feel more present in what I am doing. It is a small shift, but it changes the tone of everything that follows.

I am trying, in my own way, to write more and react less.

Because when attention is divided, thinking becomes thin. When it is steady, thinking has space.

These days, being present is not automatic anymore. It is something you choose.

That first hour is just a reminder of that.

Not to do more.

Just to actually be there when life begins.

Who owns your first hour—you or the world?

The lizard drama

 

The Great Lizard Drama of This Morning

There are a few things that make me uncomfortable. One of them is lizards.

When I was a young boy, there was an old saying that if you saw a lizard with two tails, it brought good luck. I remember finding what looked like two tiny lizard tails in a plastic bag somewhere in the house and being convinced my fortune had arrived. It didn't, but that's another story.

This morning, Chanel the cat was behaving very strangely. She was mewing, stamping her paws, jumping around and generally acting as if she had discovered something important.

Then I saw it.

On our cream carpet was a tiny baby lizard, almost exactly the same colour as the carpet. It had no tail and was still wriggling.

The moment I spotted it, my blood ran cold.

Now, all thoughts of kindness, conservation and wildlife appreciation disappeared instantly. My only thought was: that thing has to go.

I went looking for a broom.

No broom.

I looked everywhere.

Still no broom.

Meanwhile Chanel was hovering over the lizard like a security guard protecting valuable property.

Eventually I found one of those long-handled dust pickers. It wasn't what I wanted, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

First job: remove the cat.

This turned out to be more difficult than removing the lizard.

Chanel had decided that the lizard belonged to her and she was not giving it up without a fight. She was hissing, swiping, trying to claw me and generally behaving like a tiny tiger defending its territory.

Thankfully, Chanel is a small cat and I am considerably larger.

After a brief struggle involving some water spray, a lot of indignation from Chanel and a complete breakdown in our relationship, I managed to overpower her and move her to a safe distance.

She sat there glaring at me as if she was already planning revenge.

Only then could I turn my attention to the actual problem.

The lizard.

Or, as it had become by then in my imagination, a fully grown crocodile.

Then the real performance began.

I jumped onto the sofa.

Peered behind the sofa.

Jumped off the sofa.

Pulled the sofa out.

Nearly pulled a muscle in my back.

Jumped back onto the sofa.

Poked underneath with the long stick.

Retreated.

Advanced.

Retreated again.

If anyone had been watching through the window, they would have seen an elderly man repeatedly climbing on furniture, waving a stick around and looking mildly unwell.

After much effort, heavy breathing and a surprising amount of furniture rearranging, the battle finally ended.

The lizard was gone.

I stood there exhausted, breathing like I had just completed a marathon.

Chanel sat nearby watching the whole thing, probably wondering why I had taken over a job she was handling perfectly well.

So that was my morning.

Some people start the day with coffee.

Some go for a walk.

I spent mine conducting a military operation against a baby lizard, wrestling a furious cat, rearranging the furniture and nearly needing a chiropractor afterwards.

A perfectly normal start to the day. 😄

Boarders in school are always hungry

 “The 9 O’Clock Knock: Boarding Life, Hunger, and the Art of Finding Food”

Memories from The Bishop’s School, Pune, where boys were always active, always hungry, and somehow always fed

A quarter of a century has passed, but somehow it still feels like yesterday for me.

Those were the days at The Bishop’s School, Pune – the boarding years from the mid-80s through to 2000 – when life on campus moved with a simple, steady rhythm that only really makes sense when you look back.

I stayed in the staff quarters in Lunn Block and later in Simba Block. Both homes were beside the dormitory, with the house door and dormitory door very close to each other, so you were constantly part of what was happening inside. You could see it, hear it, and feel it all the time, and that closeness also meant responsibility never really switched off – discipline, safety, routine, and everything that went on in the dormitory. In both places, I was the dormitory in-charge as well.

In Lunn, the middle school dormitory had around thirty-five to fifty boys, while Simba had a similar number of senior boys. Lunn was younger and more restless, always on the move, while Simba was older and more settled, with head boy, prefects, and senior prefects forming the structure of order and daily life.

Life was always active, with hockey, badminton, volleyball, table tennis, boxing, and football filling the days as boys moved from one game to another with endless energy. Even when formal games ended, that movement never really stopped, as if the day itself was not ready to slow down.

Then night would settle.

And with it came a familiar pattern.

Hunger.

Not something dramatic, just that steady feeling after long days of study, sport, and routine, when supper was done, lights were dim, and yet the day still felt unfinished for many of them.

And then came the knock.

Soft, hesitant, never rushed.

My wife would usually go to the door, and there would be a boy standing there, sometimes alone, sometimes with another, speaking softly: “Ma’am… can I have some coffee or milk?”

Then slowly the rest would come out – bread, butter, eggs, Maggie noodles – simple things, never demanded, just what was needed to get through the night or a long stretch of study.

It became a rhythm, especially during exams, when sleep was pushed late and the dormitory had already gone quiet. The knock would come again and again through those nights, always soft, always familiar.

And somehow, there was always something – bread, butter, a warm drink, an egg quickly made – enough to carry them through the night into morning.

It was never only in our home. Across The Bishop’s School, Pune, in staff quarters close to the dormitories, the same thing happened again and again. Different blocks, different doors, but the same exchanges – the same knock, the same soft voice, the same simple request. It was simply part of boarding life then, unspoken but understood everywhere on campus.

Somehow, we always felt a quiet sympathy for the boarders, because life in a boarding school was never easy. There were cold winter mornings when geysers didn’t work and baths still had to be taken, hot days in dormitories without fans in those years, constant movement between games, study, and routine, and all the small things boys had to manage on their own. Above all, there was the distance from home – for many, just two visits a year, sometimes even less.

Life in boarding was tough, but within that toughness there was something deeply human. Those of us who lived on campus – masters, teachers, and families – shared a close bond with the boys. It was not formal, but lived every day through presence, familiarity, and small acts of care, and over time it became mutual respect and, quietly, affection.

We knew the boys well over the years, many from their earliest days right through to Grade 10. We knew their families, their strengths, their habits – who ran hardest on the field, who lived for hockey or badminton or volleyball, who spent hours at table tennis, who took to boxing with focus, who never missed a football game – and we also knew the steady ones, the restless ones, and those still finding their way.

They grew up in front of us, slowly and without drama, until one day you realised they were no longer children.

Many are still in touch with me, and I have met them in different cities across the world. Each meeting brings those days back for a moment – the dormitories, the fields, the routines, and those quiet evenings – and although time has changed their faces, it has not changed the connection.

Looking back, what remains is not any single moment, but the feeling of it all – the closeness, the shared responsibility, and the everyday humanity of that life.

Simple days. Full days. Real days.

And in those soft knocks on the door, there was a quiet trust that never needed words, and somehow still lingers to this day.

A few Modest Requirements for food bloggers

 

A Few Modest Requirements for Food Bloggers

I've been watching food bloggers for some time now and have concluded that there should be a few minimum qualifications before anyone is allowed near a camera and a plate of food.

1. Have Some Idea How Food Is Cooked

You don't need to be a chef with a Michelin star, but a basic understanding of cooking would help. Anyone who cooks regularly can tell within thirty seconds, whether you know what you're talking about or not.

2. Learn to Pronounce What You're Eating

If there's something on the menu you can't pronounce, look it up. We live in an age where AI can answer almost any question. Surely it can help you not mispronounce the name of the dish you've just ordered.

3. Taste It Before Declaring It Life-Changing

The food arrives. The camera appears. The gasping begins.

"Oh my God!" "Wow!" "Incredible!"

But the fork is still on the table. Please taste it first.

4. Not Every Restaurant Is a Hidden Gem

If it has three branches, valet parking and thousands of online reviews, it is certainly not a hidden gem. Maybe you have just heard about it,

5. Everything Cannot Be the Best

Every burger cannot be the best burger in town. Every dessert cannot be insane. Sometimes food is simply good. Try and be honest – its not too difficult

And finally, remember what you're doing. You're eating a nice burger- that’s it

But it’s still a burger and it’s not going to make a difference to humanity.  

(With apologies to all food bloggers. Well... most food bloggers.)

Do you remember when it rained

 

Do You Remember When It Rained?

A memory of rain across places and time

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As a young child in Allahabad, rain was mostly something to worry about.

It usually began with the sky changing early in the morning—dark clouds gathering low and heavy, making the day feel uncertain before anything had actually happened. I used to go to school by rickshaw, watching the sky and trying to read it.

Because the concern was simple. If it rained, the rickshaw might not come back. If it didn’t, I might be stuck at school. And in childhood thinking, that wasn’t inconvenience—it was being left behind in a large, dark school with no food, no water, and the occasional imagined ghost moving through empty corridors.

Even before the rain came, the sky kept us busy. Clouds became animals, faces, shifting shapes that never stayed still for long. As children, we pointed, argued, corrected each other, watched them form and disappear within minutes. A daily argument with the sky.

Then the rain arrived.

In India, rain did not just fall—it changed the day. When it came heavily, people gathered under trees, bus stops, tin roofs, anywhere with cover. But what stood out was not shelter. It was waiting.

Nobody really left. Minutes stretched without noticing. And waiting became normal.

Even then, nothing really stopped. People kept looking up, reading the sky, offering predictions. Someone said it would pass. Someone disagreed. Someone else studied the clouds as if they knew better. Nobody was certain, but everyone spoke.

In that waiting, strangers became briefly familiar.

Tea and coffee appeared—small, strong cups passed around, heat cutting through the damp air. And then bhajiyas or pakoras.

Potatoes, onions, chillies in spiced gram flour, fried crisp at the edges. Nothing special otherwise. In rain, they felt necessary.

School days had their own rain stories. The “rainy day holiday” was never official—just something that spread faster than fact. You would be on your way when boys cycled back shouting, “It is a holiday!”

And the day split. Turn back and risk being wrong. Continue and risk being alone in school. The ones announcing it always looked pleased, as if they had found a shortcut in the system.

In boarding school in Pune, rain often arrived with returning students—trains, heavy trunks, tired faces—and then, almost immediately, the rain itself. Arriving soaked stays with you longer than the journey: clothes that never fully dry, socks that stay cold, a dampness that seems to settle into the place.

And yet rain was never the same everywhere.

In the UAE, it interrupts rather than disrupts. Children run into it shouting, as if something rare has arrived. Even adults pause longer than they expect to, looking up as rain briefly changes the rhythm of the day.

Of course, here too, rain can become serious. Heavy downpours once turned roads into channels and underpasses into pools, stopping movement in places that usually never stop.

And still, it feels familiar in a way that is hard to explain.

Because somewhere in it is the same moment—standing still, waiting, looking up, not quite sure when it will pass.

The same rain. The same pause. Just different places.