Know When to Cut Your Losses

 Know When to Cut Your Losses

One of life's hardest decisions is not knowing when to begin. It's knowing when to stop.

Most of us have faced that dilemma at some stage. We remain in a job that no longer challenges us, stay in a business that has lost its direction, hold on to investments hoping they will recover, or postpone important personal decisions because we've already invested so much time, effort and emotion.

The future is rarely crystal clear. More often, it's hazy. Yet we carry on, fingers—and sometimes even our toes—crossed, hoping tomorrow will somehow be better than today. Hope is important, but on its own it is rarely enough.

We even have a name for it—the sunk cost fallacy: our tendency to persist because of what we've already invested rather than because the future genuinely justifies it.

Over the years, I have watched people hold on far longer than they should, convinced that one more month, another year ,one more effort or one more opportunity will turn things around. Sadly, it often doesn't. They lose more than money or status. They lose confidence, enthusiasm and, eventually, hope. By then, they are not just disappointed; they are despondent and emotionally dejected and  drained.

As I look back on my own career, I realise this lesson has shaped many of my decisions.

I was born and educated in Allahabad and began my career as a Grade 5 teacher. Life was comfortable and predictable, but I sensed that if I wanted to grow, I needed to step outside my comfort zone. So I moved to Pune. There were sacrifices to make but I had to make them.

It turned out to be one of the best decisions I ever made. I had the privilege of working under an exceptional leader and alongside experienced colleagues whose wisdom shaped my thinking far more than any textbook or training programme could have. Looking back, I probably stayed in Pune five years longer than I should have. Yet I don't regret those years. They taught me patience, leadership and the importance of learning from people who had travelled the road before me.

Eventually another opportunity came my way, and I moved to the UAE. Once again, I was leaving behind familiarity for uncertainty. I had no idea what lay ahead, but that decision opened doors I could never have imagined.

Those experiences taught me that moving on is not admitting failure. Sometimes it is simply recognising that one chapter has run its course and another is waiting to be written.

The same principle applies beyond careers. Wise investors know that every investment should have an exit strategy. Knowing when to sell is every bit as important as knowing when to buy. Businesses discontinue products that no longer have a future. Leaders change direction when circumstances change. Holding on is not always a sign of resilience. Sometimes it is simply fear disguised as perseverance.

Today, when I face an important decision, I ask myself one question:

If I were making this decision for the first time today, knowing what I know now, would I still choose this path?

If the answer is no, it may be time to let go.

Cutting your losses is not about giving up.

It's about having the wisdom to let go of one path so that you can discover another.

#Leadership #CareerGrowth #LifeLessons #DecisionMaking #PersonalGrowth

Never forget

 Never Forget Where You've Come From

There is one story from my younger days that I never hesitate to tell.

Allahabad, my birthplace and the city where I spent my school years, will always hold a special place in my heart. After school, I wanted to go to Lucknow to do my teacher training at Lucknow Christian College. It also meant living in the hostel. The problem was simple—I just didn't have the money.

There weren't many doors to knock on, so I approached our family priest, Father George D'Souza. He didn't ask me to fill in forms or sign papers. There was no guarantor, no signature—just my word. He trusted me enough to lend me what, in those days, was a princely sum.

Some may smile at the amount today. You could probably spend it on a couple of coffees without thinking twice. But back then, it was a considerable sum—far more than my mother could afford. More importantly, it represented something far greater than money. It was trust, given freely when I needed it most.

Once I reached Lucknow, I was fortunate to receive two small scholarships. They weren't much, but they helped pay for my hostel, food and books. Looking back, I realise my journey was made possible by the kindness of several people, each helping in their own way.

I completed my teacher training, found a job and repaid the loan in small monthly instalments. When I went to pay the final ₹250, Father George smiled and said, "Keep it. Consider the loan paid in full."

It wasn't the money I remembered. It was the trust.

That single act of kindness changed the course of my life. Had he said no, my journey might have been very different.

I've shared this story many times during leadership sessions in the UAE. Not because it's about me, but because it's about what one person can do for another. Sometimes all it takes is one person who believes in you before you can fully believe in yourself.

I've never felt embarrassed telling this story. If anything, I tell it with gratitude. Every life is shaped by people who quietly make a difference. Father George was one of those people in mine.

Life has taken me much farther than I could ever have imagined. If there's one lesson I've carried with me throughout, it's this: never forget where you've come from, and never forget those who helped you get there.

If this story inspires even one person not to give up, or encourages someone to quietly open a door for another, then Father George D'Souza's kindness will continue to touch lives long after his own. I can think of no finer tribute to him.

The Bishop's School, Pune 

The Bishop's School Alumni Association 

ALLAHABAD CIVIL LINES  NOSTALGIC MEMORIES

The Happy Code

 After the rigour of Dubai, and the household chores in Pune , I desperately needed some sleep.

Outside, it was raining. Not a dramatic thunderstorm, just that gentle Pune rain that seems determined to lull you to sleep. The room was cool. The curtains had turned the afternoon into twilight. I was wrapped in that delicious, uninterrupted sleep that only comes when you've been running on empty.

I was dreaming. Chanel, our cat, was curled up on my lap, purring softly, convinced there was nowhere else in the world she needed to be. So was I.

Somewhere, far away, a phone began to ring.

At first, it drifted into my dream. I wasn't even sure it was real. It seemed distant, almost polite, as if it didn't want to disturb me. I ignored it. It rang again. By the third or fourth ring, I reluctantly accepted that this wasn't part of my dream after all.

Still half asleep, I reached for the phone. It slipped off the bed and fell to the floor. I was irritated. 

We had recently bought a new television in Pune. After installation, the company sends you something called a Happy Code—a six-digit number you're expected to read out when customer care calls. Why it's called a Happy Code, I have no idea. It sounds oddly cheerful for what is really just a verification code.

An automated voice greeted me.

It then launched into a long list of prizes I could apparently win as part of some promotion. At that moment, the last thing on my mind was winning anything. I was simply trying to wake up enough to understand why I had been called in the first place. Also worried if the glass case on my phone had cracked for the nth time .

Finally, a lady came on the line. She introduced herself and, in a cheerful mix of Hindi and Marathi, said,

"Sir... say Happy Code."

I was groggy.

"I'm sorry?"

"Sir... say Happy Code."

That sounded straightforward enough.

So I replied, "Happy Code."

A pause.

Then, a little more firmly...

"Sir... say Happy Code."

Clearly she hadn't heard me. I was wide awake now. 

Years of teaching and school assemblies came flooding back. I sat up, cleared my throat and, in my best teacher's voice, pronounced every syllable with textbook precision.

"HAAA...PPY... COOOODE."

If pronunciation carried marks, I'd have scored full points.

There was another pause.

Then she said, "Sir, please send 'Happy Code'  on my number."

Right.

I assumed she wanted it on WhatsApp.

I opened her earlier message, typed carefully in capital letters...

HAPPY CODE

...and pressed Send.

A minute later, the phone rang again.

"Sir, I have not received it."

"Really?" I replied. "There are two blue ticks. You've definitely received it."

By now, I was wondering why she couldn't see it, and she was probably wondering why I couldn't understand such a simple request.

Eventually, her supervisor came on the line.

Very patiently he said,

"Sir... we sent you a code. A number. We need you to send that number." Then your purchase will be closed. 

There was a brief silence.

Then it dawned on me.

She hadn't been asking me to say the words Happy Code. She wanted the Happy Code—the six-digit number confirming I was happy with the television and the installation so the company could close the purchase.

I couldn't help laughing. I had proudly sent the words HAPPY CODE instead of the Happy Code itself.

Two people. Speaking the same languages. Both listening. Both trying to be helpful. Yet we were having two completely different conversations.

It stayed with me because it wasn't really about televisions or codes.

It was about communication.

As leaders, parents, teachers or managers, we often explain something and assume we've been perfectly clear. The other person nods. We move on. Days later, we discover they understood something entirely different.

We then say, "But I told you."

Yes, we probably did.

But communication isn't about what we say.

It's about what the other person understands.

Leadership is not just about speaking clearly. It's about making sure you've been understood.

That rainy afternoon reminded me that before becoming frustrated with someone, it helps to ask one simple question:

"Could you tell me what you understood?"

It might save a great deal of confusion—and perhaps stop someone from proudly WhatsApping the words HAPPY CODE when all that was needed was a six-digit number.

 

It's Not About Caring More

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

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

Most of us have.

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

Why does that happen?

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

It's about people.

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

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

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

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

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

There are also times when understanding must lead to action.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leadership is not measured by how much we care.

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

The finest leaders know the difference.

On having difficult conversations

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who owns the first hour

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

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Who owns the first hour?

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

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

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

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

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

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

And how easily that has changed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That first hour is just a reminder of that.

Not to do more.

Just to actually be there when life begins.

Who owns your first hour—you or the world?

The lizard drama

 

The Great Lizard Drama of This Morning

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

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

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

Then I saw it.

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

The moment I spotted it, my blood ran cold.

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

I went looking for a broom.

No broom.

I looked everywhere.

Still no broom.

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

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

First job: remove the cat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lizard.

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

Then the real performance began.

I jumped onto the sofa.

Peered behind the sofa.

Jumped off the sofa.

Pulled the sofa out.

Nearly pulled a muscle in my back.

Jumped back onto the sofa.

Poked underneath with the long stick.

Retreated.

Advanced.

Retreated again.

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

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

The lizard was gone.

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

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

So that was my morning.

Some people start the day with coffee.

Some go for a walk.

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

A perfectly normal start to the day. 😄