The Art of Saying Sorry

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Leadership Is Measured in Moments, Not Meetings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

The Perils of Being Too Agreeable

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A cup of tea please

 Morning reflection 

A SIMPLE CUP OF TEA, PLEASE!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Honestly, whatever happened to tea being just tea?

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

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

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

I shall continue to enjoy my uncomplicated cup of tea.

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

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

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.