Don't crave the applause

 Don’t Uproot Your Garden to Prove It Is Growing

Maybe your garden isn’t flourishing because every time a plant begins to grow, you pull it out of the soil to show your neighbours how strong its roots have become.

It sounds strange, doesn’t it? Yet, in many ways, we do the same in life.

A garden does not grow because the gardener keeps digging around the roots to check the progress. It grows because the gardener has patience — watering it, caring for it, removing the weeds, and trusting that the work being done beneath the surface will eventually show.

The roots are invisible, but they are the reason the plant stands tall.

Sometimes we forget this. We become so eager to prove that we are succeeding that we interrupt our own growth. We want people to notice the flowers before the roots are strong. We seek recognition before the foundation is ready.

But true growth takes time. Whether it is our character, relationships, knowledge, or dreams, the most important work often happens quietly, away from the eyes of others.

A wise gardener does not keep pulling out plants to prove they are growing. They nurture them patiently and allow them to become what they were meant to be.

Perhaps life is the same.

Tend to your garden. Give it time. Trust the process. Let it grow.

Because the most beautiful gardens are not the ones that constantly seek attention.

They are the ones that quietly bloom.

Mentor or Coach

 Someone recently asked me, “Are you a mentor or a coach?”

After 4 decades in education, and most of those years in leadership, I would say I am probably a bit of both.

Having said that, if I had to put a number to it, I would probably say I am 90% mentor and 10% coach. The years of experience, the lessons learnt and the situations I have faced naturally make me lean towards mentoring. But coaching is important too — helping people think, question and find their own answers.

I have always believed that helping people starts with listening. Ask the right questions, understand their thinking, share experiences and help them find their own way forward.

I have never been one for fancy words or modern-day jargon that sometimes makes simple things complicated. I believe in keeping things clear and practical — understand the situation, find solutions, get the job done and help others do the same.

I know some people may feel a little uncomfortable when I interview them because I tend to ask direct questions. It is not about putting anyone on the spot. It is because I value honest conversations and want to understand the person behind the answers — their thinking, their approach and what really drives them.

I can be direct. I can be impatient at times. But it comes from wanting things to improve and wanting people to succeed. I believe in giving honest feedback, even when it is difficult, but always with respect and the intention to help.

I try to keep learning, reading widely and staying aware of what is happening around me. I don’t have all the answers — none of us do. The day we stop learning is the day we stop growing.

After all these years, what I value most is the journey — the people I have met, the challenges that have tested me, the lessons I have learnt and the privilege of helping others grow.

So, am I a mentor or a coach? Perhaps a little of both. I believe in keeping things simple, treating people with respect, asking honest questions and, when needed, having the courage to say things as they are.

The Great indian cricket dilema

 The Great Indian Cricket Conversation — A Mirror of Us 🏏

In India, cricket is rarely just a game. It is a daily conversation, a national habit and sometimes even an emotional courtroom where every fan becomes judge, jury and selector.

From tea stalls to offices, from family gatherings to social media groups, cricket debates are everywhere. The passion is unmatched, the opinions are endless and the confidence is extraordinary.

One of the most entertaining spectacles in Indian cricket does not always happen on the field. Often, the real drama begins long before the first ball is bowled.

Millions of passionate fans become selectors, coaches and strategists overnight. Living rooms, workplaces and online platforms transform into unofficial selection committees.

The confidence is remarkable. Every opinion is delivered with the authority of someone who has just walked out of a national selection meeting!

“Pick him.”

“Drop him.”

“Bring him back.”

“Give the youngster a chance.”

Sometimes the team is selected by fans before the official announcement is even made.

And then comes the inevitable question:

Have you made your own selections?

Who would you pick?

Who would you leave out?

Do you agree with the coach, captain and selectors — or do you believe you know better?

After all, every cricket fan has a team in their mind, a strategy they believe would work and a player they feel deserves an opportunity.

Who should play Test cricket? Who belongs in the ODI squad? Who is the ideal choice for T20? Everyone has an answer, and everyone believes their answer is the right one.

The coach is questioned. The captain is praised one week and criticised the next. The selectors are either celebrated as brilliant thinkers or criticised for poor decisions. Very rarely does anyone accept that the reality may be more complex.

Statistics become weapons. Averages, strike rates, fitness reports and past performances are brought out like evidence in a courtroom. Every supporter builds a strong case for the player they believe deserves a place.

But that is what makes Indian cricket fascinating. It is never just about eleven players on a field. It becomes a reflection of our emotions, loyalties and sometimes our desire to prove that our opinion was correct.

Modern cricket has also added another dimension — the business behind the sport.

Who earns what? Who has the biggest IPL contract? Who attracts the most endorsements? Who deserves more and who deserves less?

The conversation moves beyond runs and wickets into questions of value, fairness and reputation.

Naturally, another national debate follows:

“Who has earned the opportunity?”

“Who deserves more time?”

“Is selection based only on performance?”

“Are reputation and past achievements carrying too much weight?”

These questions appear after every series, every tournament and sometimes after every match.

A player’s entire career can suddenly be judged by one poor innings or one expensive spell. Years of discipline, sacrifice and achievement can be forgotten in a few moments.

At the same time, a player’s selection can become a matter of intense discussion. Fans search for explanations, question decisions and try to understand choices made behind closed doors.

The reality is that selection is among the toughest jobs in sport.

Those making the decisions see things the public may never know — fitness levels, training performances, team balance, future planning and countless conversations within the team environment.

Of course, selectors can make mistakes. Players can be given too many chances, overlooked for too long or selected when another option appears stronger.

But every decision carries the same challenge: choosing one player often means leaving out another talented individual.

And finally, the moment everyone has been waiting for arrives — the match itself.

The player who was criticised and questioned walks out and scores a magnificent century.

Suddenly, opinions change. The same player becomes a “match winner”, a “champion” and someone who “always had the ability”.

A superstar fails in the next game, and the conversation shifts again.

“Has he lost his touch?”

“Is it time for someone new?”

“Should another player get the opportunity?”

Yesterday’s hero can quickly become today’s debate.

A young player is selected and questions are raised about who was left out. Another talented player misses an opportunity and disappointment follows.

Everyone wants fairness, but everyone has a different definition of what fairness means.

Former players analyse. Television studios debate. Social media delivers instant reactions. Every decision is examined, every mistake magnified and every performance remembered — often only until the next game.

Perhaps that is why Indian cricket is so captivating.

It reveals something about all of us.

We like certainty in an uncertain world. We like predicting the future, even though the future has a habit of surprising us. We celebrate success quickly and judge failure even faster.

The reality is simple: there are only eleven places in a playing XI. With India’s depth of talent today, several world-class teams could be created from those waiting outside.

Someone deserving will miss out. Someone talented will have to wait. Someone great will occasionally fail.

That is not a problem. It is the privilege of having extraordinary talent.

So let us continue to debate, argue, celebrate and disagree. That passion is what makes Indian cricket unique.

But perhaps we should remember:

Selectors are human.

Players are human.

And the millions watching from the sidelines are human too.

We all get carried away. We all change our minds. We all love a comeback story.

Because that is the beauty of sport — and perhaps the beauty of life.

The player we question today may surprise us tomorrow. The decision we criticise today may look different with time. And the opinion we defend with complete confidence today may be the one we rethink tomorrow.

Cricket keeps teaching us the same lesson: stay humble, stay open and never write the final chapter too early.

After all, the next ball has not been bowled yet.

The Bishop's School, Pune The Bishop's School Alumni Association

Pune you're amazing

 Pune, You're Amazing... One Scooter Ride Proved It

Today, for the first time in over a decade, I climbed onto the back of a scooter.

It was only a short ride. Too short to justify calling an Uber, and too far to walk comfortably. "How bad can it be?" I thought.

Those were the last sensible words that crossed my mind.

The moment we pulled away, I was transported back about twenty-five years to my days at Bishop's. Back then, my scooter carried our little family everywhere. My wife sat behind me, one of our young daughters stood in front, proudly holding the handlebars, while our other daughter squeezed between us. It never seemed unusual. Somehow, it always worked.

This time, it was a different story.

I'm no longer that young man who thought he was indestructible. I was also flying back to Dubai later that day, and the last thing I wanted was a back spasm or a bruised leg before boarding my flight.

The weather, I must admit, was glorious. There was the gentlest drizzle, the air was wonderfully cool, and for a fleeting moment I almost felt I was somewhere in the hills. The breeze on my face was delightful.

Then reality returned.

My hair was all over the place. I looked as though I had been pulled through a hedge... legs first.

Vehicles seemed to be coming from every direction. Cars honked. Buses lumbered past. Motorcycles and scooters whizzed by my legs so closely that I was tempted to tuck both feet up onto the seat.

Then the wildlife joined in. Dogs darted across the road. A herd of buffaloes ambled through as if they owned it. A cow sat calmly in the middle of the road while everyone else figured out how to get around her.

Then came the potholes.

Every bump launched me into the air. I was convinced one particularly enthusiastic pothole would send me sailing over the rider's head. I held on with rather more determination than dignity.

Meanwhile, my imagination was working overtime. What if my back suddenly went into spasm? What if I clipped my leg on a passing motorcycle? What if I dropped the little bag I was carrying and watched twenty vehicles run over it before I could retrieve it?

Amazing how many disasters the mind can imagine in a journey lasting barely five minutes.

As we bounced over potholes, crawled over speed breakers and swerved around obstacles, I couldn't help wondering whether this is one reason so many people in Pune complain of back problems.

By the time we reached our destination, I climbed off with enormous relief. I was fine, my bag was still with me, and I had acquired a whole new respect for the millions of people who negotiate Indian roads on two wheels every day.

Twenty-five years ago, riding a scooter was just another part of life.

Today, simply sitting on the back of one felt like an act of courage.

Pune, you're amazing. One scooter ride proved it.

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.