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.

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.