The wedding album

 

Pages That Remember

Preserving the Past, Frame by Frame

In the 70s, 80s, and early 90s, a wedding album quietly claimed the room. When it appeared on the side table, roles were set: some turned the pages carefully, others recalled details the photographs could not. You weren’t just visiting—you were stepping into someone’s life, one frame at a time.

These albums were small treasures, often wrapped in soft cloth. Children were kept away, drinks stayed on another table, and usually the most talkative person took the lead—pointing out who did what, drawing laughter and groans. Once the first page opened, the album quietly ruled the room, inviting everyone to pause and remember.

The early pages were formal—the stage, the rituals, the couple at the center. Everything looked composed, almost still. But that stillness never lasted. As the pages turned, memories emerged: small mishaps, gestures photographs could not capture, moments long forgotten. The album became more than a book; it became a conversation, alive in the room, connecting past and present.

Certain photographs always sparked discussion—the outfits, the little jokes, the way people had moved or danced. Attention often lingered on relatives no longer with them, whose presence was quietly remembered in the stories.

Your eyes wandered to the edges of the frame. Children—never still, always blurred—slipped across backgrounds, cried, or ran endlessly. Occasionally, a page bore a mark: a grease smudge, a faint tea ring, a trace of a long-ago spill. Someone would laugh at the small “disasters.” Imperfect, human, loved.

Then came the clothes and hairstyles—bell-bottoms swaying, puffed sleeves threatening to escape, towering hairdos, glittering ties, satin dresses catching the light. Decor too—heavy drapes, patterned tablecloths, flowers arranged in curious shapes. Everything now seems distant, yet back then it felt alive. The smudges, the style, the little accidents—they added texture and life to the memories.

By the later pages, counting stopped. You weren’t just looking at photographs; you were drawn into lives that followed the wedding day. Everyone had a place—a memory to add, a correction to make, a detail to claim. The album wasn’t just theirs to show—it was theirs to tell, including those no longer present.

When the last page came, it didn’t feel like an ending. Someone might notice a forgotten photo, even as the album closed. Wrapped again, returned to its side table, it lingered in the mind. Between laughter, faded edges, bell-bottoms, and puffed sleeves, the album was more than photographs. It was a witness to beginnings, a keeper of stories, a space where past and present met.

Decades later, these albums look discoloured, worn, even a little tired. The clothes, hairstyles, and decor have changed. Those were simpler days, yet the albums carry a quiet magic. In a world of endless digital images, snapped and scrolled past in seconds, the love for a physical album endures.

“The gentle weight of the pages, the faint scent of aged paper, the soft imperfections under your fingertips—no screen can replicate them.”

I’ve seen my grandparents’ album—probably from the early 1900s. Tiny black-and-white photographs, mellowed by time, with a soft yellow tinge along the edges. Dates or little notes were written on the back in careful handwriting. Holding it, flipping it slowly, you realize it’s not just their wedding you’re seeing. It’s the lives that followed—the children running through frames, the laughter, quiet gestures, fleeting moments—all preserved. In those faded images, you feel something fragile and enduring: the passage of time, the people who have moved on, and yet the weight of memory that remains.

“Every crease, every smudge, every slightly askew photograph carries a whisper of the past, a pulse of the love, laughter, and stories that made those years unforgettable.”

As you close it, carefully wrap it, and return it to its side table, a quiet thought lingers: these photographs hold more than memories—they hold lives, in all their imperfection, warmth, and fleeting beauty. Each crease and smudge whispers of moments that will never come again. I wonder if wedding albums are becoming a dying species. Fifty years from now, will anyone pause to feel the weight of a page, notice a smudge, or smile at the laughter captured in a faded frame? What will future generations think, feel, or remember when they finally open one of these albums—if they even still exist?

THE WORKING MAN'S BLUES

A week of traffic, deadlines, and small victories

In the UAE, most people work hard and play harder. I do both—but in my own way.

For most expats, life here is different—and often better—than back home, wherever that may be. After all, that’s why we came: seeking something better. What “better” means, of course, depends on who you ask.

Weekends in the UAE are a spectacle. In the desert, 4x4s climb dunes while others sit nearby with tea and barbecues. At the beaches, kite surfers chase the wind, swimmers drift in warm water, and families settle under umbrellas. In the mountains, off-roaders bounce along rocky tracks while zip-liners slice across valleys. Malls fill with brunch enthusiasts, shoppers, and children racing through play areas. Water parks echo with laughter.

There is energy everywhere.

Many people thrive on that pace. Many love it.

Others—like me—observe it with quiet admiration and no intention of participating.

You will not find me flying down a dune, hanging from a zip line, or attempting acrobatics on a kite surfboard. I am happy keeping my feet on solid ground.

My weekends are calmer. Music playing softly. A book within reach. A few quiet hours of writing. Time with grandchildren. And the calm companionship of a cat who seems convinced the entire house exists for its comfort.

I measure the week differently. Not by adrenaline, but by small moments that matter.

---

Monday arrives without ceremony

The alarm rings. A full week stretches ahead.

Emails stack up. Meetings appear. A “quick chat” somehow becomes half an hour. Decisions wait.

On Sheikh Zayed Road, traffic crawls.

Monday isn’t dramatic.

It’s endurance.

---

Tuesday settles in

Follow-ups begin. Conversations continue. Diaries fill faster than tasks disappear.

It’s only Tuesday.

---

Wednesday sits quietly in the middle

Reports that seemed finished suddenly need revisions. Small tasks multiply.

“Halfway through the week” sounds encouraging, but rarely feels that way.

Wednesday requires patience.

---

Thursday carries a hint of relief

Emails continue. Meetings run on. Yet something shifts.

Tomorrow is Friday.

For many of us in education, the day ends at 12:30. Others continue closer to four.

Still, the mood lightens. The weekend is near.

---

Friday moves differently

The morning passes quickly. Reports completed. Emails answered. Decisions made.

At 12:30, laptops close.

Chairs slide back.

Doors open.

Traffic loosens. Cafés fill. The city exhales.

Colleagues exchange quick smiles and quiet congratulations.

Another week carried together. And for those racing dunes or zip lines later—admire their bravery from a safe distance.

---

Saturday brings space

Morning begins slowly. Coffee without hurry. Errands, groceries, perhaps lunch with friends.

At home, the rhythm shifts. Kitchens grow busy. Children louder. Households adjust to everyone being under the same roof.

Leadership exists here too—just in quieter forms.

---

Sunday begins peacefully

Breakfast lingers. Coffee stretches into the late morning.

By afternoon something familiar appears.

You glance at the wardrobe. The week’s shirts and suits are lined up.

Then the calendar.

Meetings. Deadlines. Responsibilities waiting patiently.

Monday is coming and who know what it will bring

---

A week teaches its own lessons

Mondays ask for courage. Wednesdays demand patience. Fridays bring gratitude. Saturdays restore perspective. Sundays invite reflection.

Leadership is rarely dramatic. More often, it’s showing up—day after day—supporting those around you, and keeping things moving.

In a city where many chase dunes, waves, mountains, and midnight brunches, I measure the week in quieter ways.

I work. I read. I write. I listen to my music. I spend time with my grandchildren. And nearby, my cat reminds me the house revolves around its comfort.

Between the noise of the city and the quiet of these small joys, life in the UAE finds its rhythm—and I find mine.

And through it all, I am grateful for this extraordinary place: its energy, its openness, and the way it invites everyone—adventurous or not—to carve out their own pace, their own version of a better life.

While some chase dunes, waves, and zip lines, I find my adventure in music, books, and quiet moments—and it suits me perfectly

Parenting in the real world

 

Let Them Fall, Let Them Learn: Parenting in the Real World

Small disasters, big smiles, and mischievous little minds—learning, failing, and figuring the world one step at a time.

I was sitting and watching my granddaughters play. One was carefully stacking blocks. The other watched, wide-eyed. Slowly, patiently, the tower rose—until it wobbled, tottered, and crashed to the floor.

She sighed, paused, and started again.

I wanted to step in. Fix it. Make it easier. But I stopped. Let it fall. Let her try. Let the lesson quietly settle.

Letting children fail is fine. Trying to coerce a school into giving them a prize is not. Letting them learn that someone else may be faster, smarter, or luckier—that is good parenting.

Yes, we all think our children are the best thing to happen to the world, but they need to know life will keep moving, with or without applause.

Decades ago, there was a phrase I often heard: “Children should be seen and not heard.” Quiet, obedient, invisible—they were expected to fit neatly into the world around them. Today, my grandkids are the opposite: lively, talkative, clever, and wonderfully insistent. And I love it.

Children are extraordinary like that. They turn tiny disasters into triumphs—and do it with a smile that lights up the room, or a groan that makes you wonder if coffee should be mandatory before breakfast.

My grandkids are only five and three, but already they are little detectives. Try to hide a phone or tablet? They find it. Try to distract them with a story? They’ll interrupt with questions. Try to fool them with a gentle fib? Forget it—they’re onto you.

And I love it. Their curiosity, cleverness, and ceaseless questions are exactly the sparks they need to explore the world.

Parenting is not a set of rules. It is a rhythm. A balance between holding on and letting go, between guidance and freedom.

Decades ago, parenting was stricter and quieter. Fewer choices, fewer distractions. Today it is noisier—screens, online classes, social media advice at every turn. But children need the same essentials: warmth, boundaries, respect, and courage to try.

Boundaries matter. Some rules are non-negotiable: no hitting, no lying, no feeding the hamster chocolate. But inside those lines, let them explore, imagine, fail, succeed, and surprise you.

Some lessons arrive quietly, in patient observation. Others arrive with mischief—phones hijacked, blocks scattered, the cat coaxed into story time. Every debate, every gleeful triumph, every exasperating interruption is a lesson in curiosity, resilience, and inventiveness.

Parenting is not perfection. You do not need all the answers. You need presence, attention, and the courage to let children figure some things out for themselves—even when it drives you up the wall.

The blocks will fall. Phones will vanish into little hands. Plans will unravel. And yet,

In those small, chaotic, noisy, magical moments, children learn what no lecture could ever teach: how to try, fail, laugh, and rise again.

They also learn humility. That someone else may be smarter, faster, or luckier—and that’s okay. That life is bigger than trophies, praise, or always being first. That curiosity, courage, and effort matter far more than winning.

Today’s children are noisy, a trifle boisterous, inquisitive, and street-smart—and that makes them a different and special generation.

With presence, patience, laughter, love, and the quiet courage to let children fail, you can shape a life, a mind, a heart—and leave a footprint that outlasts all the towers of blocks that ever toppled. That is a lesson worth passing down.

The crows group

 Which groups on Facebook am I part of? 

Well… apparently, 12,000-strong Crow Lovers is now one of them. Yes, really. Twelve thousand people who wake up thinking about crows, talk about crows, and even debate whether shiny objects count as currency.

 And here I am—a former principal, seasoned educational professional, TED talker, newspaper columnist, part-time musician, and leadership coach—suddenly navigating crow diplomacy with equal parts caution and curiosity. My wife would make a far more natural member; she already feeds a few crows daily. Me? I’ve tried a handful of times… only to hear cawing and feel a crow—or two—swoop down and send me sprinting for cover. Rookie status, confirmed.

Of course, this is alongside other groups I belong to: cat lovers, guitar and musical instrument enthusiasts, old school Bishop’s alumni, and hometown communities. Each one opens a window into a world I love—music, memories, and a sense of place that runs deeper than timelines and feeds.

And yet, the crow group has me hooked. There’s a quiet thrill in realizing the world doesn’t always demand charts, KPIs, or PowerPoints—sometimes it asks for patience, attention, and humility. I’ve discovered a community that studies these birds meticulously, leaves breadcrumbs with care, and respects their intelligence. I tried again last week, cautiously holding out a handful of seeds… and for a fleeting moment, I think one crow acknowledged me. Almost accepted. 

Almost. 

Believe me, read the stories, and you’ll see how extraordinarily intelligent and loyal crows can be. It’s a sharp reminder that learning—even from creatures we usually overlook—can be surprising, humbling, and unexpectedly rewarding.

 

What Regret Can You Live With?

I’m not a natural risk-taker. I like stability, predictability, the comfort of knowing what comes next. Nor am I a purist or rigid conformist — I bend, negotiate, and adapt.

And yet, life has pushed me to crossroads that changed me. Moments where every choice felt like a gamble, where hesitation carried its own cost, and stepping forward meant leaving almost everything familiar behind. Choices that shook me, demanded more courage than I thought I had, and left me different.

Yes, there were moments of fear — anxiety, palpitations, even tears. But I rode the storms. I’m no superman, far from it, but courage isn’t the absence of fear. It’s moving forward while your heart races, while doubt shouts, while nothing feels certain.

Some time ago, someone sent me an article about Søren Kierkegaard, the 19th-century Danish philosopher. He suggested that whatever you choose, you’ll regret it: marry — regret, don’t marry — regret, leap — regret, wait — regret, stay — regret, let go — regret. Some form of regret seems to follow every choice.

At first, I thought it was bleak. Life seemed like a string of impossible choices, each shadowed by doubt. I lingered on the roads I didn’t take and the steps I hesitated to make.

Then I remembered Robert Frost and his famous poem The Road Not Taken. Two paths diverge in a wood, and we must choose one. The path we walk becomes real — messy, stubborn, imperfect. The one we didn’t take? Perfect only in memory and imagination.

That tension is the human condition. That is what it feels like to choose. And then it struck me: perhaps Kierkegaard wasn’t being pessimistic. Perhaps he was being honest.

Regret is part of life. There is no perfect decision. No step that leaves every door open. The real question is not how to avoid regret — it is which regret you are willing to carry.

I’ve faced that question twice in my professional life. First when I left Allahabad for Pune, and later when I moved from Pune to the UAE. Both decisions carried risk, and both carried quiet regret at the time. What if it doesn’t work out? What if I’ve taken a step backward?

Yet both moves proved right. They pushed me farther than I imagined. They reshaped my life. Sometimes stepping into the unknown is the only way forward. Yes, a step back is always possible. But a step forward can carry you miles beyond what you imagined.

Every yes closes doors — but every yes also opens thousands more.

I’ve seen this truth beyond my own choices: married people pretending they’re happy, bachelors quietly aching, leaders agonising over strategy, executives second-guessing every hire. The pattern is the same: all choices carry regret.

Human beings are terrible at choosing if we expect perfect clarity. But we can be remarkably good at choosing the regret we are willing to live with. That is courage. That is freedom.

Regret born from fear lingers. Regret born from courage settles. One shrinks you. The other deepens you.

Leadership, in the end, is not about avoiding regret. It is about asking one simple but uncomfortable question: which regret can I carry and still respect myself?

Can I live with the regret of trying and failing? Or will I struggle more with the regret of never stepping in? Because not choosing is also a choice — and it has its own cost.

When the season ends, and every season eventually does, what version of you will you respect more — the one who protected comfort, or the one who protected conviction?

The perfect choice never existed. The perfect road never existed. All that truly exists is the courage to say yes anyway — and the regret you are willing to live with.

Every yes closes doors. But every yes also opens worlds you could never have seen from where you once stood. You cannot see them all. You cannot guarantee success. But stepping forward — fully aware of risk and regret — is what moves life, leadership, and the self from something small and safe to something real, alive, and unforgettable.

The Chair I always choose

 

The Chair I Always Choose

Leadership, perspective, and the quiet geometry of where we sit

Have you ever noticed how you always gravitate toward the same chair — at home, in an office, or even at a friend’s dinner table? I do. Not because it is more comfortable or assigned to me. It simply feels right.

From that spot, I can often see the doorway, read faces as they enter, and catch subtle gestures before conversation begins — who moves toward whom, who hesitates, who seeks approval. Sometimes I face the door, sometimes another angle, but the view always reveals what the room is quietly saying. Those first moments often tell more than any agenda ever will.

Humans are creatures of habit, but those habits are rarely random. They trace the contours of personality — unintentional, yet deliberate — carrying a quiet signature of self.

Even as a child in our parish church, I noticed how certain pews became quietly claimed. The same people sat in the same places week after week. Over time, those seats felt theirs alone — not by rule, but by habit. I have tried to do the same myself, not always successfully, but often enough to notice the rhythm of the room and how small habits shape interaction.

For that reason, I don’t much enjoy fixed-seating invitations. They go against my grain. Sometimes necessary, perhaps, but a table arranged by expectation can limit the view — literally and figuratively.

This pattern repeats everywhere — offices, meeting rooms, even living rooms. Rooms settle long before discussion begins. Confidence announces itself in posture. Hesitation lingers at the threshold. Choosing a seat thoughtfully lets me read that choreography, to catch the unspoken currents before they are spoken aloud.

Where we sit shapes what we see. From one angle, fluent speakers dominate. From another, you notice the pauses, the ideas almost spoken, the quiet energy in the room. Position is a subtle editor, shaping what reaches us — and what remains unseen.

The most perceptive leaders I have observed are deliberate about their vantage point. Occasionally, they shift position — not as theatre, not to signal humility, but to see differently. From a different seat, new intelligence surfaces. Unspoken concerns emerge. Influence redistributes. Attention deepens. Understanding grows. Trust builds.

I still choose the seat I feel best in — often facing the door, sometimes at another angle. Of course, I don’t always get it right — some days the chair that felt perfect somehow feels completely wrong. I like to imagine the room quietly judging me as I fumble to settle.

But leadership is not only about a strong vantage point. It is about knowing when to adjust it.

Sometimes, the smallest shift — a different chair, a slightly altered angle — can reveal what was always there but unseen.

The room does not change. Only your perspective does. Sometimes, the right view is just one chair away.

What colour ink do you use

 What Color Ink Do You Use?

A journey through color, choices, conformity — and one unforgettable purple suit.

When we were children, life came in boxes of crayons — usually Camlin Camel crayons, or Luxor if your parents were feeling indulgent (and willing to spend a little extra). Twelve if your parents were practical. Twenty-four if they were generous. Forty-eight if they believed you had artistic potential.

You started by colouring a ball or a large flower — maybe red, maybe yellow, maybe a mix of both. Then came the sky, which didn’t have to be blue, and the tree, which didn’t have to be green. You experimented, blended, smudged, erased, tried again. Sometimes the grass was purple, the sun streaked with orange and pink, the clouds wearing every colour in the box. You coloured in the lines. You coloured outside the lines. You mixed shades that weren’t on the label. You did what looked good to you. Nobody complained. In fact, they called it creativity.

For me, there was a twist I didn’t fully realize until I became a teacher. I am partially color blind. One day, someone handed me a test from a book — one of those “spot the bird or the numbers hidden in a tree full of leaves” exercises. I looked… and saw nothing. The numbers, the bird — they vanished into a jumble of green, brown, and other colors I couldn’t separate. Only later did I understand why blue and purple, yellow and orange, green and brown were always tricky for me.

So my artwork was… imaginative. Yet art is subjective, I suppose, and I always scored high — like everyone else in the class. Ta da.

I drew purple skies. Gave men red shoes. Painted trees that could not decide what season they were in. My cats may have been magenta — though I still have no clue what color that actually is. My world was an odd, vibrant place, and it was mine.

Maps came later — with colored pencils. Sea blue. Mountains brown. Geography survived even when art wandered. Somehow, order and imagination found a way to coexist.

Then came HB pencils. In school, they were for notes, sketches, and tests — some schoolmates were artists in miniature, shading and blending as if each page were a canvas. And of course, they came in all sorts: 1 HB, 2 HB, each with its own personality, its own purpose. In college, pencils gave way to ballpoint pens.

Pens multiplied. Blue for homework, black for tests, red for corrections — though rarely your own. Plastic ink fillers replaced the old fountain pens, but mischief remained: boys borrowing ink from one tip to another, leaky pens ruining shirts, smudged exercise notes, ruined test papers — and, of course, the occasional splash of ink across a friend’s desk or uniform. Colour became functional, efficient… and slightly chaotic.

And then there was the wedding suit. I was instructed to buy a deep blue suit. My wife wasn’t supposed to see it — it was meant to be a surprise. So there I was, shopping alone, scanning racks, and finally choosing what I thought was the perfect deep blue suit length. Before the shopkeeper cut the material, I asked him to confirm the color, pretending I knew my blues. Only then did I realize it was… purple. Deep, rich purple. I nearly surprised the entire world instead! Can you imagine me walking down the aisle in that? My wife, her family, my friends — they would have died laughing. I would never have lived it down. A lifetime of “remember the purple suit?” jokes.

Years after I had joined the workforce as a teacher, I was appointed principal. One day, a colleague asked me very seriously, “What color ink do you use?”

“Black,” I said.

He looked concerned. “But you are the principal. You should be different. You should use green.”

Green! Apparently teachers used red to correct and blue to write. Some used black and blue. But I, by virtue of my position, was expected to express individuality through green ink.

I declined. Quietly. Permanently. Leadership, I felt, should not depend on stationery.

My driving eye test was another story. Those coloured dot plates are not designed for people like me. I saw numbers that weren’t there and missed the ones that were. My overall vision is great, so it was never a problem. The examiner finally said, “As long as you can tell red from green, you’re fine.” I passed, and I still consider it a small personal victory — a reminder that rules sometimes bend for reality, and clarity often lies in what matters most.

And yet, at the heart of it all, the real question remains: what color ink do you choose to write your life with?

Black feels firm. Clear. Final.

Blue feels personal. Friendly.

Red — even when used gently — looks like trouble.

Green? I am still not sure. Individuality? Rebellion? Or just a colleague’s enthusiasm from thirty years ago?

We begin with crayons, every color at our fingertips and no instructions. We grow into pens, each color assigned a function, every choice carefully defined. We navigate the world balancing freedom with expectation, whimsy with responsibility.

Somewhere along the way, we stop colouring outside the lines.

Yet I suspect the child who mixed shades in the Camlin Camel or Luxor crayon box is still around. He appears when I sign my name, when I almost buy a purple suit, when someone suggests I should be using green ink because I am the principal.

So when someone asks, “What color ink do you use?”, remember this: it is never really about ink. Life offers countless colors, countless choices, and endless reasons to pick one over another. Some choices are ours, born from who we are; some are shaped by tradition, expectation, or the world around us. Every line we draw — every decision we make — asks the same question: whose choice is it? Ours? Or someone else’s? And the quiet courage lies in choosing the shade that feels true, even if it is unexpected, imperfect, or entirely our own.

The Bishop's School, Pune 

The Bishop's School Alumni Association 

ALLAHABAD CIVIL LINES  NOSTALGIC MEMORIES