When the Rains Take Me Home

When the Rains Take Me Home

From rainy-day holidays and muddy football fields to floods and leaking dormitory roofs, rain still takes me back to childhood.

Of all the seasons, which one do you love most?

Some people wait for winter and its cooler days; others love summer and sunshine. I have never had to think too hard about it. For me, it has always been the rains.

Recently, I read in the newspapers that rain was expected in the UAE. It immediately caught my attention and, since then, I have found myself looking at the sky more often. It also made me wonder why the prospect of rain still excites me so much. The answer, I suspect, lies in childhood.

Memory works in strange ways. A song, a familiar smell or an old photograph can suddenly carry us back years. For me, rain does that. The sight of black clouds gathering, the wind picking up, trees beginning to sway and that first distant rumble of thunder are enough. Before the rain has even fallen, I am back in Allahabad.

After the fierce summer heat, we waited eagerly for the monsoon. You didn't need a weather forecast to know it was coming. The afternoon would darken as great black clouds gathered overhead, dust swirled along the roads and trees that had stood almost motionless in the heat began to sway. Birds grew restless before flying off to shelter, while dogs searched for a dry corner.

People knew what was coming too. Roadside sellers hurriedly packed away their goods, raincoats and capes of every colour and shape appeared, children pulled on gumboots and umbrellas opened everywhere. Strong gusts turned some umbrellas inside out and occasionally one escaped altogether, leaving its unfortunate owner chasing it down the road.

Then came the thunder and lightning, followed by those first large drops, and within moments the rain was belting down. While everyone else ran for shelter, we children naturally did exactly the opposite and ran out into it.

There was a firm belief that bathing in the first rain cured prickly heat. I have no idea who established this medical theory, but we accepted it without question. Any treatment requiring a small boy to get thoroughly soaked was unlikely to face much opposition from the patient.

Once the monsoon settled in, it brought mosquitoes and floods. However carefully we tucked in our mosquito nets, one mosquito always seemed to find its way inside. The floods were far more serious, filling homes with water and displacing families, although as children we did not fully appreciate the hardship. What we did understand was that whenever there was a flood, everybody went to see it.

People arrived by bicycle, rickshaw and scooter to inspect how far the water had risen and, wherever crowds gathered, sellers appeared with balloons, mangoes, tea and pakoras. On one side were families dealing with flooded homes; a little distance away, children ate pakoras and went round on a tiny merry-go-round. As children, strangely, we saw no contradiction.

But the monsoon offered us an even greater prize: the rainy-day holiday. There were no mobile phones or WhatsApp groups, so if it had poured overnight, you still dressed and set off for school. Somewhere along the road, children would appear coming towards you shouting, “It's a holiday! Rainy-day holiday!”

Nobody asked for official confirmation. When it came to school holidays, we were remarkably trusting.

If school remained open, there was always football. The field became waterlogged and the ball would stop dead in a puddle while the boy chasing it frequently did not. Tackling became almost unnecessary because the mud did much of the work. We returned to class drenched and filthy and sat through lessons in wet clothes and squelching shoes. None of this deterred us; the next time it rained, we did exactly the same thing.

Later, in Pune, the rain followed me. I particularly remember a Sports Day when black clouds gathered and thunder provided ample warning of what was coming, but the principal remained determined to proceed. Barely had the band struck up and the command “By the left, quick march” been given when the storm broke, drenching the boys carrying ribbons and sending the colour from the pom-poms running onto white vests, shorts and faces.

The principal did not look pleased. The clouds had made their point.

Rain also gave new boarders a memorable introduction to school life. You could arrive in pouring rain, lie down in an unfamiliar dormitory and feel a drop land on your forehead. Move the bed and another leak found you, while the senior boys slept peacefully beneath the few dry patches. You learnt quickly that choosing the right bed was one of the more useful lessons boarding school had to offer.

All these years later, I live in Dubai. A couple of years ago, torrential rain flooded roads, closed schools and caused serious disruption. Watching it brought back Allahabad, although I realised I was seeing floods through different eyes. As a child, I wanted to know how far the water had risen and whether we could go and see it. Now I thought of the families affected, the people trying to get home and the disruption left behind when the excitement of the rain had passed. Age does that to you.

And yet, when I read that rain was expected again, I found myself looking upwards.

I no longer have prickly heat and am unlikely to run outside for a rain bath. Football in the mud might also be unwise. Falling down would probably still be easy; getting up may present the greater challenge.

But when the black clouds gather, the wind begins to rise and I hear that first distant rumble of thunder, part of me will be back in Allahabad, waiting to hear those wonderful words:

“It's a holiday! Rainy-day holiday!”

And for a moment, all those years in between will simply disappear.

Are the Choices We Make Really Ours?

Are the Choices We Make Really Ours? Are We Masters of Our Destiny? Am I living the life I genuinely chose, or have I spent so long meeting other people’s expectations that I have mistaken them for my own? It is a question worth asking. We tend to see our lives as the result of our decisions, believing that where we end up is largely in our own hands, yet how much of our journey is really within our control? We do not choose our parents, the family into which we are born or the religion and traditions that shape our early years. Our first school is usually someone else’s decision, and even when we have clear ambitions for a college, profession or position, circumstances can take us in another direction. We may plan our journey, but we cannot always determine where it leads. The same uncertainty extends to our personal lives - We may choose our spouse, but family expectations and practical considerations often influence whom we marry, and we cannot know how a marriage will unfold. Similarly - We have little say in the day we are born or the day we die. Two turning points in my career have often made me reflect on this tension between intention and circumstance. Looking back, I can see how events I would never have chosen shaped my future in ways I could not have anticipated. I left Allahabad following a confrontation with an aggressive pupil and the incident prompted me to move to a boarding school in Pune, something I had wanted for a long time. Although the circumstances were unwelcome, they took me towards an opportunity I had often hoped for. I remained in Pune for twenty years, thirteen of them as Deputy Head. What began as an unexpected disruption became a defining chapter of my professional life. Two decades later, I faced a very different turning point. When the Principal’s post became available in Pune, I believed I was ready for the responsibility. I had worked towards it for years and felt I had earned the opportunity, but the management chose someone else. I was hurt and felt slighted and I will not pretend otherwise. Having invested so much of myself in the school, I had to reconsider what I wanted from the next stage of my career. The contrast between the two experiences was striking. In Allahabad, an unwelcome incident had taken me towards an ambition I had long cherished. In Pune, being passed over for promotion forced me to question whether the future I had envisaged was still the future I wanted. I eventually chose to move to the UAE, where I saw better prospects for my family. The first move brought me closer to a professional ambition; the second required me to let one go and pursue a different future. Had I not left Allahabad, would my career have followed the same path? Had I been appointed Principal in Pune, would I ever have moved to the UAE? There are no answers. Now some would call this fate, others destiny, while some might simply see the unpredictable course of life. Perhaps the events in our lives follow a larger plan; perhaps only hindsight allows us to find a pattern in what once seemed unrelated. What I find particularly interesting is that, although I did not control either turning point, I was not entirely powerless in determining what followed. I could not undo what had happened in Allahabad & Pune, but I could decide how to respond. My career, like many lives, was shaped partly by circumstances and partly by the choices I made in response to them. This raises a broader question. How many of the decisions we regard as our own are actually shaped by influences we have absorbed over a lifetime? We often speak of personal ambition as though it develops in isolation, when our ideas about success, achievement and even happiness may have been formed long before we were old enough to examine them. As children, we absorb our families’ values and expectations, while teachers influence our interests and ambitions. Society has its own ideas about a respectable profession or a successful life. As we grow older, friends, colleagues and employers exert their influence, while family responsibilities can narrow our options. Some influences open doors; others steer us towards paths we might not have chosen for ourselves. Much of this guidance is valuable. A teacher may awaken an interest that shapes a career, a parent can give a child the confidence to try something new, and a mentor may recognize potential we have yet to see and we would be poorer without such encouragement. The difficulty begins when influence becomes expectation and expectation becomes obligation. We want to please our parents, earn our peers’ approval and avoid disappointing those who matter to us. We may choose a profession for prestige or security rather than fulfilment, or remain in a familiar job because change feels too risky or we fear what others might think. Gradually, it becomes difficult to distinguish what we genuinely want from what we have learnt to want. Other people’s expectations become so familiar that we no longer recognize them. We follow a path because it seems natural or respectable, without pausing to ask whether it is truly ours. Does this mean free will is an illusion? I do not believe so. Our choices are shaped by upbringing, opportunities and circumstances, but being influenced is not the same as being powerless. We may not choose the hand we are dealt, but we can sometimes choose how to play it. We can question inherited beliefs, reconsider old ambitions and decide which expectations deserve to guide us. Perhaps we will never know how much of our lives is shaped by choice, chance or destiny. My own experiences have taught me that life rarely unfolds exactly as we imagine, and that a decision made in response to disappointment can prove as consequential as one made in pursuit of an ambition. What matters is not simply what happens to us, but whether we remain willing to think, choose and move forward when circumstances change. Perhaps the real measure of free will is not whether we control everything that happens to us, but whether we have the courage to make our own decisions when the choice is ours. After all, we may not always choose what life brings us, but we should take care not to let others make all our choices for us.

It all starts in Kindergarten

# It All Starts in Kindergarten *Long before exams and results, somebody has to teach a child that school is a safe place. Often, that somebody is a KG teacher.* I can still picture myself as a little boy at St Joseph’s School and College in Allahabad, standing beside a hedge outside the principal’s office and crying because I cannot find my schoolbag. At that age, losing a bag seems like a catastrophe. Father Cyril George, the principal, comes out and asks what is wrong. Between sobs, I tell him, “I have lost my bag.” He takes me by the hand and leads me to my KG teacher, who comforts me until I stop crying before taking me along to search for it. More than half a century later, I can still picture that hedge and remember the kindness of two adults who took the time to help a frightened child. Perhaps that is why I have always felt so strongly about those early years of schooling. Today, I see those years through another lens. My elder granddaughter is in KG, and I love listening to her describe her day and show me her drawings. Her eyes light up as she waits for my reaction, and I make sure she knows how much I appreciate her efforts. What might look like a few coloured lines to an adult represents a real achievement to a young child. She wants someone to stop, look and share her happiness. It is a small reminder of how much encouragement can mean at that age. Children are also far more observant than we sometimes give them credit for. During a school visit, a little boy in the corridor confidently told me that my name was Michael Guzder and that I was the principal. When I asked what he thought I did at work, he informed me that I had no work. His evidence was that I read papers and children brought me sweets on their birthdays. Naturally, I asked what he wanted to be when he grew up. “The principal,” he replied. “Why?” “Because there’s no work and there’s lots of money.” I had no comeback. His answer still makes me smile, but it also illustrates how closely children watch the adults around them. They learn not only from formal lessons but from the way people behave, the attention they receive and how they are treated. We rightly celebrate teachers who prepare students for board examinations and help them achieve strong academic results. Yet long before a child sits an examination, somebody has to help them feel secure enough to learn, confident enough to ask questions and comfortable enough to make mistakes. For many children, that somebody is their KG teacher. The work begins with helping a child settle into school. Some arrive happily, while others cling to a parent or cry at the classroom door. Teachers must reassure them, establish routines and gradually help them discover that school can be an enjoyable place to be. Along the way, children learn to hold a pencil, share toys, take turns, express their feelings and cope with disappointment. When a friendship falls apart over a toy or a child struggles to join an activity, the teacher helps them find a way forward. These everyday encounters are as much a part of growing up as learning letters and numbers. The progress children make over their first year of KG can be astonishing. Think of the child who arrives tearful and reluctant to let go of a parent. By the end of the year, that same child may be chatting confidently with friends, expressing ideas, attempting new tasks and approaching unfamiliar experiences with curiosity. The transformation is remarkable. Behind it lies a great deal of patient, often unseen work. Day after day, the teacher encourages, reassures and celebrates small steps forward until a child who once needed constant support begins to manage independently. Helping young children develop confidence, communication skills and independence within a single year is an extraordinary achievement, deserving far greater recognition than it often receives. Sometimes, the rewards come in the simplest forms: a star in a book, a stamp on the back of a hand, a pat on the shoulder or a cheerful “Well done!” To an adult, these may seem like minor gestures. To a four-year-old, they can mean the world. The child feels noticed, the effort feels worthwhile and the next challenge becomes a little less daunting. That same patience is needed when preparing for KG concerts and sports days. Parents see the children on stage, dressed in their costumes and waving their pom-poms, but may not appreciate the hours of practice behind those few minutes. Getting a hundred or more young children to remember where to stand, when to move and which way to face requires organisation, persistence and a good sense of humour. Simply getting everyone to face the right way deserves an award of its own. And that is only one part of the job. Imagine managing 25 or 30 young children, often with just one assistant. One is crying, another needs the toilet, someone has spilt water and two others are quarrelling over a toy. Meanwhile, a little voice nearby is determined to give the teacher a detailed account of what happened at home that morning. Through it all, the teacher must keep the class engaged, attend to individual needs and ensure everyone is safe. I sometimes hear parents of a single child say, quite sincerely, “I am exhausted. I don’t know how to control him.” I understand their frustration. Looking after a young child can be demanding enough at home, so it is worth considering what a teacher manages with an entire class. Parents naturally want the best for their children. They worry about progress, friendships and whether their child is receiving enough attention. Some want reassurance that their child is keeping up; others have questions about activities or access to facilities. The teacher must listen, address legitimate concerns and explain what is appropriate for children at that stage, while keeping the needs of the whole class in mind. It is a delicate balance. A child who is crying or refusing to join an activity is not necessarily being difficult. They may be frightened, tired, missing home or struggling to express a feeling. Sometimes, the most effective response is to crouch to the child’s eye level, listen patiently and offer reassurance. Once the child feels understood, the tears often subside and curiosity returns. None of this diminishes the contribution of teachers in other phases. Every stage of education matters, and a thoughtful teacher can influence a child’s life at any age. But the early years hold a special place because they shape a child’s first impressions of learning, school and the adults entrusted with their care. I often return in my thoughts to that little boy beside the hedge in Allahabad. Father George took me by the hand and led me to my KG teacher. She comforted me, helped me stop crying and then went with me to look for my bag. I cannot remember what either of them said afterwards, or even whether we found it, but I remember their kindness. That is what makes the work of a KG teacher so important. A moment of reassurance, a word of encouragement or recognition of a small achievement may seem insignificant to the adult offering it. To a child, it can be the difference between feeling frightened and feeling that everything will be all right. Before children learn to read, write or calculate, they need to know that they belong. They need to feel that school is a place where someone will notice when they are unhappy, encourage them when they struggle and celebrate with them when they succeed. I was once that little boy who needed an adult to take him by the hand and lead him to someone who could help. Today, as a grandfather and an educator, I understand more clearly why that simple act of kindness has stayed with me for so long. We may not remember every lesson from our early schooldays, but we can carry the feeling of being cared for throughout our lives. For a KG teacher, helping a child discover that feeling may be one of the most important lessons of all.

Let them tell the story

Let Them Tell the Story Thinking, reading, speaking and writing: four simple habits that last a lifetime. Our two granddaughters, aged five and three, have discovered storytelling. I started them off with a few tales, but they have taken over, and their imagination knows few boundaries. Every story seems to need two children, a grandmother, a wolf and a dark forest, with a cat usually appearing somewhere along the way, followed by thunder, dinosaurs and an angry tiger with large teeth. They provide all the sound effects, while I do my best to look suitably horrified. The plots grow more elaborate with every telling, yet the girls need no prompting to invent characters, add unexpected twists and keep going for as long as I am willing to listen. Watching them, I am reminded of what more than four decades in education have taught me: some of the most valuable learning happens without a lesson plan, a worksheet or a mark. Examinations and qualifications certainly matter, but I have come to value four habits that serve children well long after their schooldays are over: thinking, reading, speaking and writing. They are closely connected, and their foundations can be laid in the simplest ways, often without children even realising they are learning. Room to think We are remarkably good at keeping children occupied. Between school, homework, tuition, sport and other activities, their days can be planned almost to the minute, largely because we want them to have every opportunity to succeed. Yet, in our enthusiasm to prepare them for the future, do we sometimes leave too little room for them simply to be themselves? A child lying on the bed and staring at the ceiling may appear to be doing nothing, but the mind has a life of its own, wandering through memories, revisiting conversations, asking questions and making connections. Not every worthwhile thought arrives in response to a teacher's instruction, and not every quiet moment needs to be filled by an adult. I start my day very early and value the peace before the telephone begins demanding attention. Sometimes I read or attend to work, while on other mornings I simply sit and think; it gives me a chance to put things in perspective before the day gathers pace. Children deserve a little of that freedom, too, without a screen to entertain them or an adult asking what they are doing. And when a thought or a question takes hold, a book can give the mind somewhere to travel. From the bookstall to the debating hall My love of reading began in the 1960s and 1970s, when I would cycle to a second-hand bookstall, borrow a book for next to nothing, finish it and return for another. A good story could keep me occupied for an entire afternoon because I was eager to discover what happened next, and nobody had to persuade me to turn another page. Those books introduced me to unfamiliar places, different people and ideas I might never otherwise have encountered. Reading entertained me, but it also broadened my horizons and gave me things to think about and discuss, which is why I believe children should discover its pleasures before it becomes another school requirement. Let them choose what interests them, read aloud to them when they are young and, just as importantly, let them see you enjoying a book yourself. It is difficult to persuade children that reading is a pleasure when the adults around them cannot put their phones down. Children notice the difference between what we tell them and what we do. Books also give us something to talk about, although having something to say and having the confidence to say it are two different things. I discovered this in Grade 11, when I took part in a debate on ‘Democracy is the best form of government for India’. I did not win, but the experience stayed with me and sparked an interest that continued throughout my life. Later, as an educator, I coached pupils for debates, elocution competitions and public speaking, hoping to give them the same opportunities to discover their voices. One former pupil, who now heads a large firm in India, once told me how much public speaking had helped him throughout his career, crediting his school for nurturing that interest. It was gratifying to know that an experience from his schooldays had remained useful so many years later. A child need not win a competition to benefit from speaking in public; learning to present an idea, ask a question or disagree respectfully builds confidence that can prove invaluable in adult life. The foundations, however, are often laid much earlier, around the family table, when children discover that their opinions are worth hearing. Putting phones aside, asking about their day and listening patiently can make a real difference, even when a five-minute account stretches to twenty. My granddaughters, for instance, have yet to discover the virtue of brevity, but I would not want them to lose their enthusiasm. It is far easier to help a child organise an idea when that child is eager to share it, and eventually those ideas may find their way onto paper. Finding the words My own introduction to writing was hardly enjoyable. My handwriting resembled a doctor's prescription, so I was made to fill a page every day to improve it. At St Joseph's, Allahabad, the summer holidays in Grades 4, 5 and 6 brought another assignment: twenty compositions, each about a page long. So much for a carefree holiday! I certainly did not appreciate the value of these exercises at the time, but looking back, I can see how the discipline helped me develop a habit that proved useful much later. The pleasure of writing came gradually, once the practice had become part of me. Children need opportunities to write for reasons other than marks, whether through a diary, a letter to a grandparent or an imaginative story of their own. Grammar and spelling matter, but if every effort comes back covered in corrections, the pleasure can quickly disappear. We want children to take care with their words without becoming so anxious about mistakes that they stop expressing themselves. Writing makes us slow down, choose our words and decide what we really mean. Sometimes an idea that seems perfectly clear in our heads becomes less convincing when we try to explain it on paper, and that is part of the learning. This matters particularly today, when artificial intelligence can produce an essay or summarise a book in seconds. It can be a useful aid, but children still need to understand what they submit and explain it in their own words; otherwise, the task may be finished without the learning taking place. Looking back over my years in education, I see how naturally these four habits support one another. Reading gives us ideas, reflection helps us make sense of them, speaking allows us to share them and writing helps us express them clearly. Together, they prepare children not just for examinations but for the decisions, conversations and challenges that await them beyond school. We need not turn every childhood interest into another activity to be assessed. Sometimes, a little quiet, a good book, a conversation or a blank page is quite enough. As for my granddaughters, I expect another story tonight, with the wolf returning to the dark forest, the tiger angrier than ever and the cat inevitably complicating matters. I shall listen carefully, resist the temptation to improve the plot and look suitably horrified. There will be time enough for editing when they are older.

 

My 26-Year-Old Financial Adviser

There are certain phone calls you simply don’t want to receive on a weekend afternoon.

It was about 3 p.m. the other day and I was resting when my phone rang. Unknown number. I ignored it.

It rang again. I ignored it again.

The third time, curiosity got the better of me. Perhaps it was somebody I knew whose number I hadn’t saved. Perhaps it was something important. You never know.

So I answered.

There was a very young voice at the other end. Extremely young.

He introduced himself with considerable confidence and told me he was a financial adviser. He mentioned the name of his company, which sounded impressive enough to occupy several floors in a glass building somewhere.

He was calling from India.

My first question was simple.

How did he get my number?

I hadn’t called him. I hadn’t asked for financial advice. I hadn’t filled in a form saying, “Please call me on a Saturday afternoon and tell me what to do with my money.”

Yet somehow, he had my number.

He also seemed to know, broadly speaking, that I had savings in banks and some money put away.

That is the part I find rather uncomfortable.

Where exactly is our privacy these days?

We give our numbers to banks, insurance companies, airlines, hotels, shops, websites and apps. We tick boxes without reading them. We enter our details to get a discount. Somewhere along the way, our telephone numbers seem to acquire a life of their own.

And then a complete stranger can call us and start discussing our money.

My young adviser, however, was not interested in discussing privacy.

He was interested in discussing investment.

Fixed deposits were practically useless, he explained. Gold was dangerous. There were much cleverer ways of making money.

Seven per cent?

Forget it.

He could get me eleven per cent.

Then came the numbers.

If I invested this much, it would become this much. If I left it for so many years, it would become considerably more. And judging by his enthusiasm, if I gave him enough money and enough time, it would probably eventually become the GDP of a small country.

He had already worked out how much I should invest.

I was impressed.

Not necessarily by the investment plan, but by the preparation.

I was sitting at home in my shorts, resting on a weekend afternoon, while somebody somewhere in India had apparently planned the next chapter of my financial life.

The conversation continued because I had him on speakerphone and, for reasons I still can’t explain, I didn’t hang up.

Perhaps I was curious.

Perhaps I was being polite.

Or perhaps I was simply enjoying the entertainment.

Then I asked him a question.

“How old are you?”

There was a little pause.

“Twenty-six, sir.”

Twenty-six.

Now, I have absolutely nothing against young people. I started working young myself and have enormous respect for ambition, energy and enthusiasm.

But it did make me think about the strange world of work we have created.

Young people today are entering professions where they are sometimes expected to sell financial products, insurance, property or professional services almost as soon as they enter the workplace. Many will be perfectly capable. Some may know their subject extremely well.

But there is something to be said for experience.

The young man on my phone may have had excellent qualifications. He may understand financial markets far better than I do.

But he was confidently advising me about money that I had spent decades earning, saving, investing, worrying about and, occasionally, making mistakes with.

It reminded me of being taught to drive by someone who had just passed his driving test.

Perhaps he was an excellent driver.

But I might still have preferred someone who had been on the road for a few more years.

Yet I also felt a little sorry for him.

Perhaps he was not really the problem.

Young people have to find work. They have to start somewhere. Perhaps he was sitting in an office with a list of telephone numbers, a carefully prepared script and a manager telling him to make as many calls as possible.

Perhaps he was on commission. Perhaps every person he persuaded to invest earned him something.

Perhaps he was simply trying to make a living.

And if that is the case, I can’t really blame him for picking up the phone.

What I question is the system behind him.

There is a difference between selling a financial product and giving financial advice. There is a difference between knowing how an investment works and understanding the person whose money you are discussing.

And there is a difference between confidence and experience.

Of course, he may have been absolutely right.

Perhaps my money is sitting peacefully in the bank, bored and unfulfilled, waiting for a 26-year-old financial adviser to give it a more exciting life.

Perhaps I am missing out on fabulous returns.

But I wasn’t going to discover that by handing over my financial decisions to someone who had never met me, knew almost nothing about my circumstances and had called me without being invited.

And that brings me back to the question that bothered me most.

How did he get my number?

Was it sold? Shared? Collected from some database? Obtained through a form I filled in years ago?

I don’t know.

And that is precisely the problem.

We have become remarkably casual about personal information. We worry about bank fraud and passwords, quite rightly. But sometimes the first sign that our privacy has disappeared is much simpler: a stranger suddenly has your telephone number and enough information about you to sound convincing.

I thanked my young adviser, wished him well and ended the call.

I didn’t invest a dirham.

Then I went back to my afternoon rest.

My money stayed where it was.

For now, it seems quite happy there.

But I do hope the young man does well. Perhaps in 20 years he will be exactly the sort of financial adviser I would want to speak to.

By then, he will have something no script can provide.

Experience.

As for me, I would still like to know who gave him my telephone number.

My money may be mine.

Apparently, my phone number isn’t.

 

What Would Your Organisation Miss If You Weren’t There?

Looking back on my early career, I realise that some of the opportunities that helped me progress came from simply being willing to do a little more than my job required. I wasn't thinking about career progression at the time; I was simply interested in getting involved and seeing what I could do.

Starting out as a young professional, I took an interest in anything connected with English because I was fairly good at it. Elocution, debating, drama, the school magazine and more soon followed. If something came up, I was usually willing to have a go, and the more I was given, the more I took. When an opportunity finally arose, management felt that here was someone who could be relied upon to deliver. Promotion followed.

Looking back, I can see that those opportunities allowed people to see what I could do beyond my formal role, even though I wasn't deliberately trying to build a career strategy. I simply enjoyed getting involved and was willing to try something different.

That experience has stayed with me and made me think about how valuable we are to the organisation we work for. Value has little to do with how important we think we are or how impressive our designation sounds. You don't have to be a director or manager, or have a long list of people reporting to you, to make a real difference. Some of the most valuable people in an organisation hold no grand title at all.

There is a simple test I sometimes think about: if you weren't there, what would your organisation miss? It might be your expertise, your ideas, your energy, your willingness to help or simply something you do particularly well. If the honest answer is very little, that is probably worth knowing, and perhaps doing something about.

I have interviewed extensively in schools and colleges, including B.Ed colleges in India, and have met hundreds of candidates with the right qualifications, years of experience and good subject knowledge. All of that matters, but at some point I often ask, “What else do you bring to the table?”

That doesn’t mean breakfast.

It could be the ability to coach a team, organise a charity drive, speak confidently in public, arrange an event, sing, dance, paint, write or direct a play. It might simply be the ability to connect easily with people, solve problems or bring energy to a group. These qualities don't always appear on a CV, but they can make a considerable difference to an organisation.

Being good at your job is the starting point, but there is often much more to a person than the role they have been appointed to do. The difficulty is that many people are reluctant to mention the other things they can do. There is no need to boast, but there is equally little point in being so modest that nobody knows what you can offer. An organisation cannot make use of an ability it doesn't know you have.

I see this quite often when I speak to trainee teachers in B.Ed colleges in India. I might ask whether anyone in the room has a particular talent. Usually, there are no hands. I then assure them that I am not going to ask anyone to stand up and perform, and slowly the hands begin to rise. In my experience, a surprisingly large proportion of the room has something they are good at, but most are simply hesitant to say so because they are shy or not confident enough.

I remember one teacher who was very good in the classroom but had never considered herself particularly creative. When she was asked to help with some design work, she produced invitation cards and stage backdrops and showed a real flair for it. She enjoyed the work, gained confidence and began volunteering for other responsibilities. Gradually, she became more involved in school life, grew into a more confident professional and eventually earned a promotion, developing into a strong and dependable leader.

The ability had been there all along. What she needed was someone to notice it, say, “Why don't you try?” and give her the space to discover what she could do.

That is an important part of leadership. A good leader doesn't only look at what a person is doing today; they also notice what that person might be capable of tomorrow. Sometimes a little encouragement and the right opportunity can reveal an ability that even the individual had not recognised.

Of course, this responsibility doesn't rest entirely with the leader. Speaking up can be difficult, particularly for people who are modest or unsure of themselves, but keeping quiet about something you can offer doesn't help either. In a competitive workplace, quietly waiting and hoping that someone will eventually discover what you can do is unlikely to take you very far. Sometimes you have to put your hand up and say, “Count me in.”

Not everyone wants promotion, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with being happy where you are. But if you do want to progress, do your job well, be willing to step forward when an opportunity arises and make sure people know what you can bring. Don't wait for your job title to define everything you have to offer.

So, think about your own workplace. If you weren't there tomorrow, what would your colleagues or organisation genuinely miss? Your judgement, your ideas, your energy, your ability to bring people together or something you do particularly well?

If you can answer that easily, keep doing it. If you can't, perhaps that is the challenge. Look for something you are good at, find an opportunity to use it and don't be afraid to put your hand up. You may discover an ability you didn't know you had, and others may discover it too.

Because ultimately, your value is not measured by the space your title occupies on an organisation chart. It is measured by the difference your presence makes.

Make sure you make a difference.

I'm burnt out

 

I'm Burnt Out

Young people are talking about burnout more than ever, but not every difficult day is burnout.

"I'm burnt out."

I seem to hear those words more and more these days. Young professionals say it, people in their twenties say it and sometimes even teenagers say it: "I'm done", "I can't do this anymore", "I'm running on empty." Perhaps the expression has simply become part of everyday conversation, but the numbers suggest there is something behind it. In a November 2025 survey of more than 1,400 full-time US employees by Eagle Hill Consulting, conducted by Ipsos, 66 per cent of Gen Z workers said they were experiencing burnout, compared with 37 per cent of Baby Boomers.

I don't remember using the expression when I was young, though we certainly got tired. I started working early, and decades later I am still at it. I have been fortunate to have had two long and rewarding stints in education, both of which have given me much to be grateful for, and my present role in senior leadership has been particularly rewarding. I work for a brilliant Organisation, with good people around me and work that still interests me, so I have little reason to complain. But in my early years I was irritated, tired, angry and upset more often than I care to admit, and yet quitting never crossed my mind. I assumed that some days would be difficult, that some people would annoy me and that there would be times when I would simply be fed up. I took those feelings as part of the job and part of growing up. What I wonder about now is whether we sometimes give ordinary tiredness and frustration a much bigger meaning than they need to have.

The world has changed

That does not mean I think burnout is a fashionable word invented by a generation that can't cope. It is real, and anyone who is genuinely overwhelmed deserves to be taken seriously. But the world young people are growing up in is very different from the one I knew. We had no phone in our hand telling us every few minutes what everyone else was doing, where they were travelling, what they had bought or how successful they appeared to be. We also had an extended family around us — parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins — who noticed when something was wrong. They might not always have had the right answer, but there was usually someone to talk to, or someone who would simply turn up.

Many young professionals in the Gulf have left that support behind. They arrive full of ambition, often far from family, and enter a market that is fast, international and competitive. I understand the attraction because I have lived and worked in that kind of environment myself, but I also see how easily the pressure can build when everyone around you appears to be moving forward. Slowing down can feel like falling behind. A phone call home helps, but it is not quite the same as a grandmother at the table or a cousin who simply turns up. Even when the laptop is closed, the phone remains there, and at the gym and on my walks I often see people who have come to relax or look after their health answering messages or scrolling. The body is on the treadmill while the mind is still at the desk.

I also think work has become too closely tied to identity for many young people. When a job title becomes part of who you are, a bad review can feel like a judgement on the whole person rather than a comment on a piece of work. That is a lot to carry at twenty-four. I don't think the working world is going to become less demanding, so perhaps we need to help young people learn how to handle some pressure without allowing it to take over everything else.

Learning when to speak up

One of the things I have learnt over the years is that problems are often easier to solve when people speak about them early. Many people burn out quietly, and the same survey found that only 42 per cent of burnt-out workers had told their manager. I remember two young teachers in Pune who had similar workloads. One came to me and said, "Please don't mind me telling you, but I feel exhausted with the corrections." I didn't take offence and neither did she have to make a great case for herself. We simply looked at her timetable and I replaced one of her English periods with history, where there was less to correct. The pressure eased. The other teacher said nothing and eventually left. I have often wondered what might have happened if she had felt able to say the same thing. The change cost almost nothing.

There are other things I have learnt from watching young people grow. Resilience matters, but I don't mean pretending that everything is fine or expecting people never to struggle. I mean having a bad day, feeling miserable for a while and then getting up the next morning and carrying on. In all my years in education, I have seen people become stronger after difficult periods because they were given enough space to struggle and discovered that they could get through them. Learning to take criticism without turning it into a judgement on your worth matters too. If someone says, "This needs more work", it is healthier to think, "Then I will improve it", than to hear, "I am not good enough."

I have also been lucky to have had plenty in my life besides work. From the age of eighteen I was into music, played in a band and wrote for newspapers in Allahabad. I had good friends and plenty to keep me amused, so although work mattered to me, it was never my entire world. That helped. Family and a few close friends still matter enormously, and young people who have moved abroad often have to build that circle for themselves. It also helps to laugh, particularly at yourself, because not every mistake deserves to be carried around for the rest of the week.

We set the example

There is another part of this that belongs to us, rather than to young people. They watch what we do far more than they listen to what we say. We tell them to switch off while answering emails at midnight, and warn them about comparing themselves with others while we compare schools, houses and salaries. I have been in leadership long enough to know that people notice these things. If a manager takes a proper break, goes home on time occasionally and does not make everyone feel guilty for doing the same, people understand that work is important but it is not everything.

The pressures are real, the word burnout is real, but young people also need to learn how to handle ordinary tiredness, setbacks and pressure — while employers need to create environments where asking for help is acceptable.

There is a difference between having a difficult week and being burnt out. We all have days when we are exhausted, fed up with the job or frustrated by something that has gone wrong. Usually, we sleep, take a break, talk to someone, put the problem in perspective and carry on. Burnout is different. When the exhaustion persists, the interest and energy disappear and simply getting through another day starts to feel overwhelming, it needs to be taken seriously.

So when someone says, "I'm burnt out", we should listen rather than dismissing it or immediately telling them to toughen up. But we should also help young people recognize that not every bad day, difficult assignment or piece of criticism is burnout. Learning to deal with some pressure, recover from setbacks and come back the next morning is part of growing up and part of working life.

After all these years, I am still working, and I still have difficult days. I have learnt that a difficult day is just that — a difficult day. It does not have to define the job, or define me.

Tiredness is part of working life. Having nobody to tell is not.

 

 

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