The Quiet power of choice

 

When constant availability starts to cost more than it gives

It is early morning and the day has barely started, yet attention is already being pulled in different directions as the phone lights up, messages arrive, and before you’ve even settled into your morning, your focus has shifted elsewhere.

What should be a simple start quickly becomes a chain of interruptions—requests, clarifications, replies that seem small on their own but together fragment focus and quietly break rhythm.

Here is something worth noting: not every message requires an answer, not every misunderstanding needs immediate repair, and not every moment of urgency deserves immediate attention.

Yet reaction becomes automatic. Everything starts to feel immediate, and in that constant pull of urgency, something important is quietly lost.

People who are always available often end up the most drained, while those who are selective with their time tend to remain steadier—not distant, just less scattered.

Because attention is not elastic. Every unnecessary response takes something away—clarity, focus, calm.

That is where the pause matters. Not avoidance, not withdrawal, but a small deliberate space between what happens and how you respond, where reaction gives way to choice.

And in that space, something shifts: you stop reacting by default and begin responding with intent. The day feels less rushed, less reactive, more deliberate.

When everything receives an immediate answer, everything begins to feel the same. Importance flattens, urgency blurs, and over time attention spreads too thin to hold anything properly.

You see it everywhere. Some people are always available—replying instantly, explaining constantly, reachable at all times. Others are more selective; they show up when it matters and step back when it doesn’t, and their presence feels quieter but more grounded.

There is something similar in nature. A cat does not chase every sound or movement; it moves on its own terms—not out of distance, but awareness.

Modern life makes this harder. Messages, groups, work chats, family threads—everything feels urgent, even when most of it isn’t. Most things can wait longer than we assume.

And when you begin to see that clearly, something shifts. Many situations settle without immediate involvement. Some concerns fade. Some conversations lose weight on their own.

What remains is not distance from life, but a more deliberate way of engaging with it—where time and attention are no longer automatically surrendered, but consciously given.

Leaving a message for later is not avoidance; it is structure. It is simply the recognition that attention is not a constant obligation.

And slowly, clarity returns.

There is a quiet discipline in this: not reacting out of habit, not explaining instantly, not feeling responsible for every interruption.

Over time, it doesn’t make you distant; it makes you more grounded, more in control of your own time and energy.

And in that steadiness, something becomes clear—you are no longer being pulled everywhere, because not everything deserves access to you.
You decide what does.

Not everything that reaches you deserves a response. 

When marbles ruled

 WHEN MARBLES RULED....

I remember playing marbles in St Joseph’s, Allahabad, as a schoolboy. I The Boy's High School too. Walking—or cycling—to school, pockets heavy, mind already in the game before the first bell rang.

We played at home too with neighbours and friends and entire afternoons passed by with us engrossed in one game after another. What fun......

In many Indian boys’ schools, marbles weren’t just a game. They were currency. Reputation. A pocket-sized economy that announced itself before you even entered the gate.

Mornings began with a ritual. Uniform on, hair half-combed, shoes negotiable… and then the real decision: which marbles make the cut today? Into the pocket they went.

Jingle… jingle…

That sound on the walk—or the cycle ride—to school? That was swagger.

At home, they were stored like treasure. Usually in an old biscuit tin. Open it and you didn’t just see marbles—you saw victories. Losses. Stories. Sometimes they were washed, rolled in water, wiped on a shirt, brought back to a shine.

And then came the inspection.

The special ones were held up to the light—turned slowly between fingers, examined like a jeweller studying a precious stone. The swirl had to be right. The colour deep. The clarity perfect. These weren’t just marbles. These were assets.

There were types everyone knew. The tiny ones. The normal, everyday ones. And the prized oversized ones—bunta—solid, heavy, meant to dominate. Then there were the transparent ones—sodial—clear, almost glass-pure, catching the light in a way that made them feel rare, almost magical.

And of course, there was the buying.

That little corner shop outside school. For 1 paisa you got one marble… and on a generous day, maybe two. Bought in small paper packets, opened with anticipation, judged immediately. Good day or bad day decided right there.

But more than anything, boys loved to compete.

By the time school started, the market—and the rivalry—was already alive.

Break time? War.

Free period? Extended war.

Every group had its own adda—a patch of earth claimed over time. Under a tree, by a wall, behind the cycle stand. Territory was understood. No one crossed that line.

Games were simple. Stakes were not.

A circle in the dust. Marbles placed inside. One good shot—you win. One bad shot—you lose your best piece. Aim. Flick. Silence. Impact. Cheers. Groans. Collections changed hands in seconds.

And then came the losing streaks.

Pockets empty. Confidence shaken. But the game didn’t stop.

You borrowed.

From the winner, usually. A quiet deal. “I’ll return… with extra.” A few more marbles added later as interest—or penalty. Early lessons in risk, debt, and reputation. Fail to return, and your name travelled faster than any marble ever could.

There was always that one boy. Deadly accurate. Calm. Slightly feared.

And then… the crackdowns.

Prefects. Sudden, ruthless. A shout, a scramble, hands in pockets. Confiscation. Weeks of collecting gone in under a minute.

Teachers had their own breaking point.

Nothing irritated them more than betrayal by pocket—clink… clink… clink… as marbles escaped mid-lesson and rolled across the classroom floor. Every head turned. The owner froze.

Confiscated.

No discussion.

And yet, the next morning… same ritual.

And now, years later, it’s strange what stays.

Not the lessons. Not the exams.

But the feel of a marble in your hand. The weight of a bunta. The clarity of a sodial held up to the sun. The quiet pride of a full pocket. The sting of an empty one.

Memory is like that. It doesn’t keep the big things as carefully as we expect. It holds on to small, round pieces of time… smooth, colourful, slightly imperfect.

And sometimes, if you listen closely—

you can still hear it.

jingle… jingle… all the way to school.

Herman Gomes 

John Beveridge 

Krishna Mohan Trivedi 

Manish Chopra 

Neville N Helen Baker 

Dorothy Tressler 

Vernon Gosse 

Kenneth McGowan 

Glenn N Dorothy McGowan

Nana Ellen

 Nana Ellen

I must have been about seven or eight when, one morning, I woke to the surprising news: Nana Ellen had arrived! Back then, children weren’t part of adult conversations—we were kept firmly in the dark about plans, decisions, and especially about people we hadn’t yet met. Unlike today’s children, who seem to be in on everything - from travel bookings and holiday plans to family squabbles, we just waited for life to unfold around us and to play!

I’d never even heard of Nana Ellen before that day, let alone realized that I had a grandmother who was alive. She was my mother’s mother, who had been living in England for many years and was now returning to India. Who brought her? When did she arrive? I had no idea. I later overheard she’d come by ship to Bombay and then travelled by train to Allahabad.

There was quiet excitement in the house. I crept into the room next to ours, and there she was—fast asleep. Tall, still, and wrapped in an air of quiet authority even in sleep. Later that day, when I returned from school, I was introduced to her properly. She looked very old to my young eyes—though she must have been in her mid-sixties. Her grey hair was neatly tied in a bun, she wore large spectacles and had on an ankle-length dress. She looked regal. Strict. It’s a bit intimidating.

And then she drew me close and smothered me with kisses.

Nana Ellen settled into our home as if she’d always belonged. A true matriarch, she didn’t ask to be consulted, she simply took charge. There was no questioning who now held quiet authority in the house. She rose before anyone else, was always impeccably dressed before dawn, and maintained her room like a sacred space. Cleanliness and order were non-negotiable. Her bed was always neatly made, and we were strictly forbidden from sitting on it. A side table held her Bible, her rosary, and a few worn prayer booklets. Her room always smelled faintly of lavender and talcum powder.

She had a cupboard filled with ankle-length dresses—mostly in shades of blue, as I remember—and the most curious thing of all: a square leather hat box with brass studs. The hat box was strictly off-limits. Which, of course, made it irresistible.

Every Sunday, she wore a different hat to church—one with feathers, one with stones, another with a netted veil. I remember my mother and aunt wearing hats too, it was the fashion then, a sign of grace and decorum. But Nana’s collection was something else. One Sunday, when everyone was out, I gave in to temptation. I snuck into her room and lifted the lid of the hat box. It was like opening a treasure chest. Twenty or so exquisite hats in all colours and styles. I tried on a few, admiring myself in the mirror, grinning from ear to ear.

But Nana knew. Somehow, she knew. The moment she returned, she could tell someone had been in her room. I don’t recall how I gave myself away—but the scolding I received was swift and sharp. Perhaps even a slap or two—common in those days and never taken to heart.

Despite her strictness, there was great kindness in her. She was deeply particular about things - how we dressed, whether we had bathed properly (especially behind the ears!), how we said our prayers (on our knees, in her room), how we chewed our food (no noise, mouths closed), and of course, saying grace before and after meals. Elbows off the table! No talking with food in our mouths. No wasting any food and how to place the spoon and fork after we had finished the meal! Thinking back now, she was a tough cookie!

She had her ways, but she cared. She would ask if I had finished my homework, and oddly enough, she seemed to be involved in our daily rhythm without making a big show of it. We all learned a lot from her—even if we tried to avoid her when we could. To be honest, I often stayed out of her path. If she called for you, it usually meant you were in trouble!

And then one day, everything changed. I woke up to a strange stillness. There were too many people in the house. Soft voices, muffled sobs. We were not allowed into her room. Priests came. I remember shadows and whispers. And then—nothing. It’s as though my memory closed a curtain over that day.

Nana was gone.

Just like she had appeared in my life—without warning, she vanished. We never saw her again.

In those days, death was handled differently. Children weren’t told much. We were not part of the grieving process, not really. We sensed the sorrow, but we didn’t fully understand it. It was as if the adults carried the weight of loss alone, while we remained on the periphery—confused, quiet, a little lost.

Looking back, I realize what a force she was. She brought discipline, ritual, and a quiet elegance into our home. She ruled gently but firmly. She made her presence felt without ever raising her voice. She was the kind of matriarch every household once had—steady, prayerful, rooted in her ways.

And even now, I sometimes see her in my mind’s eye—tall, grey-haired, glasses perched on her nose, wearing a blue dress, a hat in hand… and watching us, always watching, with that mix of stern love and quiet pride.

THE AGE OF FALSE STORIES

 LOST IN THE NOISE - THE AGE OF FALSE STORIES

A Stoic Approach to Truth in the Age of Sensationalism

Can anything you read, see, or hear be trusted? In today’s world of relentless falsehoods, even that question feels dangerous.

Every day, a person makes hundreds of decisions—small, large, personal, professional. Each carries consequences and inevitable setbacks. And yet, in a world drowned in exaggeration and lies, even the simplest choice can feel loaded with uncertainty.

Yesterday, a friend panicked over a health alert that didn’t exist. By the afternoon, it had circled the globe, a perfect example of how weird and fast-moving falsehoods can be.

I remember the 1970s and 1980s. Newspapers at your doorstep. Radio updates while breakfast cooked. For the most part, it was reliable—90–95% authentic. Facts mattered. Context mattered. Sensationalism existed, but it had limits.

Today, scroll through your feeds. From London to Lagos, New Delhi to New York, headlines scream for attention. Photos mislead. Reports are exaggerated. Entire stories are totally wrong or deliberately fabricated—yet they spread anyway. Sensationalism pays. Shock drives clicks, provokes followers, and boosts ratings—TRPs for television, algorithms for social media. Truth? Optional. Accuracy? Rare. And we scroll, blind, into the chaos.

Schools and colleges try to carry on, but classrooms feel anything but normal. Children are frightened, anxious, and confused. And yet, purveyors of false stories keep bombarding the world—relentless, indifferent to the havoc they create. There is little we can do to stop it, only watch it spread. Perhaps it’s time for stricter rules, harsher penalties, tighter curbs, and mandatory licenses for those who publish news. Without accountability, this chaos will only continue—and the world will pay the price.

The UAE’s recent clampdown on fake pictures, fabricated stories, and anything that spreads panic is a step in the right direction. This initiative is worthy of emulation worldwide—a reminder that societies can—and must—create conditions conducive to truth, protecting citizens from the damage of lies. Measures like these foster clarity, reduce uncertainty, and build resilient communities.

As Shakespeare wrote in Hamlet, “Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t.” Today, his words feel eerily current. Facts are buried, context shredded, panic spreads. Trust crumbles, societies fracture, and the profit machine keeps running—driven by clicks, ratings, and followers, with no concern for truth.

We owe it to ourselves—and to each other—to demand better. To pause before sharing. To question, verify, and read beyond the headline. To teach discernment as a skill, because clarity and positivity are not luxuries—they are survival.

We may never return to the 90–95% reliable news of our childhood. But we can reclaim our ability to see clearly. Amid chaos and noise, the most powerful weapon humanity has is the human mind—resolute, discerning, and patient, unwilling to be fooled by exaggeration, weird claims, or unethical reporting.

In a world dominated by pleasure, consumption, and escapism, the temptation to scroll, click, and share mindlessly is constant. We don’t control most of life—the noise, the headlines, the lies, the setbacks—but we can control how we respond, cultivating resilience, focus, and inner calm amidst the chaos.

The world will always roar with chaos and falsehoods; our choice is simple: succumb to the noise—or meet it with calm, clarity, and a Stoic heart, unshaken and resolute.

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.