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.

What our children need to hear

 Gentle, Yet Truthful: What Our Children Need to Hear

Preparing Children for the Real World

Kindness matters. But when kindness means shielding children from every disappointment, are we preparing them for life—or protecting them from the very experiences that help them grow?

“If you don't work hard, you won't get very far in life or fulfil your potential.”

I said this to students as a young teacher in Pune in the 1980s and 1990s. Not to everyone, but to those I felt were coasting and needed a push. I was young, energetic and firm. Today, I would choose my words more carefully, and I respect the greater care schools now take in speaking to children.

My intention was never to belittle anyone. I wanted my students to understand that every honest occupation has dignity, but whatever path they chose, effort and commitment mattered. Not everyone will have a corner office or a secretary, and that is perfectly fine. Much of the world depends on people whose work goes largely unnoticed: the driver, the electrician, the nurse, the shopkeeper, the person who tends the garden. What matters is taking pride in one's work and striving to do it well. I wanted those boys to recognise their potential and understand that their future depended, in large measure, on their own application, not simply on their parents' position.

Own the morning

 🌅 **MORNING REFLECTION: OWN THE MORNING!**

I've been an early riser since childhood. As a kid, I woke early for the radio. Now it's for the newspaper! Age has made it even earlier!

By 4:30 a.m., my eyes are open. By 4:45, I'm out of bed. No alarm, no motivational podcast. My body simply announces, "Young man, get up. The day is waiting!" 😂

At this rate, I'll soon be waking up yesterday to prepare for tomorrow!

But tell me, those of you who sleep until noon or later on Saturdays and Sundays: WHAT EXACTLY IS HAPPENING AT THAT HOUR? 😂

Saturday and Sunday mornings vanish before you've even met them. That's not waking up, that's hibernation!

Then Monday comes and you complain the weekend was too short. Of course it was! You slept through most of it!

Now, I'm not saying everyone must wake up at 4:45 a.m. Some people work nights, and everyone needs rest. This is a reflection, not a lecture. Sleep is allowed!

But there's something special about the early morning: the peace, the clarity, and the satisfaction of being productive while the rest of the world is still negotiating five more minutes with a blanket.

Don't sleep so long that lunch starts wondering where you've been! 🤣

As for me, I'm in bed by 10 p.m. and up by 4:45 a.m. No owl here, just a very early bird! Seven hours of sleep, and a head start on the rest of you! 😂☀️

**OWN THE MORNING. OWN YOUR TIME. OWN YOUR LIFE.**

#MorningReflection #OwnTheMorning #TimeIsPrecious

 

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.