As dawn breaks

 At 4.30 am.

As Dawn Breaks

On sleepless mornings, old habits, and the quiet comfort of tea

I often wake far too early—

that strange, suspended hour

when the world still sleeps

and even dreams hesitate to leave.

Eyes open, mind restless,

I wait for morning—

a dear friend who promised to come early but never does.

What a waste, I tell myself,

to lie here letting thoughts tumble and twist—

Will it rain today, or has the weatherman missed again?

What a tiring yet fulfilling day it was yesterday.

The carnivals rocked many a world.

What’s coming up next week?

Has the cat’s coughing eased?

Did that expensive plant survive the night?

And what are the neighbours dragging about

at this unholy hour?

I wonder how the day will pan out.

Should I make a to-do list—

or simply drift into another thought?

Before dawn, the mind becomes a restless bird,

flitting from weather to breakfast,

from the past to the improbable.

So perhaps it’s wiser to give up the struggle—

rise quietly, brew a cup of tea,

and see what the world’s been up to while I lay awake.

They say there are morning people and night people.

I’ve always been the former—

though my band days were quite the opposite.

We often played till dawn,

our guitars humming softly as the city yawned awake.

Funny how easily youth traded sleep for song.

My mother was the true morning soul—

up before the sun,

tidying her room,

then sitting with her tea,

dunking biscuits, rustling the newspaper—

her small ritual of peace

before the world began to call.

Perhaps that’s where I get it from—

not discipline, but affection for the hour itself.

From Allahabad to Pune to Dubai,

mornings have followed me faithfully.

In Allahabad, we slept outside under open skies,

the air thick with mango-scented warmth,

mosquito coils burning like lazy comets in the dark.

At dawn we woke fresh as daisies,

the city stretching,

the birds rehearsing their first notes.

In Pune too, we slept on the terrace in summer—

vast, starlit, full of whispers.

Sometimes we were sure we’d heard ghosts—

soft footsteps, shifting shadows,

a curtain moving when no one was there.

Perhaps it was only the wind,

but dawn always felt like deliverance.

And now in Dubai,

the same habit remains—

this quiet friendship with the hour before light.

The city sleeps, the desert holds its breath,

and I sit with my tea,

watching the pink edge of morning

slide across the sky.

“Early to bed and early to rise,” they said,

“makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.”

Two out of three will do.

The early bird catches the worm, true—

though sometimes it only catches itself awake too soon.

I remember exam mornings—

the scratch of a pen,

tea in a blue and white china mug,

the quiet pride of being awake before the world.

Now, years later,

the house is still,

the air cool and clean.

I sip my tea,

watching the first light touch the walls—

and guess what I’m thinking of, as dawn breaks?

Whether I should… perhaps…

take a nap.

Crazy isn't it ?

War by Algorithm

 

War by Algorithm: Human or Machine?

"The real danger is not that computers will begin to think like men, but that men will begin to think like computers." — Sydney J. Harris

Could the next world war start not with human anger, but with a machine? It may sound dramatic, but the risk is real. A system misreading data, reacting to false signals, or being manipulated by a reckless leader could spiral into catastrophe before anyone even notices.

AI is already reshaping military strategy. Autonomous weapons, cyber warfare, and AI-driven defense systems can process vast amounts of information and act in seconds — faster than any human. That speed may give nations an edge, but it leaves little room for reflection or restraint.

Even more dangerous is intent. Authoritarian or reckless leaders might exploit AI to provoke conflict — or hide behind it. An “unfortunate malfunction” could be blamed on the machine, while the real motive remains hidden. When human intent meets rapid AI development, the consequences could be catastrophic.

The United States, China, Russia, and more than thirty other nations are developing autonomous military systems, often without ethical guidelines. The more decisions we hand over to machines, the less meaningful human control becomes — until it might not matter at all.

Then there’s disinformation. Deepfakes and AI-generated content flood social media daily — videos and images so convincing they blur truth and falsehood. In tense political moments, one fake “attack” or fabricated statement could spark real retaliation. Reality and deception have never been so dangerously close.

Governments have countless war think tanks — planning and preparing for conflict. Yet while we build intelligent machines, we spend little time preparing for peace. Why not peace think tanks instead? Most humans prefer peace, yet we focus more on destruction than prevention. A paradox, if ever there was one.

The true test for humanity may not be how smart our machines become, but how wisely we use them — and how deeply we value peace itself. Perhaps the greatest challenge of our time is remembering that preparing for war should never outweigh preparing for peace. Because in the end, no machine can replace our choice to think, to pause, and to choose peace.

Economy class

 Economy Class: Survival of the Fittest at 30,000 Feet

Air travel is a curious mix of anticipation, hope, and barely-contained anxiety. You check in, clear immigration, grab your duty-free goodies, and finally settle into your seat, whispering the same prayer: PLEASE GOD, let the seat next to me be empty—but if it isn’t, let it be someone friendly, tidy, and considerate.

Don’t judge me—just a little wish.

This was a short, three-hour flight in economy.

As I entered, a smiling air hostess welcomed me, and I caught a glimpse of the pilot, silently hoping for a smooth ride. She pointed me to my seat as passengers filed past: a gentleman juggling three carry-ons like a circus act, a tourist snapping selfies at every overhead locker, and a teen with headphones so loud they could wake the dead. I felt a trifle suffocated as the AC was yet to take effect, and the doors were about to close. The seat beside me appeared empty, and I breathed a brief sigh of relief.

But no—a family of three arrived, shattering any hopes of a quiet journey. A burly, scruffy husband with a beard and a T-shirt boldly proclaiming “TRY ME” strode in, followed by a wife who was quite the looker and smartly turned out in contrast to him (and I wondered what she saw in him) and their two-year-old boy. Mischievous would be putting it mildly—the child was more than a handful and certainly hungry. The wife scolded the child, the husband scolded the wife, and together they were a combustible couple. The cosmos, it seemed, was decidedly against me.

Once settled, the mother juggled bags, the father hoisted the stroller overhead, and the child fidgeted endlessly. I shrank into my aisle seat, watching the commotion teeter dangerously close to my laptop and duty-free goodies. The engines hummed, announcements echoed, passengers shifted—and then came the safety demonstration. The air hostesses moved with a mix of precision and awkwardness; their rehearsed gestures were endearing, and it always made me smile.

Economy class was truly a living, breathing organism, full of motion, noise, and human idiosyncrasies.

Throughout the flight, they kept crossing over to go to the washroom, take care of the child, or summon the air hostess for freebies—turning my aisle seat into a revolving door. I always take the aisle; claustrophobic, I need the tiny illusion of escape.

Meal time arrived with its usual theatrics: plastic trays balanced precariously, elbows jostling, and passengers trying to navigate food in thirty inches of space. The husband and wife both attempted to feed the child at the same time, resulting in a comical tug-of-war with a spoon. The boy, clearly unimpressed, grabbed at their trays, flung a morsel of chicken into the aisle, and then squealed triumphantly, launching into a full-throated wail, a sound so fearless and loud it seemed to challenge the very limits of altitude.

And then came the sneezing. The husband, wearing a mask, sneezed twice—and it was like an avalanche crashing through the cabin. Memories of COVID haunted me, but I could see he was otherwise fine. I tried to maintain composure, sipping my drink and silently thanking the universe that my laptop and duty-free treasures were still intact.

I reminded myself things could have been worse. Train travel in India—the jostling crowds, vendors climbing over my seat, luggage chaos, the smell of chai and spices, passengers perched everywhere—made economy class feel almost civilized: cramped, chaotic, mildly irritating, but manageable.

And yet, amid all this, there was something wonderfully human about it—a small community suspended in the sky, pretending to be comfortable, bound by turbulence, bad coffee, and reluctant tolerance.

Economy class isn’t just air travel. It’s humanity—compressed, tested, and still somehow enduring.

When life isn't fair

 

When Life Isn’t Fair: Lessons in Patience and Perseverance

We were raised on a beautiful story — but have you ever paused to consider what that story truly promised?

We were told that the world is fair, that people are kind, and that if we worked hard and played by the rules, life would reward us in equal measure. It was comforting to believe that goodness guarantees success — that effort is always noticed, that honesty always wins. We carried that story in our hearts for decades , expecting life to mirror it, only to discover that reality is often more complex.

Life does not always follow the story we were told. The field is rarely level, quiet efforts may go unnoticed, and good intentions do not always bring immediate recognition and that is frustrating .

Like many, I have faced setbacks. I was overlooked for promotions as a young man and sometimes ignored when convenient.

I didn’t have a fairy Godmother, a Godfather  pulling strings, nor any inheritance to fall back on— I started from scratch. Yet over time, steady effort, perseverance, a commitment to growth, continuous learning, and the encouragement of those around me have shown their worth. Recognition often comes late — better late than never — and in that waiting, we learn patience, resilience, and quiet strength. Through consistent effort and dedication, I have been fortunate to reach the pinnacle of my profession and to be rewarded in ways beyond what I could have ever imagined.

We cannot control how others act or how events unfold. What we can control is our own response. Stand firm when the winds shift, and maintain balance when the path is uneven. Life is not a sprint; it is a marathon — over different terrain, with hills, valleys, and unexpected turns. True strength is not about status; it is the ability to stay composed, gracious, and hopeful, even when circumstances are challenging.

Every challenge is a chance to grow. Hard work and integrity build character, even when rewards are delayed, and that character is its own reward.

Even in a world that can disappoint, we can find grounding in gratitude — for the people who stand by us, for small victories often overlooked, for the simple wonder of a new day. Gratitude restores perspective and gives us the strength to move forward with grace and purpose.

The story we were told as children was oh so beautiful — that goodness would always be rewarded. Life offers a subtler truth: more often than not we cannot always choose what happens, but we can choose how we meet it. And in that choice lies our strength, our grace, and our peace.

And so we rise — sometimes slowly, sometimes nervously and unsurely — not because life is fair, but because giving up is never an option for most of us . We have to succeed in order to live . We rise because there is still work to do, people who believe in us, and dreams that deserve another try. Every small step, every honest effort, counts for more than we know.

And in that steady rising, we find something far greater than success — we find our strength, our peace, and our purpose.

 

The wandering Geography of the Soul

 

The Wandering Geography of the Soul

“You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.” — John Lennon

Do you dream — and truly remember what drifts through your mind when sleep takes you? Or do they vanish like morning mist, leaving only fragments — a colour, a sound, a fleeting feeling that seems both familiar and strange? Are they painted in vivid detail, whispered in shadow, or glimpsed in that twilight between memory and imagination? I dream often — vague, strange dreams that sometimes feel more real than waking life.

I have often found myself atop tall buildings, ledges, and hills — frozen, unsure how to descend, only to awaken in a cold sweat. I have spoken to strangers whose faces seemed half-remembered, boarded trains to nameless destinations, wandered through markets alive with colour, and soared above trees that glitter in morning light. In an hour, I have known terror and wonder, met those long departed, attended unseen meetings, and done the impossible — and it all felt real.

Sometimes, I find myself in Allahabad — wandering St. Joseph’s or The Boys’ High School, hearing bells and laughter, or strolling through Civil Lines, passing shops alive with colour and chatter. I pause, breathing in the smells and sounds, waiting to meet something lost but not forgotten. Often, these dreams bring people who have passed, their faces luminous, their presence quiet but unmistakable. The streets, the shops, the quiet stir of early morning — they pull me back. And in the same breath, they push me forward into another world.

From there, I drift to Pune. Bishop’s School rises before me, sunlight catching the windows as boys dart across the field. Even in serious moments, dreams wander into humour. I remember teaching Shakespeare, glancing at the boys — a few quietly daydreaming, one replaying a recent crush, another composing an ode to newfound love. I smiled. Even the Bard would have been amused.

Dreams are mysterious. I even have a book on dream interpretation, though it feels mostly generic. Still, the allure remains — trying to decode these nightly wanderings, knowing that the real meaning may lie only in the feeling of the dream itself.

Then, as if the world tilts, I am in Dubai — a city of glass and gold, humming with restless energy. I walk through school halls where the desert wind hums against tall windows. Familiar faces greet me — some from here, some from elsewhere. Allahabad merges with Sharjah, Pune with Dubai. Borders dissolve. Time folds. Memory and imagination entwine.

Through it all, there is movement — a quiet current carrying me from one life to another. Sometimes, I remember every detail: the sunlight on a classroom window, the laughter of a child, the scent of guavas by the river. Other times, the journey vanishes, leaving only a trace — a feeling, a sound, a whisper. Then, a song or a scent returns the dream — alive and complete.

There are dreams within dreams — layers folding inward — until I rise, uncertain of what is real. And then it occurs to me: all this wandering, these impossible journeys, these encounters, unfold in that secret realm where reason sleeps.

Perhaps dreams are the soul’s quiet pilgrimage — a nightly unbinding from the body, a silent voyage through time and memory, before returning in that single, sacred instant of morning. Dreams are not merely escapism; they are the soul’s subtle way of exploring, experimenting, and sometimes manifesting the worlds we long for.

And in that fragile moment between sleep and day, I linger — feeling the echo of all I have lived and loved, all I have feared and imagined. Perhaps both worlds are true, entwined like threads of the same tapestry. Perhaps each night, we do not merely dream — we remember, we wander, we live again, and glimpse, if only for a moment, the boundless possibilities of being 

The quiet power of respect

 

The Quiet Power of Respect: Leadership in Everyday Life

"Consideration for others is earned, not demanded."

Growing up in Allahabad, I learned early that genuine regard for others comes from actions, not status. My mother treated everyone — the postman, vegetable seller, neighbours, and the Ayah, milkman, dhobi, and rickshaw man — with the same warmth and dignity. Valuing others’ worth was a principle she lived daily, shaping both personal behaviour and the wider fabric of society.

Years later, in the UAE, her lessons came alive. I went to complete paperwork in an office late one evening. A local gentleman — the manager — stayed back to assist me. Polished yet genuine, patient yet unassuming, he calmly explained every detail. When it was done, he simply said, “I’m glad I could help.” That small gesture revealed a vital truth: empathy and courtesy are at the heart of character.

Leadership depends on treating people with dignity. Leaders who acknowledge the ideas, time, and individuality of every team member foster environments where people feel valued and motivated to excel. The most admired leaders invite dialogue, listen more than they speak, and see disagreement as an opportunity to learn.

"Give everyone a voice and act with empathy."

Civility matters in everyday life. In meetings, on calls, in queues, while driving, at the supermarket, or at home, patience and courtesy are essential. Cutting in line, speaking over colleagues, or dismissing opinions may seem small, but these actions erode trust. Granting others a voice, approaching them with understanding, and avoiding arrogance are simple ways to practice consideration. Even small acts, like being punctual and not keeping others waiting, demonstrate genuine regard for others.

Yet basic civility is increasingly overlooked. Society revolves around “I, me, and myself,” with entitlement replacing empathy. Road rage, supermarket impatience, shouting over colleagues, or assuming you are always “right” are all too common. Disregard for others is visible even among world leaders, broadcast for all to see. Sarcasm, caustic remarks, and shutting others down are becoming the norm. If those in power behave this way, what example are we setting for future generations?

"Good examples at home and school nurture empathy and responsibility."

Children guided to treat siblings, elders, and helpers with courtesy develop integrity and self-discipline. Balancing confidence with civility nurtures adults capable of humility, leadership, and genuine connection. Parents and educators must insist on decency — firm guidance, coupled with care, is not harsh; it is essential.

"Empathy costs nothing, yet its absence can unravel relationships."

Character is not measured by power or position. It is reflected in the dignity, empathy, and fairness we extend — at work, at home, and in daily life. Small, consistent acts of kindness strengthen relationships, build communities, and shape the leaders of tomorrow. They are the quiet force that can restore civility, humility, and humanity in a world increasingly focused on self.

"Leadership is shown by the dignity you give, not power you hold."

Racing Through Life

 

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Racing Through Life, Missing the Moments

I often find myself reflecting on whether we—adults and children alike—truly have the chance to enjoy life amidst schedules, screens, and endless deadlines. Life is not a 100-metre dash, and not everyone was born to shatter records or hoard accolades. While ambition and achievement matter, our obsession with success risks sprinting past the very life we are meant to inhabit.

A slow weekend morning feels almost subversive: tea steaming gently in a cup, newspapers scattered across the garden table, dew shimmering on the grass, and my cat stretching languidly in the sun, yawning with an air of complete entitlement. Today, I felt an irresistible urge to play my guitar—and I did—allowing the familiar, vibrant chords to resonate through the quiet and remind me that I still have the touch. As the music lingered, I thought of George Harrison’s words with The Beatles: "Here comes the sun, and I say, it’s all right," and I leaned back, letting time expand, unhurried, for once.

Life wasn’t always this frantic. Back then, time moved at a gentler pace: growing up in Allahabad, afternoons drifted at the speed of a ceiling fan—deliberate, measured, generous. Later, as a young teacher in Pune, evenings stretched into billiards games, idle chatter, and long-playing Beatles records, which we listened to from start to finish, without shuffle, skipping, or algorithms dictating the next track. Life contained pauses, silences, and the spaces between the notes, a luxury almost unimaginable today.

Now, everyone is perpetually in motion, rushing from one back-to-back meeting to the next, swallowing fast food in a single gulp, inhaling, devouring, wolfing it down like a competitive sport, while creases are etched across brows and bags swell beneath eyes that seldom see sunlight—all courtesy of our modern holy trinity: laptop, TV, phone. Pills are popped to offset ever-depleted energy, and umpteen cups of caffeinated drinks keep vitality dripping like IVs in hospitals. Even words are shortened to acronyms and emoji—but what are we doing with the time saved? Ask around: almost everyone is perpetually exhausted, stress has become a byword, and if you’re successful, you’re stressed. Something doesn’t click, and I don’t think I’m wrong.

Driving has ceased to be travel; it has become a high-stakes endurance event, horns blaring like war drums, airports transformed into conveyor belts of fatigue, and trains and planes hurtling along while passengers hurtle through inboxes, social media, and urgent group chats. The world itself has become a maelstrom of motion, frenzy, and minor panic; at this rate, I am left pondering the future—will our children one day commute via teleportation pods while simultaneously attending five meetings in zero gravity?

And, as if to taunt us, scientists say the Earth is literally spinning faster on its axis than before, shaving milliseconds off our days, perhaps explaining our obsession with “instant”: instant coffee, instant noodles, instant downloads, instant messaging, instant everything—except, ironically, instant serenity.

And while I sit—the old man I am—and ruminate, there are those already partly exhausted, partly disillusioned, who have accomplished! (Yes, joke intended.) Somewhere along the way, life became a checklist, and we forgot that joy cannot be ticked off.

Perfection has other dimensions. It is not only quantified by achievements, grades, or Instagram-worthy lives; it resides in laughter that leaves your ribs aching, lying back to watch cloud-animals drift across the sky, or listening to a child invent a game that makes perfect sense to them—these are the trophies that endure.

Don’t mistake me: I am not suggesting we abandon effort, discipline, or ambition—these are essential to growth and achievement. But as an educator, I see too often that ceaseless activity and a relentless chase for perfection do not equal learning, fulfillment, or true success. Excellence is measured not only by accomplishments, but by balance, presence, and the ability to savor life along the way.

Perhaps time hasn’t actually shortened; it is our relationship with it that has changed. Once, we lived life like an LP record: patient, deliberate, each song flowing seamlessly into the next. Now we live on shuffle, always clicking “next,” never hearing the tune through.

Here’s the truth: nobody remembers the “greatest person alive,” mainly because there never was one; what endures are the moments we gave, the time we shared, the laughter we sparked, the stillness we allowed ourselves to inhabit.

So stop sprinting. Step back. Slow down, and let life be measured not by checklists, screens, or accolades but by presence, by the ordinary joys we too often overlook; for if we do not recalibrate, we risk raising a generation that knows only frenzy, never pause, never the music between the notes, and then, one day, we may look around and realize that in our race for perfection, we have forgotten how to live

Reflections of a Shakespeare Amateur

 “Learning my lines, cracking my joints, and still stealing a laugh or two.”

Reflections of a Shakespearean Amateur: Still Learning, Still Laughing

It was 5 a.m., my early-morning cuppa in hand, pondering life, the universe, and the curious case of vanishing socks — profound questions, all of them. Outside, the world was still asleep, giving me a rare audience of one: me, my thoughts, and the slightly judgmental cat silently assessing my wisdom. Two timid tabbies mewed meekly outside, politely pleading for their morning snack, reminding me that even at 5 a.m., life has its small but persistent demands.

I’ve reached that wonderful age Shakespeare so memorably described in As You Like It as “the lean and slippered pantaloon, with spectacles on nose and pouch on side.” The Bard knew exactly what he was talking about — a stage of life rich in experience, occasionally creaky in the joints, and gloriously free of pretense. Just in case you’re wondering, yes — I’m still alert, decisive, and fully in command of my faculties. Muscles occasionally twinge, joints click and pop, but I take it in stride — proof that years add character, not limitations, and that even the most stubborn knees can occasionally offer a soliloquy of their own. I must admit, I’m a bit of a brat — I even Googled my name the other day and was pleasantly surprised at what I found! Apparently, I’m a teeny-weeny bit known, which I decided to enjoy without taking it too seriously.

Home is where life’s lessons hit hardest and funniest — and I’m happily outnumbered by the women in my life. Wife, daughters, granddaughters, even the cats — all demanding my attention in the best possible way. My two granddaughters think I’m hilarious — which, frankly, is the fan club I’ve always wanted. They laugh at my jokes with such conviction that I sometimes suspect they’d give me a standing ovation just for sneezing in rhythm. Between them and the rest of the household, I’ve learned humility, patience, and the art of surviving polite but relentless interrogation.

At work, the scene is much the same: teachers, principals, leadership teams — a dynamic, predominantly female environment that keeps me engaged, alert, and constantly learning. Leading six of the UAE’s largest schools sharpens the mind like nothing else, and the teaching profession has a unique way of keeping you young, no matter how many candles are on your cake. I laugh, I make others laugh, and I enjoy it — with clarity, intelligence, and perspective.

I’ve earned my applause, and it’s still very much there on a regular basis — but I take it with a smile, not as a measure of my worth. Over the years, I’ve commanded stages, delivered keynotes and TED Talks, and led leadership training sessions in many settings. I am passionate about writing for newspapers and my blog, and while I’m no social-media influencer, my presence online keeps me connected, curious, and fully engaged.

Running into former pupils worldwide, seeing their respect, intelligence, and achievements, reminds me that I must have done something of worth in the classroom over the years — and it fills me with genuine pride.

I’ve been in the spotlight in many forms — as a musician, a headmaster in Pune, a school principal, and now as the leader of six of the UAE’s largest schools. I still work hard, I still dress sharp, and I still laugh loud — often at myself. Life is enjoyable because I choose it to be; I believe it’s worth living, and that belief shapes the way I show up every day. I enjoy surprising people — including myself — and I’m grateful for the mix of work, family, humour, and reflection that keeps me fully engaged.

The younger me chased the world’s applause; the older me just wants to keep learning, laughing, and making the most of every curious, joyful, unpredictable twist life throws my way!

Please stop confusing us dear ladies

 Dear Ladies, Stop Confusing Us Gentlemen…We’re Trying!

From shoes to colours, sizes to cushions—how men survive the chaos.

Before I begin, let me say this: I love and admire the women in my life—my wife, my daughters, and all the incredible women around me. This is written in affectionate humour, celebrating your style, flair, and unmatched attention to detail. We were never in the picture because we can never match up ! 

Ladies, do you really have to make shoes, clothes, and colours so impossibly complicated—while laughing at us poor men?

Shoes, for instance. Men have three types: black, brown, and a pair or two of sneakers. Simple. Straightforward. Women? One might say, “I need nude kitten heels with a block heel, slingback strap, and faux suede.” To men, that sounds less like shoes and more like a puzzle.

Stilettos, wedges, platforms, kitten heels, pumps, peep-toes,  loafers, ballerinas, espadrilles, Mary Janes, gladiators, clogs, ankle boots, thigh-high boots, cowboy boots, combat boots, sneakers, trainers, mules, slides, flip-flops, sandals,  ballet flats, oxford shoes, moccasins, brogues, Chelsea boots, over-the-knee boots, court shoes, T-strap heels, chunky heels, wedge sneakers, wedges… if it can be worn—or fallen off—there’s a name for it.

And just when you think you’ve caught up, a new style appears. Like an invention no one saw coming.

Clothes are no easier. Men have shirts, trousers, shorts, a few suits, T-shirts, track pants—in boring colours like blue, grey, black, or white. Done. They hardly try clothes; maybe shoes if they’re in the mood. Women? Encyclopedia Britannica.

Blouses, camisoles, tunics, halter-necks, crop tops, tube tops, wrap tops, cardigans, shrugs, ponchos, capes.

Skirts: A-line, pencil, skater, mini, midi, maxi, pleated, tiered.

Trousers: leggings, jeggings, treggings, palazzos, chinos, capris.

Dresses: wrap, shift, sheath, bodycon, gown, sundress.

Outerwear: trench coat, duster, pea coat.

It’s a fashion dictionary… and a vocabulary test all at once.

Sizes add another layer of complexity. Men? Ask for medium, large, 40, or 42—try it, done. Women? Irrespective of build, they always go for the smaller size. Twist, squeeze, hold your breath—and proudly declare, “See? Size 8!” Meanwhile, the zip is begging for mercy.

Makeup and skincare are another universe. Men? Aftershave, deodorant, out the door in five seconds.

Women? Morning and night, it’s a ritual: foundation, concealer, powder, blush, highlighter, mascara, eyeliner, eyebrow pencil, lipstick, lip balm, setting spray… plus night creams, serums, masks, toners, moisturizers, exfoliators.

Mud face masks are particularly terrifying. They can transform a perfectly normal human into a creature from a horror film. Apply, wait, rinse, repeat. Like running a small chemistry lab on the face.

Soaps tell their own story. Men? One bar, one type, works for everything.

Women? Exfoliating, moisturizing, whitening, brightening, scented, unscented, glycerin, herbal, charcoal, honey, rose… each with a purpose, each with a shelf of its own.

Colours are the ultimate battlefield. Men: blue, grey, white, black—occasional pinstripes if feeling adventurous.

Women: teal, turquoise, aquamarine, sapphire, blush, rose, fuchsia, salmon, magenta, flamingo, champagne, ivory, cream, oyster, beige, nude, emerald, mint, sage, moss, olive… and the ever-tricky seafoam mist. Men call it green. Women know better.

And my daughters? Both are precise about design, colours, and room arrangements—every detail must be just so. Watching them organize their spaces is like observing tiny decorators at work: stylish, uncompromising, effortlessly beautiful. It’s easy to see where they get it from.

Everyday life becomes a comedy show. Decorating a room feels like a diplomatic mission. Asked, “Ivory or oyster?” Men nod, “Yes.”

Shown two cushions: “Which matches better?” Both beige, of course. But apparently, one is mushroom—and that is a matter of national importance. Other couples argue over shoes. Some over colours. Men? One cushion, done. Women? Teal or turquoise? The debate is endless.

Yet for all the quirks, obsessions, and rituals, life would be unimaginably boring without women. Their style, their colour, their sparkle, their humour—these make the world vibrant and unpredictable.

We love women—for their strength, charm, humour, and the way they make life infinitely richer every single day.

Men—are we stupid or just really, really dumb? Probably both.

But without women, we’d be wandering around clueless, wearing mismatched socks, and calling beige “grey.” And somehow, we still love it.

Family First

 

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Family First: Reclaiming Childhood in a Digital World

Raising children who feel, play, and love in a world of distractions.

Children today have hundreds of digital “friends,” yet many sit alone in their rooms. Screens promise connection, but what they deliver is isolation—and childhood is quietly slipping away. Families gather at the same table but live in different worlds—each member bent over a device, together yet alone.

Not long ago, childhood was about running barefoot, scraped knees, and laughter echoing in real rooms. Streets and fields brimmed with children spilling out of homes, free and unshackled. Afternoons glowed golden, dust rising beneath our racing feet, mingling with the scent of pakoras and the fragrance after rain.

We played cricket with rubber balls, wickets made of sticks, hearts racing in hide-and-seek behind banyan trees. We shouted, fought, and reconciled within minutes. Kites climbed into the sky, tails fluttering; marbles clicked in the dust, and every game taught patience, compromise, and belonging.

Evenings belonged to family: stories shared, laughter echoing across verandahs, presence uninterrupted by devices. Loneliness felt impossible.

How different childhood feels today. Many children sit alone—headphones on, faces lit by glowing pixels, companionship reduced to digital echoes. Conflicts are patched with emojis, victories celebrated with stickers, secrets whispered into the void. Their bodies move less, lungs burn less from running, and friendships unfold in artificial spaces that lack warmth and presence.

“More voices, more faces—yet less true connection.”

The dangers run deeper for the youngest. Studies reveal a sharp rise in anxiety, depression, and feelings of inadequacy among children tethered to devices. Every filtered image whispers that they are not enough. One careless comment can cut like a blade; one post can unravel a child’s confidence. Surrounded by hundreds of digital “friends,” too many feel unseen and unloved.

Our ancestors may have lived slower, narrower lives, but they were rarely as lonely—or anxious—as children today. Devices magnify comparisons, amplify insecurities, and replace real friendships with fleeting likes.

Schools, of course, require children to use technology at home for research and assignments. Used wisely, it is a powerful tool for learning. But the danger is when it replaces family time, play, and conversation. Children do not need more apps—they need time to play, share meals where laughter spills across the table, and experience presence that cannot be downloaded.

“They need parents who look them in the eye, not at a screen.”

They need to fall, fight, and forgive in real games; to run until their lungs ache; to know the strength of a hug and the reassurance of a hand held tightly.

There is hope. We can still raise a generation that laughs loudly, feels deeply, and loves fully. Let children chase marbles in the dust, send kites soaring into tangled branches, run until joy echoes down the street. Let families reclaim the dinner table, talk face-to-face, share freely, and truly be present for one another.

The call is simple yet urgent: family first, always.

Wise leadership cuts through the clutter

 

Cutting Through the Clutter: How Wise Leaders Lead
Lessons in clarity, simplicity, and discernment from decades of experience in education and leadership.

In a world crowded with jargon, endless slides, and competing voices, true leadership stands out by being quiet, simple, and deliberate.

When I was growing up, life was simpler, and people were easier to read—a smile meant what it said, a frown meant what it felt. I often think of my mother, who is no longer with us, and the quiet lessons she gave me. She had a way of seeing people clearly, understanding hearts without a word, and showing love and patience in even the smallest actions. Those lessons—her calmness, honesty, and kindness—have stayed with me, shaping how I connect with others, even in complex professional settings.

As Lao Tzu said, "Simplicity, patience, compassion. These three are your greatest treasures."

Today, life—and meetings—can feel very different. Interactions are layered, cautious, and often more about impression than clarity. I often wonder: how can we make conversations meaningful? How can we ensure time together fosters understanding rather than confusion, and progress rather than noise? These questions have guided my work in education and leadership for decades.

“Clarity and simplicity matter more than eloquence aimed at confusion.”

In leading schools and teams, patterns repeat themselves. Some dominate discussions, some present information that is hard to digest, and some rely on language that confuses more than it clarifies. I remember one meeting where a single slide had multiple charts and graphs crammed into it—I had to squint and nudge a colleague to make sense of it. By the end, most of the audience was lost. Sometimes I catch myself thinking: how often do we, even with the best intentions, make communication harder than it needs to be?

Then there is jargon. Phrases like “leverage synergies for scalable outcomes,” “drill down into core competencies,” or “drive actionable insights through data-driven paradigms” sound impressive but rarely clarify anything. How many people leave meetings enlightened, and how many leave wondering what happened? These moments remind us that not every point requires a response, and not every argument is worth pursuing. Great leadership is about discernment—knowing when to engage, when to step back, and when to focus energy on what truly matters.

Dealing with adults, just as with children, requires differentiation. Some thrive on detail; others need clarity. Leaders must create spaces where everyone can contribute. Meetings and discussions can be opportunities for collaboration—but only if we structure them with purpose, listen actively, and communicate clearly.

Over the years, I’ve learned that restraint often trumps argument. Sometimes the wisest action is to pause, reflect, and redirect energy toward solutions. Folding your arms, smiling politely, and focusing on what matters is often the path to influence and respect.

Keeping communication simple, honest, and respectful benefits everyone. Clarity fosters trust; brevity fosters understanding; patience fosters collaboration. Each interaction, no matter how small, is an opportunity to lead with purpose.

Reflecting on these experiences is not about blame—it’s about growth. We must constantly ask: how can we communicate more clearly? How can we create meaningful spaces for dialogue? How can we lead with patience, clarity, and empathy?

As Peter Drucker wisely said, "Effective leadership is defined by results, clarity, and the ability to make people think."

“Great leadership is about the spaces you create for understanding and growth.”

After all these years, seeing teams and students navigate challenges, it is clear that wise leaders know this approach leaves a lasting impact on their communities.

 

Leadership is not about titles—it’s about showing your value and creating other leaders

 Leadership is not about titles—it’s about showing your value and creating other leaders.

Have you ever been thrown into a situation so overwhelming that you had no choice but to rise—or sink? No one is ever fully ready for leadership, but the moment you act, adapt, and show your worth is when your real strength emerges.

In my forty-five years in education, I’ve seen almost everything—challenging leaders, petty rivalries, jealousy, backstabbing, and sweet smiles hiding devious hearts. I’ve also seen resilience, dedication, and extraordinary professionalism. I’ve learned to see the funny side of things, which keeps me grounded and reminds me not to take myself too seriously.

I had everything going for me in Pune—experience, qualifications, a proven track record—yet things didn’t fall into place. It would have been easy to give up. Instead, I took a leap of faith and moved to the UAE to join GEMS. That decision changed everything. I became Principal of an exceptional school, and today I serve as Executive Vice President, overseeing some of the largest Indian schools in the GEMS network. I work alongside talented, committed professionals. And no matter the role, I will always be a teacher at heart—teaching is an extraordinary profession.

There will always be challenges—roadblocks, frustrating moments, seemingly insurmountable problems, and never enough hours in the day. It’s no use whining—learn to make things happen. Adapt, keep learning, and let others see what you are good at. Don’t hide your talents under a bushel. Look the part. Walk the part. Talk the part. Step up when opportunities arise—they rarely knock twice. True strength comes from being self-made. Show courage, determination, and relentless passion.

Leadership is about respect, empathy, and transparency. I treat everyone—from the senior-most colleague to the watchman—with equal respect. I believe in fair play, without favoritism, and in giving people a chance to shine on merit. A true leader creates other leaders. I’m proud that over a dozen staff who worked under me as Principal have become Principals themselves. Seeing them thrive is deeply rewarding.

Yet I am far from perfect, and I am learning every day. You’d be amazed at how much you can learn simply by observing those around you—their strengths, mistakes, and small habits that make them effective. Reflect, laugh, and grow along the way.

The time to act is now. Don’t wait. Don’t hesitate. Step up, lead, and make your mark. Show your value, embrace the challenge, and leave a legacy that will last far beyond yourself.

Reflections

 Reflections on a sweltering  evening 

What if it all works out exactly as we envisioned it would ?

What if the mountain ahead

is not there to block us,

but to show us how high we can actually climb?

What if the doubts that keep us awake at night 

are simply the shadows before the glorious dawn?

What if the challenges we face together

are not weights holding us back,

but tools shaping us into something wiser and  stronger?

What if every lesson we teach,

every quiet act of kindness,

is already building a future for us

brighter than we can ever  imagine?

And what if—

all along—

it was never about failing or winning,

but about showing up

and daring to believe that nothing was impossible?

The lost art of autograph books

 Smudges, Hearts, and Secrets: The Lost Art of Autograph books

Before emojis and Instagram, friendships were written in ink.

Remember the thrill of flipping open an autograph book and discovering your friends’ scribbles, doodles, and secret messages waiting inside? That little book was a time capsule—capturing laughter, secrets, and the drama of school life in ink.

If you are under 15, you may not even know what one is. No, it wasn’t Instagram’s ancestor or a prehistoric iPad. It was a small, brightly bound notebook that became a treasure chest of memories—filled with signatures, notes, and doodles that were ambitious, if not exactly artistic.

Autograph books go back centuries. They began in Europe, but by the time they reached Indian schools, they had morphed into something far more exciting—part diary, part confessional, part detective agency.

I had one in school. It carried messages from classmates, notes from teachers, and, to my pride, the signatures of a few Indian tennis stars I managed to corner after a match in Allahabad. No other famous names graced its pages, but at that age, even a slightly wobbly autograph from a sportsman felt like gold dust.

The real craze, though, was the “profile wall” at the back. Friends would fill in their name, date of birth, favourite colour, favourite dish, and best pastime. But the most eagerly awaited sections were always “Favourite Boy” and “Favourite Girl.” That was where the drama unfolded—less about hobbies and more about discovering who liked you, and whether you were anyone’s favourite. For a teenager, that was headline news.

I still have my autograph book somewhere. I haven’t seen it in years, but knowing it’s there brings back a flood of memories—faces, laughter, friendships—preserved forever in crooked handwriting and smudged ink.

When I began teaching, autograph books were still very much alive. Students would bring them to me, eager for a signature or a few words. I never wrote casually. I paused to think about what to say—a quote, a word of encouragement, something that might linger long after the ink had faded. Who knows? A sentence in an autograph book might have made someone smile, reflect, or even see life a little differently.

It was only around 2010 that autograph books began to fade, replaced by WhatsApp forwards, Instagram stories, and digital yearbooks. The messages became faster, flashier, and more forgettable. Yet the magic of those handwritten notes—smudges, crooked letters, little hearts in the corner—can never be replaced.

Do you still have an autograph book tucked away somewhere, waiting to be opened again?

The power of true inclusion

 No Child Left Behind: The Power of True Inclusion

Pulkit Chopra’s journey proves true inclusion empowers every child and inspires communities to leave no one behind.

In most parts of the world, children grow up playing the game of musical chairs. There are always fewer chairs than children, and each round, someone is excluded until only one remains—the “winner.” The game teaches a troubling lesson: for me to succeed, others must fail.

In Japan, however, the rules are different: if one child is left without a chair, everyone loses. Children learn to huddle and hold on so that all may find space. The lesson is clear: I succeed only if you succeed too.

This difference captures the UAE’s journey in inclusive education. Over the past decade, the nation has become a regional leader, with clear policies, trained inclusion specialists, and centres for students of determination. More than 20,000 students of determination are enrolled in mainstream schools, supported by teachers and Individual Education Plans. The message from leadership is clear: no child is left behind.

Our inclusive ethos has always been championed by Sunny Varkey, Founder and Chairman of GEMS Education, a strong advocate for embracing every child. At The Millennium School, we launched the Best Buddies programme, inspired by the global movement to foster friendships between students with and without disabilities. Led by passionate teachers and school leaders, our pupils were paired with children from the Manzil Centre for People with Disabilities and the Rashid Centre for People of Determination, engaging together in art, music, and sport. True bonds were built, and all children learnt empathy and acceptance.

Inclusion is about choices as much as programmes. I remember one such choice when the parents of a toddler, Pulkit Chopra, came seeking admission in kindergarten after being turned away by several schools. Our registrar, Sunila Shetty, strongly recommended we admit him, and we did without hesitation.

For twelve years, Pulkit thrived—singing in concerts, participating in sports, and even serving as a prefect from his wheelchair. His classmates rallied around him, his teachers adapted, and the school community grew in empathy. Pulkit himself was always cheerful, motivated, and inspirational—reminding us every day what courage can achieve.

Earlier this year, I attended his graduation from a top Dubai university. Today, Pulkit Chopra is a successful entrepreneur. His story proves that inclusion is not charity—it is empowerment, made possible by the UAE’s unwavering support for its people of determination.

Yet, there is more to do. Schools need greater awareness, training, resources, and support for families. Inclusion must move from compliance to conviction, from support to celebration of diversity.

The lesson is simple: we all win when no one is left standing.

Pulkit Chopra’s journey—from kindergarten in a wheelchair to successful entrepreneur—reminds us that inclusion empowers all and no child should ever be left behind.

THE PIPE ORGANS .

 

Echoes of Majesty: Pipe Organs at The Bishop’s School and Europe’s Old Churches

“I have always been spellbound by the deep, resonant chords of old pipe organs, which seem to lift the spirit and fill a church or cathedral with solemnity, history, and splendour unmatched by any other instrument.”

On a recent trip to Europe, I sought out these majestic instruments whenever possible. I climbed into the lofts to get closer to the gleaming pipes, the polished console, and occasionally, the hidden bellows. The lofts themselves were almost magical—shadows dancing on the walls, the scent of aged wood, and silent pipes looming overhead gave the space a ghostly aura, as if generations of players still lingered, waiting to strike the first solemn chord.

Being there reminded me vividly of home—St. Mary’s Church in Pune, with its venerable pipe organ, where Bishops boys once pumped the bellows during services. Though unseen and strenuous, the organ’s majestic voice filled the church with reverence and grandeur, echoing through stone and memory alike.

My fondest recollections belong to Founder’s Day at The Bishop’s School. Across twenty or so ceremonies, I watched the boys march down to St. Mary’s in spotless white uniforms and maroon blazers, shoes gleaming. The staff, too, were immaculately dressed. A few alumni were always present, and so were some ex-staff, making the occasion even more special and tinged with nostalgia. Inside the church, the atmosphere was hushed and expectant. Pews were adorned with flowers, and the altar bright with baskets of fruit—offerings from the boys to be given to the poor and needy.

In the week leading up to the service, Bishops boys pitched in wholeheartedly. There was no Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Sikh, or Jew—every boy worked side by side. They cut the grass, swept cobwebs, polished pews, and shined the famed brass eagle lectern. It was a yearly facelift for the church, and though it meant dodging a few tedious periods, the result was radiant—a church ready to welcome its children and guests alike.

Then came the grand entry: the Head Boy and House Captains walking with solemn dignity. As the service began, Mrs. Jolly—who everyone would remember—played the ancient organ. Though heard only once a year, the moment she touched the keys, the church seemed to breathe. The organ’s sound was majestic and moving—sometimes gentle, sometimes thunderous, always awe-inspiring.

The service was led by Mr. B.W. Roberts, the Principal, who preached the sermon, while Mr. Beaman oversaw nearly every aspect of the arrangements. The main hymn was always “O God, our help in ages past,” echoing through the stone walls, blending with the swell of the organ. Then came the Bishops’ School Song, sung with full voice by boys and staff alike, adding pride and belonging.

The organ’s voice is unlike any other. It can whisper softly or thunder like a storm, but always with majesty and reverence. Even now, whenever I hear a pipe organ, I am transported back to those Founder’s Days—the march, the flowers, the fruit baskets, the polishing, the laughter, the expectant hush—and above all, that magical sound.

How many of you carry fond memories of the Founder’s Service at Bishops, as I do?

Inspirational leadership

 Inspirational Leadership: The Power of Restraint

True leadership is measured not by how much you do, but by how much others can achieve because of you.

After 40 years in education, including becoming Headmaster of The Bishop’s School, Pune before I was 30, and now overseeing six large GEMS CBSE schools, I’ve discovered a truth most leadership guides seldom emphasise: restraint. Leadership is not about working longer hours, micromanaging, or issuing endless top-down instructions. It is about strategic action, decisive choices, and inspiring confidence.

In the UAE, we are fortunate to witness leadership at its finest. The country is what it is today because of visionary leaders whose no-nonsense approach, foresight, and unwavering commitment to excellence have transformed a region and inspired generations. Their example reminds us that true leaders empower others, make smart decisions, and create systems that allow talent to flourish.

Each of the six GEMS CBSE schools I oversee already has outstanding leaders, and my role is to mentor, support, and create conditions for their excellence to thrive. Leadership is about being friendly but professional—no back-slapping, no crossing the line, and always respectful. Familiarity breeds contempt, so integrity and accountability are non-negotiable.

Some of history’s most remarkable leaders, from Gandhi to Nelson Mandela, achieved extraordinary outcomes not by doing everything themselves, but by guiding, empowering, and creating space for others to act. Similarly, effective school leadership is less about occupying the spotlight and more about cultivating trust, initiative, and growth among staff and students.

A great leader lights the path, then steps aside and allows the team to walk it with confidence. Restraint is not weakness—it is mastery.

A lot of people tend to complicate Leadership- my mantra has always been- KEEP IT SIMPLE

Where are weddings made

 Four Decades of Marriage: From That Rainy Day in Allahabad

They say marriages are made in heaven. Others say on exotic beaches, in grand hotels, or even on a cruise. After 40 years of marriage, I’m still not sure where they’re made.

My wife and I had known each other since school, and by the time we tied the knot, we were both working at The Bishop’s School, Pune. That made planning easier — and mercifully spared us some of the usual family “input.” You know the drill — aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters, and cousins all adding their two-penny bit.

Choosing who to invite was another challenge. Our families had lived in Allahabad for generations and seemed to know everyone in town. We had to make cuts — we certainly didn’t want a spectacle, and frankly, we couldn’t have afforded one.

We wanted a simple wedding — no glamour, no extravagance — just what we could manage with our modest savings. Clothes, rings, invites, favours — all were organized in Pune and carried to Allahabad.

The wedding Mass was at our majestic St. Joseph’s Cathedral, a building of soaring arches, stained-glass windows, and rich history. Fr. George D’Souza, a family friend, officiated, along with a few other priests connected to our families. The choir — nuns from St. Mary’s — sang like angels, though for a tense moment we all hoped they wouldn’t forget to show up and silently prayed the pageboy wouldn’t drop the rings.

The flower girls and bridesmaids were adorable, their smiles lighting up the cathedral more than the stained glass ever could. Seeing the little ones waltzing and twirling made me realize weddings are as much about their joy as ours. Bridesmaids, flower girls, and close friends completed the scene, adding warmth, love and laughter.

The reception was at the renowned Thornhill Club, just 25 meters from my home — perfect for last-minute preparations. The hall decorations were mostly homemade by talented friends and family, colourful, creative, and full of love. On the morning of the wedding, it poured. Torrential rain. We also wondered if we would get the roses for the bouquet — thankfully, we did.

We ensured the food was cooked by the best cooks available — after all, anyone who knows anything about cooking knows that food cooked on a wood fire has a taste like no other. The cooks reassured me, “Don’t worry, sahib. All will be well.” And it was. By evening, the shamiana looked splendid, the food was ready, and the hall was buzzing with laughter. Every guest ate heartily, and even the colony servants got their fill. There was so much food that the idea of throwing any away, as people do nowadays, never crossed our minds. And there it was — the beautiful and delicious five-tier wedding cake, baked and decorated in Allahabad, a true centerpiece admired by all, before it was devoured!

And then the music. The band, The Vibrations, led by Cyril Shepherd, Valentine Massey, and Tony Rodericks, was sensational. I often played with this band, so it was a no-brainer to join them at my own wedding — and before long, everyone was dancing to my tune!

Looking back, it was everything a wedding should be - simple, joyful, full of music, laughter, and togetherness. No drone cameras, choreographed sangeets, or designer outfits. Just a family and community celebrating, old friends catching up, and a couple starting life with God's blessings, rain, and rhythm.

When I look at the photos now, I can’t help but notice how skinny we were — I looked ridiculous! My daughters, never miss a chance to comment. Even now, when I see the children looking so adorable — I can’t help remembering that many of them, including both our mothers whose blessings we received, are no longer with us.

Two days after the big day, we were off to Pune to start married life. We piled into three slightly battered cycle rickshaws with friendly drivers, with our two large suitcases, a few extra bags, and not forgetting food and water for the journey - all of it jostling and bouncing along as the drivers cheerfully navigated the pot- holed roads — as was the norm in those days. Then it was off by train in sleeper class, truly, those were the days!

Weddings today are much grander, flashier and costlier, but marriages last not because of the money spent, venues or outfits — they last because of love, patience, trust, humour, forgiveness, and faith. And of course, a large dose of patience — after all, my wife has tolerated me for 40 years, proof enough that miracles still happen!

And if you can add a little music, dancing, and laughter along the way — well, that’s the rhythm that keeps it alive for a lifetime.