Sometimes Growth Looks Like Not Fitting In Anymore

 Sometimes Growth Looks Like Not Fitting In Anymore

The WhatsApp Group That Never Arrived

A few months ago, a group of us were sitting together one evening, talking about old times, old friends and the usual stories that become more entertaining every time they're retold. Someone suddenly said, "Why don't we all go to Allahabad?" It was the kind of suggestion that could easily have been laughed off. Instead, within minutes, everyone was interested — the wives too, which is usually a very good sign when several families are involved.

Soon we were discussing dates, flights, hotels, food, drinks, whether we needed a hall, what music we should have and, inevitably, what we'd do afterwards. Someone even suggested a WhatsApp group for the preparations. We all thought that was an excellent idea. I am still waiting for the WhatsApp group.

Nobody has bought a ticket yet, and if I'm honest, I don't think this particular trip is actually going to happen. But as I thought about that evening afterwards, I realized it was never really about organizing a reunion. We were talking about going home.

The Place We Came From

For me, Allahabad is not simply a city on a map or a collection of childhood memories. It's home in a way that's hard to explain unless you've left somewhere that shaped you. It's where I grew up, went to school, spent my teenage years and made friendships that have lasted for decades — back when I had no idea these ordinary days would one day become precious memories. We were simply getting on with life.

I've been to reunions of pupils I taught many years ago, some now in their forties, and there's something wonderful about meeting people after so long and discovering that an old friendship can return within minutes. There's also, of course, what time has done to all of us. We remember each other as young men and women and then meet again with more kilos, fewer hairs and considerably more lines. Some of us now approach a low chair with the caution normally reserved for a flight of stairs. But once the conversation starts, none of that matters. The teasing returns, the old stories come back, and somebody remembers something everybody else had forgotten.

That's what I imagine when I think about Allahabad — not a city frozen in the past, but a place that still holds the people we once were.

When Things Stop Fitting

There's a point in life when you notice that some things that once suited you perfectly no longer do. I don't mean clothes, though that's part of it too. I mean roles and expectations.

Early in my leadership career, it mattered to me that people liked me — that they understood my decisions, agreed with them, and left the room happy. Leadership cured me of that rather quickly. As a headmaster, I once made a decision a group of staff clearly disagreed with — no argument, no raised voices, just a definite coolness around me for several days. The younger me would have worried about it for weeks. The man I'd become simply thought: I've listened, I've considered it, and now I have to take responsibility for the decision. It was oddly freeing, discovering I could carry that coolness without losing any sleep over it.

Families teach the same lesson, more gently. The child who once needed your help with everything arrives one day with opinions of their own — their own home, their own way of doing things — and the role that once fitted you so naturally has to loosen its grip. Stepping back, you learn, isn't the same as stepping away.

Going Back, Without Going Back

Perhaps that's why the thought of Allahabad has stayed with me.

If we do go, I know exactly what I want to do. I want to walk through our old schools, wander the famous markets for the jalebis and the curd, and see just how busy that once-sleepy little town has become.

And there is somewhere else I want to go. A quiet corner of a cemetery, where someone I lost many years ago still, in some way, feels like part of that place. It isn't something I've planned aloud or spoken about with the others. But if I make it back to Allahabad, I know I won't leave without going there.

That contrast would probably be the most striking part of any visit. The town in my memory has changed — buildings gone, new ones risen, streets that once seemed enormous now perhaps looking surprisingly small. But somewhere among all that change would be the places that take me straight back.

And we would have changed too. We would arrive carrying everything that happened afterwards — careers, marriages, children, mistakes, disappointments, friendships, and all the experience accumulated over the years. We can't recreate the Allahabad of our youth, because we can't recreate our youth. But perhaps that isn't what going back is about. It's about standing in a familiar place with old friends, recognising how far we've travelled, remembering the boys and girls we were without pretending we still are.

Whether we'll actually go, I honestly don't know. Most likely, life will do what it usually does — the dates won't align, the WhatsApp group will stay unmade, and Allahabad will remain, for now, a place we talk about rather than visit. And perhaps that's all right.

That evening already gave us something no trip could improve on: a few hours of being simply old friends again, with no titles and no schedules, just old stories and the people who shared them.

And perhaps that's enough. We don't need to relive the past. We can simply be grateful that we once belonged there.

Keep it simple

 Morning reflection - Keep it SIMPLE

One thing I’ve always tried to do, both at work and in life, is keep things simple.

But sometimes I find myself listening to someone, nodding along, while thinking, “I really haven’t understood what they’re saying!” And I wonder, why do we make things so complicated?

This morning I came across a quote that caught my attention: “Peace of mind comes from simplifying life.” It immediately resonated with me.

When I speak to teachers and leadership teams, particularly through Bright Sparks, our GEMS programme for emerging young leaders, I often talk about clear communication. Say what you mean. Write so people understand. There’s no need to wrap a simple point in layers of jargon or complicated language.

And there’s certainly no need to use big words just to sound impressive. I always joke that there’s no need for all of us to try to be Shashi Tharoor when it comes to the English language!

I think the same applies to life. We already have enough to deal with without making things harder than they need to be.

As I get a little older, I find peace in wonderfully ordinary things. Sitting and playing with my cat, even talking to her as though she understands me. Picking up my guitar and playing for a while. Or watching yet another rerun of Friends — probably for the nth time — and still laughing at the same jokes.

Nothing extraordinary. Just things that make me happy.

Perhaps that’s the real lesson. We spend so much time looking for peace in the big things that we overlook the little things already giving it to us.

So, the next time you’re confused because you haven’t quite understood what someone is saying, or you’re trying to work out what they mean when giving you instructions, think of this little morning reflection of mine. Maybe think of me and have a chuckle.

Then ask yourself: “Couldn’t this have been said a little more simply?”

After all, life is complicated enough. We don’t need to help it along.

The Bishop's School, Pune

Grateful

 MORNING REFLECTION- GRATEFUL

This morning, I woke up and my first thought was simply: thankful.

Not for anything in particular. Just thankful.

I thought of my parents, my relatives, my friends and colleagues, and all the opportunities life has given me. 

I thought of Allahabad, as it was the place where I was born, studied and grew up. I have fuzzy memories of the places I stayed in , the two schools I studied in and the friends I had. A few still remain . I started working in Allahabad as well. At GEEP FLASHLIGHT INDUSTRIES & at THE BHS.

As a young man ,I often wondered what life would hold for me. What would I do? Where would life take me? Much of the future was unknown.

Looking back, I know hard work, sincerity  and dedication played their part. They still do. But I also know that isn't the whole story.

There were miracles along the way. 

There have been so many moments when life took an unexpected turn. I found myself in the right place at the right time. An opportunity appeared. Something I hadn't expected worked out. And sometimes, when one possibility seemed to be disappearing, another appeared almost out of nowhere.

One moment stands out. A window seemed to be closing for me in Pune, and almost at that very moment, another opened for me in Dubai.

I didn't plan it. I couldn't have. I simply took the opportunity in front of me. Only later did I realise how much that moment would change my life.

Perhaps that is why I feel so strongly about one thing: don't give up. Whatever you are facing, hang in there. Life will always bring difficult people, difficult circumstances and frustrating days. What has helped me? Self-belief, optimism, music, good people, keeping it real — and being able to laugh at myself. Sometimes, you just have to keep going.

We don't always know what is waiting around the corner.

This morning, I found myself thinking about my journey, the people I've met and the opportunities I've been given. And I felt a deep sense of gratitude to God for the abundant blessings .

Gratitude for the journey, for the people, for the opportunities and simply, for being here.

The Bishop's School, Pune 

ALLAHABAD CIVIL LINES  NOSTALGIC MEMORIES

The LOLLYPOP Man

 THE LOLLYPOP MAN

 I can picture it even now — Exhibition Road, the traffic held up, a long line of boys spilling out from the school gates, some impatiently edging forward, and one of our support staff standing firmly in the middle of the road, lollipop stop sign raised high. As a master, I saw this scene countless times.

And somehow, that simple picture has stayed with me.

Who remembers it?

The boys were crossing from the school campus to Jeejeebhoy Ground — the Simba field — and back again. Occasionally, a teacher would take on the duty, and sometimes even Mr Beaman himself.

It was a small but important part of the daily rhythm of The Bishop’s School, Pune — care, kindness and a sense of duty.

Though the boys did not always make life easy! In their hurry to get across, some would suddenly dash into the road, completely ignoring the raised sign. I’m sure there were a few heart-in-the-mouth moments for the person trying to keep them safe.

Later, the same arrangement was used on the road between St Margaret’s field and the new Roberts Block.

It’s remarkable what the mind chooses to keep. Years later, an ordinary scene like this can bring back the boys, the masters, the grounds, the games and the countless little routines that made up our school days.

Were you ever one of those boys waiting to cross Exhibition Road? And do you remember the lollipop sign — and the person holding it?

Were you ever asked to hold it and help boys cross over?

The Bishop's School, Pune

Letting go

 MORNING REFLECTION 

**Sometimes, You Have to Let Go**

We spend so much of life learning how to hold on:

to plans, to people,

to dreams we once believed were meant for us,

taught that seeing things through

is the measure of strength.

But some roads that once felt right

stop feeling like home.

A job left after many good years.

Not because it was bad,

or the people were wrong,

but because something else, quietly, felt right instead.

Dreams age too.

Some belonged to an earlier version of ourselves:

worth everything then,

proud of even now,

but no longer the shape of who we've become.

That doesn't make those years a mistake.

We look back at them with gratitude, with affection,

the lessons, the friendships,

the people they built.

A thing doesn't have to last forever

to have mattered.

It was right for us then. It isn't now.

Life keeps moving. We move with it.

New rooms open,

and sometimes we notice, almost by accident,

that the life ahead fits better

than the one we're still holding.

A life well lived isn't measured

by how long we held on,

but by the gratitude for where we've been,

the nerve to stand where we are,

and the readiness to see

 where we're headed next.

On leading people

 Lead the Head. Earn the Trust. Touch the Heart.

Over 45 years in education, I have learnt a great deal about leadership simply by watching people. I have had some wonderful role models along the way, but some of my strongest lessons have also come from seeing what happens when leadership gets it wrong.

I first came across the terms Logos, Ethos and Pathos in a philosophical article I happened to read. The three words stayed with me because, the more I thought about them, the more I realised how closely they connect with leadership.

One thing I have learnt over the years is simple: you cannot force a good idea down someone’s throat. It's always been a big NO for me. 

The days of “because I said so” leadership are largely gone. Perhaps earlier generations accepted it more readily. Today, people want to understand why something needs to change, how it will work, what it will achieve and what difference it will make.

And I think that is a good thing.

That is where Logos, Ethos and Pathos come in.

Logos — make the case.

Give people the facts, evidence and reasoning behind an idea. Warren Buffett is a good example of the power of a clear, well-reasoned argument.

Ethos — earn the trust.

People need to believe in the person behind the message. Experience, character and consistency matter. Mahatma Gandhi demonstrated how leadership can be grounded in the credibility of the person as much as in the message.

Pathos — touch the heart.

Even the strongest argument may not move people unless they have a reason to care. Martin Luther King Jr. showed the extraordinary power of hope, purpose and emotional connection.

The best leaders use all three. The balance simply changes according to the person, the situation and the decision.

I remember an occasion in education when this became very real for me.

We were starting a particular prose book in Grade 9, and I suggested moving it to Grade 8.

There was understandable hesitation. Why change something that had been done the same way for years?

My reasoning was straightforward. Starting earlier would give teachers and pupils more time to teach, learn and assimilate the book, rather than having to rush through it.

We discussed the reasoning, the practicalities and the expected outcomes. But at some point, the conversation came back to the pupils themselves.

Why should learning be a race against time?

Why not give children the space to understand, absorb and enjoy what they are learning?

The discussion gradually became less about moving a book from Grade 9 to Grade 8 and more about a simple question: what is better for learning?

That experience reinforced something I have seen throughout my career. Leadership is not about forcing people to accept your idea. It is about helping them understand it, trust it and, ultimately, see why it matters.

Logos makes the case.

Ethos earns the trust.

Pathos touches the heart.

When you bring all three together, you move beyond compliance.

You create commitment.

The invisible leader

 # If You Are Not Visible, You Are Invisible

There is an old comfort in the idea of leading from behind: the quiet architect, letting others take the bow while the real work happens off-stage. It sounds humble. For years I half-believed it myself. Somewhere along the way we started mistaking absence for humility, and I think the UAE, of all places, is where that excuse finally runs out of road.

I remember being that quiet one myself, decades ago, at the back of my first staff meeting hoping nobody would ask my opinion. What if I said something foolish? What if the senior staff decided, quite reasonably, I had no business being in the room at all? It took years to learn the back of the room is not where careers are made, however comfortable the wall feels against your shoulder blades. I grew into someone rather different, though he'd probably still recognise the handwriting.

Watch young leaders and you'll see the same two mistakes repeating. Some shout from the rooftops before they've earned the right to — every opinion posted, every meeting narrated, presence mistaken for substance. Others go quiet almost immediately, hand in solid work, and step back, mistaking retreat for professionalism. Neither is leadership yet. But it's the second group that worries me more, because timidity, left alone, doesn't correct itself with age. It calcifies.

## The Slow Disappearance

Give it fifteen years and watch the quiet ones. They rise a certain distance on real competence — middle leadership, a department, a rung or two up the ladder — then stall and slowly fade. They rarely reach the top, because nobody remembers the last time this person took an actual position on something. There's a phrase for the type, half-affectionate, half-damning: the invisible angel, supposedly holding everything together backstage, whom nobody has actually heard speak in a crisis. Wonderful at the job. Impossible to locate when the roof is on fire.

## Now Say the Quiet Part

Maybe that self-effacing style worked once, fifty years ago, when a leader could run things by paperwork and let results talk. That world is largely gone, and it's especially gone here. You don't have to look far for the model. Dubai's own leadership has long understood this instinctively — a ruler regularly seen walking among ordinary people in malls and public spaces, sharing leadership reflections directly with millions of followers rather than through intermediaries, has made visibility part of governing itself. Not for its own sake, but as reassurance that someone is present and reachable. Worth studying, whatever chair you occupy.

## Visible Is Not the Same as Loud

Before anyone pictures me forever hovering at your shoulder, let me stop you there — that isn't it either. There's a particular horror reserved for the leader visible in entirely the wrong way: reading over your keyboard, sitting in on meetings just to sit in, treating "staying close to the work" as licence for helicopter parenting with a job title attached. I've met that leader too, and frankly, I'd rather deal with the invisible one. At least you know where you stand with an absent boss.

Real visibility sits calmer than either extreme. It's being known, not everywhere. People trusting that if something breaks, you'll show up and deal with it, without needing you at their shoulder the rest of the time to believe it. When something goes wrong, they know whose door to knock on. When it goes right, they know who noticed.

## What This Actually Costs You

In the end, it asks for courage rather than volume. A memo is easy to send from behind a closed door. Standing in a room to defend it in person is not. So ask yourself, whatever you happen to lead — a classroom, a company, a family: can people find you when it matters? Or has staying comfortably unseen quietly become your way of stepping back?

That timid young man at the back of the staff room couldn't have answered that question honestly. I'd like to think I finally can. I doubt anyone remembers the ones who worked hardest in the shadows. I think they remember the ones who could be found — not for applause, but because someone needed to know where to look.

If you are not visible, you are invisible. And the unseen leader, however well-intentioned, rarely leaves much behind worth remembering.