Friends

 Friends, Friendship & All That Fun

As a young boy growing up in Allahabad, friendships just happened. You didn’t have to think too much about it. If a boy lived down the road and liked to kick a ball, have a game of ‘ gully cricket’ , or play hide and seek till late in the evening   , he became your friend. Simple as that. No formalities, no conditions, just an easy, natural bond that grew over games, shared food, silly fights, and plenty of laughter.

I grew up in a charming little railway colony in Allahabad—my hometown, my heartland. Almost all the boys (and a brave few girls) were friends. We didn’t call it “hanging out” back then, but that’s exactly what we did. We played whenever time permitted. Weekends and holidays were less about family and more about friends.

We ate and drank in each other’s houses like we owned the place. And in a way, we did. Every adult was an uncle or aunty, and we walked in and out of all houses. You could be scolded by any grown-up on the avenue, and you didn’t go home in tears or launch into a “how dare you” protest. That was just how it worked—and honestly, it worked well. If some adults saw you up to mischief, you could be sure there would be a complaint!

Then came school. Friendships got a little more selective. I knew all my classmates, sure—but only had about three or four close friends. At St. Joseph’s, we cycled to school together almost every day. We played marbles, four corners, and a peculiar game called “Steps” with a tennis ball. I doubt anyone has heard of it recently and no one plays it for sure.

At the Boys’ High School, it was more of the same. Again, just three close friends. We ate lunch under a sprawling neem tree at the corner of the field, usually swapping tiffin. I remember their lunches tasting far better than mine—and I suspect they thought the same. That’s the beauty of friendship. Your friend’s humble sandwich suddenly becomes gourmet cuisine. We bunked school and got punished together. And when all the football and tennis balls had been taken away as a punishment by the prefects, we played football with a stone!

Outside school, there were colony friends and my bandmates—I played drums, rhythm guitar, and sang in a band—and these were bonds built through music, shared jokes, and hours of rehearsals that, if I may say so myself, were always perfectly in tune. We had rhythm, we had friendship.

Then came work. My first job was at Geep Flashlight Industries. Again—three close friends. A magical number. They were a decade older, but that didn’t matter. Every morning, they would cycle past my house, yell out my name, and I’d hop on and join them. We’d ride to work chatting about everything and nothing, laughing at the same stories again and again and cribbing about the boss.

Over the years, I’ve had wonderful colleagues I’ve grown fond of—but I’ve always kept work and friendship on separate tracks. A personal choice.

Even today, I have a few close friends. Just a few. But they are gold. We keep in touch, meet when we can—and for the past ten years or so, we’ve taken a group photo every year. A silly, symbolic threesome shot—now quite the joke among our wives.

With close friends, you don’t have to pretend. You can be your silly, sarcastic, vulnerable, ridiculous self. You talk nonsense, laugh at terrible jokes, and share absurd stories from long ago that no one else would understand—or find remotely funny. But your friends? They get it - They always do.

Friendship matters - Deeply - Because life—with all its seriousness, responsibilities, and deadline needs balance. And friends are that balance. They remind you of who you were and celebrate who you’ve become. They laugh with you, poke fun at your thinning hair and paunch, and still think you're the same wild one from the youthful days.

So yes—cherish your friends, stay in touch -  Make time. - Take the silly photo. Swap the tiffin. Share the stories. Laugh at the same old jokes and don’t ever let those childhood ways die out completely.

As I always say, the world may have moved on, but good friendships are timeless.

A lottery win

 I’ve Been Receiving Signs Lately That I’m Going to Win the Lottery

No, I’m not going to share what the signs are—at least not yet. Let’s just say the universe has been whispering, and I’ve been listening carefully. Some might call it wishful thinking; I prefer to call it quiet hope.

When I win (and yes, I’m confident it’s coming), I won’t make a fuss. No big social media posts, no flashing cheques. Only my immediate family will know—and even then, only the essentials. No need to invite the circus of curious distant relatives with sudden business ideas.

I’ve spent many of my daily walks planning this next chapter. You thought I was just getting exercise? I’ve been in serious conversations with myself—thinking, dreaming, deciding. The plan is set. All that remains is the win itself .

There won’t be flashy cars or globe-trotting adventures. That’s just not me. But you might notice subtle changes: perhaps a diamond stud in one ear, or a ponytail. Maybe some soft linen clothes, the kind that catch the breeze just right—somewhere between poet and retired band manager.

Maybe I’ll enjoy long walks, slow brunches, and conversations with people who really listen. I might even get a little fitter—both in body and mind. More stretching, more thinking, and less rushing.

Good company and close friends will still be my greatest treasures—sharing laughs, stories, and comfortable silences.

You’ll still find me writing. Always writing. After all, education has been my life—from teaching days in Allahabad, to years at Bishop’s in Pune, and now here in Dubai. I’ve shared laughter, debates, and discoveries with countless students and colleagues. Money can buy many things, but not the joy of a classroom smile or a shared story.

I won’t change completely. I’ll still meet childhood friends from Allahabad, sit with them over drinks, and tease each other like old times. Some things are too precious to be touched by wealth.

There will be small comforts: a quiet reading nook with a view, maybe a couple of Beatles vinyl records. Time to read, write, and play music without checking the clock. Time to sit quietly with a glass of fine cognac or wine, no agenda, just peace. Not a Tuscan villa, but a modest balcony, a cozy chair, and my cat Chanel curled up nearby, with a gentle breeze that asks no questions.

“We are such stuff as dreams are made on...”

—And quietly, without fuss or fanfare, I’ll let the dream unfold.

The crash and the critics

 The Crash and the critics.

The recent and deeply unfortunate Air India crash has—right on cue—brought out the worms from the woodwork. Or, more accurately, the self-declared aeronautical engineers, cockpit veterans, aviation historians, and political theorists who have never so much as opened an aircraft manual, let alone flown a plane.

From their well-cushioned armchairs and with a phone in hand, these social media messiahs have already “solved” the crash. In their warped little minds, they know precisely what went wrong. They’ve figured it all out before the black box has even cooled.

The pilot erred, the runway was too short, the engineers were incompetent, the aircraft was ancient, Air India is doomed, Boeing is cursed, the airport authority is sleeping, the DGCA is clueless, the BJP is to blame, Congress didn’t plan the airport properly, and birds—yes, even birds—were probably in on the conspiracy.

As of this moment, Jawaharlal Nehru has not yet been blamed. But give it a day or two.

This, unfortunately, is what we’ve come to expect from the Twitterati and Facebook philosophers—an avalanche of conjecture drenched in ignorance and indignation. For them, every disaster is a chance to showcase their brilliance and seek their five seconds of digital fame. They type furiously, hashtags in place, opinions loaded, logic left behind.

But here’s the thing: catastrophic events like plane crashes are complex. They're investigated thoroughly by real experts—trained aviation analysts, accident investigators, pilots with thousands of hours of flying experience—not WhatsApp university graduates. Jumping to conclusions helps no one. Least of all the grieving families, the airline staff, and the real professionals trying to understand what went wrong to ensure it doesn’t happen again.

The problem is that the human brain—especially when overheated by emotion, caffeine, and conspiracy theories—tends to spiral. It fills the silence with noise. But that noise is not knowledge. It’s clutter. And it’s deeply disrespectful.

Here’s a thought: can we, for once, hit pause on our keyboards, breathe, and wait for the truth? Can we show restraint, compassion, and basic intelligence? Can we not weaponize a tragedy for likes, shares, and retweets?

Air travel, statistically, remains the safest mode of transport. You are far more likely to meet your end on a badly driven SUV on a highway than on a jetliner. But no one writes an angry thread blaming a tyre manufacturer when a bus tips over.

So let’s hold back the blame game, stop this morbid guessing contest, and instead offer something far more valuable: silence, empathy, and a prayer. A prayer for the souls who lost their lives. A prayer for their families. And a prayer that our humanity will, at some point, rise above the toxic clutter of half-baked commentary.

Let the professionals do their job. And let the rest of us do what we should—wait, listen, learn, and pray .

A lost art

 The Lost Art of Letters: A Stamp from the Past

While clearing out some old papers recently, I came across a bundle of greeting cards—birthdays, anniversaries, Christmas, Easter, get well soons, congratulations... all from my mother, who passed away some years ago.

She loved sending cards and writing letters.

Never just signed them—she wrote. A few lines about her life, questions about ours. Reading them brought back a flood of memories, and yes, a few tears. But mostly, it was that warm, fuzzy feeling. The kind that makes you pause and smile.

In today’s world of instant everything, who has time to write a letter, let alone post one? We’re all racing somewhere, with no time to stop and smell the roses—let alone try the road less taken or lie in bed doing absolutely nothing.

I grew up in the age of postcards, inlands, aerograms, and good old envelopes with stamps you actually licked (yes, we licked them—gross, but true). The joy of putting pen to paper is something this generation might never truly understand. It wasn’t fast, but it was real.

Now we’ve got WhatsApp, Messenger, and more acronyms than I can keep up with. Just yesterday, a former pupil messaged me from Canada. In one chat I learned: YMMD (You made my day), FACK (Fully acknowledge), IMHO (In my humble opinion), and TIA (Thanks in advance). Polite, yes. Personal? Not quite.

We've traded handwritten letters, pen pals, and even love letters for likes, LOLs, and disappearing messages. But no emoji will ever match the impact of a handwritten note that says, “I’m thinking of you.”

Letters and cards are timeless. They say, you matter. That someone took the time to sit, write, seal, stamp, and send. That’s not just communication—that’s connection.

Maybe it's time we brought that back. Write a card. Lick a stamp (if you're brave). Post a letter. You might just make someone’s day—no abbreviation required.

Where has the postman gone

 

Where Has the Postman Gone?

Growing up in quaint old Allahabad—back when ceiling fans groaned and neighborhood gossip travelled faster than any telegram—the postman was an essential thread in the fabric of our daily life.

Dressed in his crisp khaki uniform, jhola (satchel) slung over one shoulder, and pedaling his bicycle with the practiced ease of a man who knew every by-lane and gate, the postman was more than a government employee—he was almost family. Everyone knew their postman by name, and he knew your entire family tree by memory.

He brought news from relatives, birthday and anniversary cards, inland letters filled with hand-written updates, and—around Christmas—a veritable avalanche of greeting cards. Five or ten would sometimes arrive on a single day. We’d line them up proudly on the mantelpiece. And come Christmas, we always remembered the postman with a plate of cookies and a bit of baksheesh, which he accepted with a shy nod and a grateful smile. It was his due, and he’d earned it.

And then there was the money order man—not always the same as the postman, mind you—who was another significant figure in the cast of everyday characters. He carried cash wrapped in a simple slip of paper that resembled a large postcard. There was a little space where the sender could write a few affectionate words: "For sweets and crackers – Happy Diwali!" or "Happy Birthday – buy something fun!"

We'd wait eagerly as he counted out the crisp notes from his pouch. A five- or ten-rupee note was quite the windfall in those days—a small fortune to a school-going child! The formality of signing up to receive the money made it feel even more official and exciting. And just like the telegram man and the postman, he too knew which houses held chatty aunties, which kids would run up the lane at the sight of him, and which homes handed over a glass of water or a fruit before he left.

And who could forget the telegram man—usually appearing after dusk, when shadows lengthened and households grew wary. His arrival was almost cinematic, and certainly ominous. Telegrams rarely brought  good news. In fact, his knock at the door was often followed by someone whispering, "Oh no… who’s died?" His was the duty no one envied.

For a few years in school, results were sent home by post. Those were nerve-racking days! If you’d done well, you strutted to the gate and took the envelope with pride. If not, you lay in wait like a secret agent, ready to intercept your own doom. Many of us perfected the art of waylaying the postman to “retrieve” our report card before it fell into parental hands.

And then, of course, there were the love letters. Ah, the innocent thrill of romance conducted via pen and post. Teenagers would pour their hearts onto scented paper, perhaps add a lipstick kiss or two, seal it with trembling fingers and await a reply with hope and dread in equal measure. The joy of receiving one—hearts drawn in red ink, maybe even the word “forever” in swirly cursive—was incomparable. No emoji, however animated, can ever hope to match that.

But times have changed.

Quietly, without fanfare, India Post discontinued its 135-year-old money order service—a legacy that began in 1880, delivering funds across India from over 155,000 post offices. Like the telegram before it, it slipped away into history, overtaken by instant digital transfers and blinking phone notifications.

Today, everything is instantaneous. Letters have been replaced by emails, cards by e-greetings, and handwritten words by emojis. The only things that arrive by post now are bank statements, utility bills, or the occasional defiant wedding invitation.

Still, perhaps in faraway villages, where time moves slower and memories last longer, the postman pedals on—his bicycle bell echoing faintly down dusty roads, his khaki uniform still neat, his jhola still heavy with meaning.

For those of us who grew up with envelopes, stamps, and ink-smudged fingers, he lives on—in memory, in sepia-toned photos, and in stories that begin with “Remember when…”

Where has the postman gone?

Maybe nowhere at all. Maybe he’s just waiting—between folded pages and forgotten letters—for someone to remember him like I did this morning .

 

 

Run your own race

 Run Your Own Race – A Personal Note on Leadership and Life

If you want to run, run alone—at your pace. Look ahead and keep moving.

If no one joins you right away, that’s okay. You’re running for yourself.

Someone might join you after a day, a week, a month—or maybe never. And that’s fine too.

This is your race.

That simple thought has guided me through life.

I’ve never believed in trying to be better than a colleague, a neighbour, a relative, or a friend. I’ve never chased applause or approval. I’ve just tried to do the work, stay grounded, and stick to what I believe in. That’s been my quiet leadership mantra.

It hasn’t always been a cakewalk.

There have been massive roadblocks, painful setbacks, and moments of real doubt.

And yes, I’ve made mistakes—many. But I’ve always stood up again. I've never allowed myself to give up. That never-say-die attitude has been my anchor.

Teaching has always been more than a profession for me—it’s been a calling.

From my first day in 1981 at Boys’ High School in Allahabad to my many years at The Bishop’s School, Pune, and now leading schools in Dubai, the classroom has always felt like home.

I’ve also been fortunate to lead and mentor some amazing teams.

My style has always been simple—no jargon, no drama, no showing off. I trust people. I don’t micromanage. I try to make it easier for others to do their jobs without hovering or interfering. I’ve seen how overcomplication and noise achieve little. Quiet consistency and genuine intent, on the other hand, move mountains.

One thing I’ve learned? Consistency is everything.

Leadership isn't about sudden bursts of brilliance—it’s about showing up, day in and day out, especially when things get tough. It’s not about charisma, it’s about clarity.

And above all, it’s about walking your talk.

I’ve had fun along the way too—especially with the boys at Bishop’s.

The volleyball courts, the TT tables, the badminton matches, debates, elocution contests, and school plays. The banter, the laughter, and the strong sense of mutual respect—those memories live on. No boy ever crossed the line—but the warmth we shared was something special. Many of those boys still write to me today. That bond is priceless.

My early years in Allahabad shaped me deeply. Life was simple, but full of meaning. I didn’t grow up with luxuries, but I grew up with music, friendship, and freedom. I played in a band for years—on the drums, the guitar, and vocals. That joy of music and performance still flows through me. I think it’s what makes my public speaking what it is today—relatable, reflective, humorous, and human.

Whether I’m giving a speech, writing a post, or having a quiet chat—I love connecting with people. I love making them smile, think, reflect, or laugh. People often say I “hold the room.” But the truth is—I just speak from the heart, and I try to say things that matter.

So if you’re leading, or planning to, here’s what I’d share—not as advice, but from experience:

Lead yourself first. Stay grounded. Don’t compare your journey with anyone else’s. Show up every day. Be kind but firm. Trust others. Don’t overcomplicate things. Make space for others to grow. Laugh often. Learn from your mistakes. Be consistent. Speak simply. And most of all—run your own race. Even if no one’s watching, or cheering, or following.

Run it with heart.

That’s the kind of leadership that lasts.

Thanks for reading. If this resonated, leave a thought or a memory below. Always happy to hear from friends, students, colleagues—old and new.

#Leadership #TeachingIsACalling #BishopsPune #AllahabadDays #MusicAndMemories #LeadershipJourney #ConsistencyMatters #TrustAndTeamwork #HumourInLeadership #RunYourOwnRace

Equestrian pusuits

 Have You Ever Ridden a Horse?

Well, I always wanted to—but alas, the opportunity has never quite galloped my way.

To be clear, I’ve been around horses. I often visited the Poonawalla Stud Farm in Pune—an oasis of elegance and snorts. I admired those magnificent animals, studied their posture and gait, fed them hay, and even took grainy photographs on a box camera. I had also been to the races at the Pune Racecourse several times, where I watched with rapt attention as jockeys—tiny, fearless daredevils—galloped across the turf with style—and at full throttle.

All that—the stud farm, the racecourse, the thundering hooves, the cheering crowds—was deeply etched in my head. I could practically feel the wind in my face as I imagined myself galloping astride a powerful steed.

There was just one small problem- I had never actually ridden a horse.

Which, as it turns out, puts me in good company. According to recent surveys, nearly 90% of people worldwide have never ridden a horse

I did, however, ride a pony. Just once. And I do not intend to repeat the experience

Let me start at the beginning.

This was in the early 1980s, when I was a young master at The Bishop’s School, Pune. My colleagues and fellow adventurers were Alan Seymour and Michael Gomes (who would later become my brother-in-law, but that’s another tale). Life was simple, money was tight, and our appetite for adventure was unlimited.

During one break, the three of us set off to Panchgani, a charming hill station in Maharashtra. It’s the sort of place that families still throng to for the cool weather, hot corn on the cob, and endless selfies with the same five scenic spots. After a fun-filled day, we clambered into a rickety state transport bus and made our way to Mahabaleshwar—a hill station that’s part postcard, part strawberry farm, and part open-air carnival.

We roamed around Mapro Gardens, sampled strawberries that tasted like sugar had surrendered, and ended the day at Venna Lake. The lakefront was buzzing—swings, snack stalls, a mini Ferris wheel, and of course, pony rides.

Now, we had a choice: spend our last few rupees on a quiet boat ride… or look cool on a pony ride.Naturally, we chose to look cool.

After a bit of haggling with two shrewd boys who ran the pony business like seasoned CEOs, I paid ₹2 for a 15-minute trot around the lake. I was led to a rather unimpressed grey pony who looked like he’d seen better days.

As I mounted the beast, I saw kids—children!—being led around on their ponies by handlers. A voice in my head scoffed: You’ve been to the races. You’ve seen jockeys in action. You know horses. And so, in a surge of unearned confidence, I asked to go off on my own. The boys looked at me with a mix of amusement and mischief.

“Are you sure?” one of them asked, reins in hand.“Of course,” I said, puffing my chest. “No problem at all.”

Famous last words.

The moment they let go, my pony bolted. Not trotted, not ambled—bolted. As if it had heard the starting pistol and decided that this was the Derby of its life.

Those racecourse memories kicked in. I remembered how jockeys leaned forward, gripped the reins, and bobbed rhythmically in the saddle. I tried the same.

It turns out that galloping gracefully is a skill—and I had none of it.

We zig-zagged past people, narrowly missed a food cart, and headed alarmingly close to the lake. I held on for dear life, my dignity bouncing somewhere behind me. I was about to compose my last words when the pony skidded to a stop.

The two boys came jogging up, grinning widely. Apparently, this was a thing. As soon as a clueless tourist asked to ride solo, they’d give the pony a discreet tail twist—a surefire way to send it sprinting. Instead of 15 minutes, your ride would last 5. You’d be too shaken to complain. They’d pocket the money and move on to the next victim. Genius.

I dismounted, weak-kneed and defeated. A few people laughed. Some clapped in amusement . I paid up and slunk away, the hero of a very short and very bumpy equestrian saga.

My friends, of course, laughed till they wheezed. I made them swear never to repeat the story to anyone.

Naturally, I’m telling all of you now.

I am older and a bit wiser. Above all ,  time heals embarrassment… and turns trauma into terrific storytelling.

Lesson planning in Education

 

Not to brag, but I taught for decades without a colour-coded, three-ring binder of laminated lesson plans. Shocking, I know. No learning objectives framed on the board, no hourly breakdowns, and no "Exit Ticket" printed on pastel paper. And yet- my students learned. Almost all thrived & did brilliantly in exams. Most, thankfully, are still in touch with me! That is one of the biggest rewards a teacher can ask for.

I must confess—I've rarely made lesson plans in my life. A few, perhaps, when I was doing my B.Ed. But I found them time-consuming and, frankly, a distraction from the real work of teaching. For decades, I walked into my classroom knowing exactly what needed to be done. I had prepared well —mentally, emotionally, and intellectually. I taught. My students learned. We interacted, we laughed, we questioned, and we grew. Those students performed well in their exams and have gone on to lead rich, meaningful lives.

No paperwork told me how to do that. No template or matrix predicted that journey.

And yet, something seems to be going drastically wrong in education today. I see brilliant, committed teachers spending more time writing about teaching than teaching. They’re filling out exhaustive lesson plan formats, ticking boxes, aligning outcomes to standards, and writing daily reflections—not because these processes help them, but because they’re required to. Compliance is now mistaken for quality.

Across the world, the pattern is familiar:

• In the UK, teachers spend weeks preparing for inspections, compiling folders of evidence instead of crafting memorable lessons.
• In India, lesson plans must now include learning objectives, differentiated strategies, NEP alignment, Bloom’s taxonomy references—and all in triplicate.
• In the US, alignment to district, state, and federal standards means a single lesson could be buried under an avalanche of paperwork.
• Even in high-performing systems like Finland & Singapore, teachers are beginning to feel the strain of over-regulation.

And yet, India—despite its challenges—has also shown the world what’s possible. The country has achieved nearly universal enrollment in primary education, with over 97% of children aged 6 to 14 now in school - That’s a remarkable feat. But now the focus must shift from access to quality. And quality depends, not on paperwork—but on teachers.

One of my favourite speakers, Sir Ken Robinson, who so eloquently championed Creativity and Humanity in Education, once said: "The role of a teacher is to facilitate learning, not to deliver instruction. And you cannot improve education by standardizing it." He was right.

Now, let’s assume for a moment that formal lesson plans are, in fact, needed. Can they not be simple—just a few key points in a quick, easy-to-use format? One that supports teaching, not slow it down? We must ask: are we planning to teach or are we teaching to plan?

And while we’re asking questions: What’s more important - preparing the lesson or preparing the plan? If the latter takes longer than the former, then we’ve lost sight of what matters most.

It’s time to reclaim the classroom and bring the focus back to where it belongs: the pupils, the preparation, the delivery, the progress and the joy of learning. A well-prepared teacher, with clarity of thought and freedom to teach with heart, is worth far more than a binder full of lesson templates.

Here’s the reality: a well-written plan does not guarantee a well-taught lesson, just as a hastily scribbled note doesn't equate to poor teaching. A great lesson often emerges from the magic of the moment—a child’s question, a teacher’s anecdote, an unexpected discovery. These cannot be captured in a template. Nor should they be.

This is not a rant. It’s a reflection and a plea

We certainly do not need to throw the system out. That would be foolhardy. But we do need a serious rethink. Let's tweak where necessary: is that asking too much ?

• Trust experienced Educators to plan in ways that suit their style.
• Reduce exhaustive and repetitive paperwork, that adds no real value to the teaching-learning process.
• Focus on student outcomes and visible progress, not on format adherence.
• Encourage planning that is purposeful, not performative.

We are not short of passionate educators. What we are short of is time. Time to reflect. Time to connect. Time to prepare meaningfully. Time to teach.

Globally, interest in teaching as a career is declining—UNESCO reports that the world needs 69 million more teachers by 2030 to meet education targets. In countries like the U.S, U.K, France and even India., applications to teacher training programs have dropped sharply, with many citing low pay, high stress, and excessive bureaucracy as key deterrents. That is a dangerous trend and one that governments must address before it's too late

Let me be clear: I don't blame anyone. We're all part and parcel of the system. But for the sake of our pupils and the future of education, this is worth thinking about.

I believe it's the moral responsibility of every thoughtful, responsible educator to speak up—not to criticize, but to reflect, reimagine, and help restore joy, trust, and meaning to the classroom.

The time is now.

 

 

 

A chat with the cat

 A Morning Chat with the Cat

This morning, as the birds chirped politely and the sun filtered through the leaves just right, I was enjoying my customary cup of tea in our little garden when I decided it was time.

Time for a chat.

Not with the wife. Not with the daughters or the  neighbour. With the cat.

She sat there, tail twitching with that brand of contempt only cats can muster, and I slipped into full Dad mode—part stern father, part weary schoolteacher  / Principal -  addressing an errant pupil.

"Listen," I began, fixing her with a look that I hoped conveyed both disappointment and the faint aroma of milk biscuits. "We need to talk. Your behaviour of late has been... concerning to say the least."

She blinked slowly. The kind of blink that says I hear you, but I’m already bored.

"You weren’t always like this," I continued. "You used to be such a sweet, well-mannered little thing. Obedient. Clean. Mild-mannered. Almost dog-like, dare I say."

At this, she yawned. Rudely. This irritated me.

"Now look at you—stubborn as a mule. Instructions are treated like suggestions, food is flung about like we’re running a buffet for invisible friends, and the water bowl? Splashed like it’s Holi."

She began to clean her paw with exaggerated disinterest, clearly unimpressed by my charges.

"And the bed!" I pressed on. "How many times have you been told not to jump on it? And yet—there you are, tail in the air, fur everywhere, like a rockstar on a world tour." 

Still no reaction. But I could sense she was listening.

"And what’s with the personal hygiene? You used to be immaculate. Now there’s always a suspicious smudge somewhere—mud, gravy, mystery. And hair on my suits too."

She paused mid-lick. I’d struck a nerve.

"And your attitude to the grandkids!" I went on, warming up now. "Poor things - They adore you. Absolutely love you. But you? You stare at them like they owe you rent. You frighten them with those slow-motion glares—like a feline mafia don sizing up a target- its disgusting."

At this, she actually turned her head. I couldn’t tell if it was guilt or gumption. 

"I talk to you with so much love,yet  you ignore me. I pet you and you act like I’m inconveniencing your royal schedule. Look, madam, this is a home, not a hotel. And you—you're not a guest. You're family. Which means—you pitch in. You engage."

She rolled over onto her back. Classic distraction technique.

"And then there’s the sheer laziness of it all. Eat. Sleep. Poo. Repeat. That’s your schedule. You don’t even pretend to contribute. If you had a phone, I swear you'd be on it all day, posting passive-aggressive reels and ghosting the dog next door."

She let out a small meow. Possibly sarcastic.

"And then what about your  garden behaviour," I added. "Running out at top speed, chewing on suspect weeds like some deranged botanist, and refusing to come in when called? No. Just—no."

At this point, my tea had gone cold, and my lecture was clearly falling on indifferent, pointy ears. She stretched, stood up, and with a flick of her tail, strolled off—leaving me mid-sentence.

I sat back and sighed. Typical.

Still, I like to think she heard me. That maybe, just maybe, there’ll be a little more purring and a little less plotting this week.

And if not—well, there’s always tomorrow’s cup of tea and another stern talking-to.

Pets

 This is serious.

 If you want to be happy, share your life with a pet.

 It can be anything – a pair of love birds, a parrot, a dog, a cat, hens and cock birds or ducks and geese. Don’t go for anything too exotic as they cost a tidy sum and require more care than the normal pet. Some advice- Don’t go for an elephant, if not you will have to empty the fridge to put it in. Not a giraffe either, because each time the giraffe must be put to sleep, you will have to take the elephant out of the fridge to put the giraffe in. Both will also eat you out of house and home. Corny joke I know – but jokes were never my forte. I am just not the among the ‘funny types. Anyway, back to my tale.

As far back as I can remember, we always had a pet at home – at least, for a large part of my growing years. (I am still growing breath ways). Another stupid joke but I can’t help it – part of growing older!

There was ‘Lovey’, the Cocker spaniel. She was loveable, to say the least, had a lovely silky coat and enjoyed biscuits. I recollect attempting to teach her to beg, but despite my, and her best efforts, it was an exercise in futility, as she was too fat and her hind legs said no! 

 Then we were talked into keeping love birds,which we bought from an old gentleman in Allahabad- Mr Eates . There was a lovely cage made, water bowl, food tray, ‘et al’ and the two little ‘budgerigars’ arrived. We were told that they would multiply and soon we would need another cage or two. Well, I presume they were both males, as there were no eggs laid, and hence no miraculous babies. Despite the old seller replacing them on and off, it was an exercise in futility. We seemed fated to have just two birds for life. Well, the plus side of this was that I spent many an hour looking at them, feeding them and at times poking them with a knitting needle and making them fly. I found them a trifle lazy. They were not exactly ‘love birds’ if you get what I mean and were fairly well behaved. We finally gave them away with the cage too. 

We then got some hens and a cock bird. They were truly productive and every morning I went around searching for the eggs that were laid in the hedge in the compound. For some obscure reason they refused to lay eggs in their coop, and so the treasure hunt had me, as the sole participant every morning. Five or six fresh eggs, made for quite an inexpensive, yet tasty breakfast every day. Then, they suddenly stopped laying eggs. Some sort of strike I guess, or a plan, as one fine summer day they all stopped laying together. I don’t quite know what happened to them, but I am sure that we did not have chicken on the menu anywhere around that time. 

I must add that the rooster was rather wild and whenever he saw either another rooster or a defenceless kid, he charged – feather all bristling as he tried to peck the enemy! We had named him Jonny and he seemed to answer to his name and would calm down when shouted at. The neighbours had a similar ‘fighter’ and my friend, Phillip and I often tried to get them to fight each other, much to the amusement of the other kids. And yes, there was blood too.  

Some years later we had ducks. Ducks were easy to keep- plenty of water and almost all kitchen leftovers for meals, and they were fat, happy and healthy. They were lazy and did nothing but waddle around all day and eat. They seemed to overeat because they did cause quite a mess.  I guess they were all males and hence no eggs were forthcoming. 

My best friend who is now my brother-in-law, kept a few dozen pigeons and he was crazy about them. We spent many an afternoon staring up at the sky watching them fly. There used to be competitions as to whose pigeons stayed up the longest, and there were prizes and stuff for the winners.  He was just a teen at that time, but quite a well known and respected pigeon breeder. 

Many families had dogs in the Railway colony, and dog fights were common. There is one sad incident I can never forget. The neighbours would go to Goa for a month or so during their summer holidays every year. One year they went off with their Tin trunks , bedding rolls and water bottles and secured their house with padlocks, telling us as usual, to keep an eye. However, sadly, their dog got locked in. It must have been quite a silly dog as it never barked, nor cried, nor scratched, or else it did so, and no one heard it. A month later when they returned, they were shocked and dismayed to find a skeleton and no more. The stench was unbearable to say the least, and it took a few days to dissipate. I am sure they were heartbroken and the whole family was devastated, as it was a loving pet that had been with them for years. 

There was another neighbour who had an extremely ferocious dog as well. It was always chained up with a rather thick chain. On the few occasions it managed to get lose, a few children and adults were sure to be bitten. It was named Tiger. Somehow any striped dog back then was named Tiger, and they sure lived up to their name. 

Many of you would know that here in Dubai we have a cat- ‘ Chanel’. She is a mix between a Turkish Angora and a Persian.  She is a beauty and I have mentioned her in stories before as we all adore her. She keeps us amused, is playful, intelligent and a natural stress buster for the family. Like most cats, she is a bit miserly with her love, does not like to be carried, and if you call her, she often walks in the opposite direction. With a personality of her own, she often has us dancing to her tune. My wife is certain that she says ‘mummy’ but that is a different story. Ever second month she gets well groomed, and a few photos are taken of her ‘looking pretty’. In reality, my phone is full of photographs and videos of Chanel sleeping, playing, walking, jumping, looking at the pigeons and in dozens of cute poses.  Believe it or not, but I do not need an alarm, as promptly at Four- thirty in the morning she jumps up and pushes her nose on to my face and ears demanding her snack, ‘Dreamies’. She does the same twelve hours later! With the granddaughter visiting frequently, I have observed that she is a trifle jealous and peers at the little one from various places, but most females are jealous by nature, so she is no exception!

My elder daughter and her husband have adopted a cat too – from our parking lot. It is an Arabian Mau. He was injured, weak and lame when they adopted him.  A year later, he  is ‘Lord and master ‘of their home. ‘Munchie’ goes in and out when he pleases, brings another cat home to play, purrs rather loudly, has extra-long legs and a thin body, and lives a comfortable life, while his sister continues to struggle as a stray. Such is life! 

My brother-in-law and his wife have a parrot. He has always had birds as pets and is quite an expert. The parrot however seems to have taken over their household. Every time we visit, we are shown how the parrot walks, talks, goes in and out of the cage, flies, swoops, plays with a ball, eats etc. I am not a big fan of parrots in general, and their parrot in particular, as it seems determined to attack me, bite my shoes, peck at my watch and in general cause a nuisance near me. They however have the parrot nibbling their ear, kissing them, sitting on their head- literally and figuratively speaking. I know verbatim how it bathes, which son it prefers over the other, when it wakes, what it does on waking, and how it does not like to go back to its cage. The parrot ‘bathing story ’is quite interesting.   I have invited them to bring ‘Nicky’ their pet to meet ‘Chanel’ but till date they have refused! 

My sister-in-law has a son, who does not actually like pets and stuff but lives by fads and whims like most teens. Recently he woke one afternoon – and decided that it was about time the family had a pet.  When he wants something, he harasses till he gets it, and so to cut a long story short, the mother took him to a pet shop, and they returned with a rather costly African parrot.  No advice taken, no questions asked, no experience whatsoever, but the parrot was brought home in a fancy, gilded cage. For the first two or three days we were inundated with calls about how clever the parrot was, how it was starting to talk, how it whistled and how beautiful it was. There were photos and videos too and relatives and friends all over the world welcomed him into the family.  Then there were two days of silence. I thought the parrot had died. However, I was wrong. They were struggling to look after the poor creature, which had stopped eating or something to that effect, so they sold it back for half the price! I was sure their tryst with pets was over and done with – I was so wrong.

They then went out and bought a pup. Duke is a handsome looking Golden retriever. We were invited home to meet him.  I admit he is smart to look at and has been with them a month already, so I guess he is there to stay. Now a days, the husband wakes at four am to take him for a walk. Then he gets back to bed. The wife then takes him for a run at five. Both have begun to look rather worn out & exhausted though they deny it’s anything to do with Duke. The maid then does ‘dog duty’ for the rest of the day and she has silently begun to rebel- the maid, not the dog. There are stores about how clever Duke is, how he has learnt to beg for biscuits, is particular about his bedding etc. The son has gone off to college in the UK and so the ownership of the pet has changed hands, as expected. 

 Meanwhile the ninety-year-old great-grand- mother lives there too, and she is determined that Duke will not enter her room upstairs, lest he drop her down. Valid point no doubt. However, the poor puppy is not allowed into the bedrooms and nor in the hall either. I do not think he will celebrate his first birthday with the family. Wish I am wrong on this one as he is a cute chap.  

I have always advocated about families keeping a pet. Yes, there is an expenditure involved  and a fair amount of commitment required  too,  but it’s the same with your kids, isn’t it?

The advantage of pets is – you don’t have to send them to school or college nor worry about getting them married, and believe you me, that is something to think about. 

And to those who do take my advice and keep a pet, PLEASE listen to this – You don’t kick your kids out of the house and on to the street, if and when you get fed up of them. 

It’s just not done.

Know your worth

 Know Your Worth

There are a few things I’ve learned about being happy and successful at the workplace - Not from a book, a workshop or a course, but from real life , having worked for over four decades in this world!

First and foremost - learn to stand up for yourself. That doesn’t mean being aggressive, defiant or difficult. It means being clear about your contribution and your intentions - not allowing yourself to be bullied into silence and knowing when to speak up. You can be kind, empathetic, respectful and firm at the same time.

Don’t ever make the mistake of confusing decency with weakness.

If you’ve worked hard, smart and consistently delivered results, don’t shy away from asking for what’s fair. This world will not give you anything on a platter. You need to speak up and be ready to back yourself with reason and evidence. It’s not arrogance, as some may want to term it - It’s self-respect. You may not always succeed, but there is nothing to lose by asking - and being humble & polite when doing so! 

And here’s a truth I’ve come to value: while intensity—working in bursts, flamboyant gestures—gets attention, it’s consistency that builds real trust. It’s the quiet, steady workers who show up every day, solve problems, support teams, and deliver without fuss—those are the people others rely on – they are often the magnets that hold teams together.

It’s crucial to also understand this: Organizations are always bigger than the individual, and no one is truly indispensable. Never doubt that.  However, the best companies know who adds real value. They recognize that good people bring clarity in vision, consistency in action, and compassion in relationships.

Such people create space for others to grow while holding themselves accountable.

Above all, they lead by example—even when no one is watching. And sometimes, it’s not about how impressive you are - It’s about how well you ensure that the work get done – its tangible results that matter in the end. That may feel like a trifle impersonal, but it’s not a bad thing - it’s part of being professional.

As you move up the ladder, something shifts. It’s not so much about doing everything yourself, but more about how you make it easier for others to do their jobs well. That’s the difference between management and leadership.

Managers keep things moving. Leaders build people.

Authentic leaders have strong values, clear vision, emotional intelligence and they listen. They respect everyone—regardless of title. They don’t hog credit, and they don’t throw others under the bus when things go wrong. They lift others up, and in doing so, rise themselves. After all- it’s a good team that brings credit to the leader.

Of course, let’s be real – it’s not always fair. Life is not always fair either, and there is very little you can do about it. What you can control, however,  is how you respond, and that’s where your real power lies.

Sometimes things get political. There are alliances, favours traded, backs scratched. It’s not always ideal - as much as we would wish it to be, but even in that kind of world, you don’t have to lose your value. Don’t play dirty just to survive. If people forget everything else, they certainly remember character, because it’s the quiet legacy that outlasts people, projects, positions, and praise.

So yes—be kind, but don’t be a pushover.

Be clear and decisive, but never cruel.

Be helpful but never let yourself be taken for granted.

Know your worth—and help others find theirs too.

That’s the real win.

Confessions of a tea purist

 Confessions of a TEA PURIST 

For most of my life, I was what you might call a proud tea loyalist. Morning, mid-morning, late afternoon—tea was my constant companion. Strong, no sugar, a dash of milk. People tried to lure me to the dark side (read: coffee) over the years. Some tried persuasion, others trickery—one even offered me a fancy mocha frappe with enough chocolate and whipped cream to be mistaken for dessert—but I held firm. I was a tea man.

Until that day.

I was at a hospital, waiting, idle, when out of nowhere, a strange feeling came over me. Not nerves. Not anxiety. It was… a craving. For coffee. Coffee?! I blinked. It had never happened before. Not once. But there it was, clear as daylight. I wanted coffee.

Now, if you’ve ever stood in front of a café counter without a clue, you’ll understand the quiet panic that followed. Coffee ordering is no small feat. It’s a language. Cappuccino, macchiato, cold brew, ristretto, flat white—and that’s just the beginning. People order coffee like sommeliers order wine: “One decaf soy caramel macchiato, extra hot, half-pump vanilla, no foam, with a dash of cinnamon.”

I didn’t want to ask for a latte and end up with something I didn’t like or understand.

So I did what any sensible person in the 21st century does: I googled. After a quick crash course, I decided cappuccino was my safest bet. Coffee, milk, froth. No extra shots, no syrups, no drama. I walked up to the counter with quiet confidence, ordered “one cappuccino, please,” and gave nothing away. The salesgirl smiled and nodded like I was a regular. She’d never know it was the first time in my life I was ordering a coffee.

And just like that, I crossed over.

Now here’s the funny part: I didn’t just stop at one cup. From that day on, I began having a coffee every afternoon at work. 3 PM sharp. Like clockwork. But I didn’t abandon tea entirely. No, no. I was still loyal—tea at 10 AM, coffee at 3 PM. A peaceful coexistence.

Until this morning.

It was 10 o’clock, and something felt… different. I looked at the clock, then at my mug. No desire for tea. Not a hint. Instead, I wanted coffee. At 10.

My peon, who sees himself as something of a coffee expert, lit up. He grinned, disappeared for a moment, then returned with a steaming cup and proudly declared:

"Sahab, main aapko ek badhiya coffee banakar deta hoon — sabko meri coffee pasand aati hai."

I suspect he’s been waiting years for this moment.

Life’s funny that way. Sometimes all it takes is a hospital waiting room and a sudden, unexplained urge to switch sides. I still love tea. But coffee—well, let’s just say we’ve grown close. One cup at a time.

And I'm feeling good

 Some mornings are a little more special than others . 

My self made tea tastes great .

My  energy levels may not be peaking but they are sufficient to get me  through to the weekend.

 Mentally,  I am  in a fairly good spot- not upbeat and singing from the rooftops but  good! 

 Professionaly , when I look back at a week, I have completed most of my  tasks and achieved what I had  set out to. 

My cat has condescendingly shown a little more affection than she normally does. She snuggled near my toes for about 30 minutes and for her and me , that's a lot. 

And I feel thankful and grateful within. 

It's probably the thought of the weekend round the corner too that's adding to the wellbeing.  

As a school boy , I waited for the weekend with its fun, games and high jinks ( not a common term I know).

I would breeze through my homework as quickly as possible, rush through the assigned chores, have a ' cat's lick' ( another uncommon term to confuse you ) , swallow down breakfast without a fuss and be out to play.

Cricket on the avenue road, marbles near by in anyone's garden, seven tiles, ' gulli danda' , caroms, ludo, snakes and ladders and other games. 

Often I would hear a war cry ' Michael' and rush back in irritation. It would be to run or cycle to the ' baniya ' to get something or the other. 

Back to the friends as quickly as possible. Luch would be golloped down( check the meaning) . I was always reminded ' have you washed your hands' !

Then more play. 

While adults had a snooze , we played, we cycled , we stole Guavas, mangoes and plums from neighbour's gardens and had a great time. 

As dusk fell, everyone made their way home . There was no TV - there was no phone. But there was so much to do and we were never bored.

Despite everything kids have today we often hear about kids being bored, depressed, angry, fed up with life, even suicidal. 

I guess it's a sad reflection of the times. 

So many of us just had the basics while growing up but we were happy.

A reflection on Leadership and Education

 A Reflection on Leadership, Innovation, and the Power of Simplicity

These famous words are attributed to Winston Churchill— “You can always count on people to do the right thing… after they’ve tried everything else.”

After many years in education and leadership—especially here in the UAE—I find that rings more true than ever. We live in a time of rapid change, where ideas, trends, and technologies spread faster than ever before. A school in Singapore introduces a mindfulness app, Finland drops homework, a company in Silicon Valley rethinks classrooms—and suddenly, everyone’s watching, adapting, and reacting.

Today, innovation isn’t optional—it’s essential. AI, digital tools, and new ways of thinking are reshaping how we live and learn. As educators and leaders, we must engage with these changes. The world is moving, and we must move with it.

But even as we embrace innovation, it’s worth reminding ourselves: education is about more than just tools and trends.

It’s about people.

It’s about relationships, clarity, consistency, and culture. And sometimes, in our eagerness to push forward, we risk losing sight of the basics that make schools work—simple communication, shared values, and a focus on what really matters for our pupils and staff.

I’ve seen schools thrive not because they chased every new idea, but because they knew what to hold on to. They used innovation wisely, grounded in their own context. They understood that too many layers, policies, and systems can lead to confusion—where no one is quite sure what the priorities are anymore.

We must also resist the temptation of change for the sake of change. That doesn't mean settling into complacency—because even when something is working brilliantly, if it becomes too predictable, it may appear stale. Pupils must be engaged, not just taught. We must get them thinking, speaking, questioning, challenging, and innovating. Education must remain dynamic—to a point. Not chaotic, not directionless—but alive, evolving, and responsive to the needs of our young people and the world they’re stepping into.

So perhaps the mantra, at times, should be: Get back to basics.

Not as a rejection of progress, but as a way to stay balanced. The best leaders, I believe, are those who know when to push forward—and when to pause. Who understand that doing fewer things well often brings more lasting impact than doing everything at once.

Eventually, we all find what works. But if we reflect more, and react less, maybe we can get there sooner—together, and with greater purpose.

As one wise educator once said:

Sensible education is not about choosing between tradition and innovation—it’s about knowing when to honour each.

The Pause

 Where are you coming from? Where are you right now? And where do you want to go?

Three deceptively simple questions. And not the kind we ask during a job interview or while writing a personal statement—but the kind we should ask ourselves, deliberately and often. This is why 'THE PAUSE'  matters.

We live in an age of relentless motion and noise . The average person now spends over 6 hours a day on digital devices, often juggling multiple tasks at once. Teen anxiety rates have surged by 20% in the last decade, and burnout isn’t just a corporate phenomenon anymore—it’s showing up in classrooms, staff rooms, and even playgrounds. Everyone is trying to keep up—with deadlines, expectations, grades, bills, appearances, and the ever-shifting benchmark of “success.”

We usually wake up to alarms , check our phones before our feet hit the ground, hurry the children, hurry to school or work, run through meetings and classes, gulp down coffee, swallow meals, tick off lists—and somewhere in all of that, wonder if we’ve actually lived the day or just survived it.

Even rest feels performative now. Some look at it as time lost or wasted! We scroll endlessly, comparing our lives to curated highlight reels of others. Why aren’t we travelling the world and seeing places ? Why does everyone else seem so accomplished, so happy, so fit , so ahead? Why are we being left behind .

But the truth is—most of us have done far better than we give ourselves credit for. We’ve faced umpteen challenges. We've grown. We’ve overcome illness, loss, personal struggles, setbacks. We’ve shown up, day after day. And if we paused long enough, we might actually see that. The sad truth is - we don't !

I remember sitting in a school auditorium once, at the end of a long and exhausting week. The Annual prize day was round the corner, and we had just finished a rehearsal. The bell had rung, most people had left, and I just sat there, alone for a few minutes. No phone. No rush. Just silence - and I pondered my work and my life . That tiny moment of stillness brought surprising clarity. It’s often in those brief pauses—between classes, between meetings, between life’s big chapters—that the most important thoughts find their way in. For me they still do - I belong to the 5 am club, like many of you, - that's when I get most of my inspiration .

And that’s why taking a pause matters.

Not to escape, but to reconnect - to reflect- to be grateful - to take stock - to see the journey for what it is—not a race, but a series of moments, of choices, of small wins and quiet growth.

So, to everyone reading this: Make space for that very much needed 'PAUSE'

Not just once in a while, but as a regular habit. Step away from the chatter and the incessant noise. Reflect on your journey.

Ask yourself— Where have I come from? Where am I now? Where do I want to go next?

And perhaps more importantly— What truly matters to me now?

Because in the end, it’s not always about how far you go… It’s about knowing why you're going there at all.

The Button box

 The Button Box

There was an old button box at home when I was a boy, a tin that once held chocolates but had long since been repurposed for a more practical, if less glamorous, role. It was about eight inches by six, a bit dented at the corners, and the design on the lid was faded with age – I can’t recall if it once showed a festive scene or perhaps a swirl of flowers. In those days, tins like these had lives long after their original contents were devoured. They became repositories for bits and bobs, a silent witness to a household’s steady rhythm.

Inside this tin lay hundreds of buttons, a true kaleidoscope of shapes and hues. Black and brown seemed to dominate – the practical shades of men’s jackets and trousers – but there were flashes of brighter colours too, a deep maroon here, a sea green there, and the occasional ivory-white disc that must have once fastened the stiff cuff of a starched shirt. There were cloth buttons, round and tightly bound, the kind that might have adorned a smart winter coat; smooth, polished wooden buttons, perhaps cut from some hardy tree long ago; cool metal ones, with a faint patina of rust around the edges; and the more common plastic varieties, lighter, shinier, and far more willing to roll off the bed if you weren’t careful.

On hot, lazy summer afternoons in Allahabad, when the household settled into the stillness of an afternoon siesta, I would tip the contents of this box onto the large antique four-poster bed, its high, carved headboard standing sentinel as I played. I’d sit cross-legged, feeling the faint tickle of the bedspread under my legs, and lose myself in the tumbling, clinking flood of buttons. I arranged them in long, winding trains, then in neat, disciplined rows like armies on parade. Sometimes they became imaginary cities with little round homes and wide, open streets, the larger buttons serving as town squares. At other times, they took the shape of spirals and whorls, carefully laid out patterns that had no purpose beyond my quiet amusement.

I have often wondered where all those buttons came from. I can recall my aunt, seated by the window with her sewing basket, snipping buttons from old, worn-out clothes before consigning them to the rag bin. Perhaps that’s how this collection began – the careful salvaging of still-useful parts from garments past their prime, a small act of thrift in a more frugal era. Clothes back then had a different life cycle – they frayed, tore, and gradually wore out, and their buttons often outlived their threads, popping off unexpectedly and rolling into corners like tiny, round fugitives.

Do people still keep button boxes, I wonder? Today, shirts and coats come with spare buttons neatly sewn onto a hidden seam or tossed into a tiny plastic bag, which inevitably disappears just when needed. It’s a practical approach, but it lacks the romance, the slow accumulation of odd shapes and mismatched colours, each with a hint of mystery about the garment it once held together.

There is something reassuring about the idea of a button box, a small, clinking archive of the past, and perhaps that is why it lingers so clearly in my memory. It was a treasure chest of sorts, a child’s hoard of forgotten pieces, each one a tiny fragment of a life once lived and loved.

Musical nostalgia vs Modern mayhem

 Musical Nostalgia and Modern Mayhem

As a home-taught musician who grew up on the glorious sounds of the 60s, 70s, and 80s, I can’t help but feel that the quality of music has, by and large, taken a bit of a nosedive. I know, every generation has its sound, but bear with me. When I say ‘quality,’ I’m talking about those melodies that linger in the mind, those lyrics that stir the heart, and those rhythms that move the soul.

Some of my fondest memories are of playing in bands in Allahabad – grand dances at the Thornhill Club, the Fort, and the Army clubs, where the music pulsed through every wooden floorboard, echoing in the high ceilings. And then, of course, the big Christmas dances at Clarks Varanasi, where couples swayed to Elvis, Tom Jones, and rock ‘n’ roll pioneers.

Sing-along parties were a staple too – someone would grab a guitar, and before long, everyone would join in, singing classics like "Sweet Caroline", "Imagine", or "Hotel California". These songs still bring a room together today. Notice, they don’t sing rap or the heavily produced humbug of today’s music – these songs just aren’t singable.

Think about the legendary voices of those decades. Johnny Cash with his baritone, or the storytelling mastery of Kris Kristofferson. These are classics that endure because they speak to real life, heartbreak, and hard-won wisdom.

Then came the rock gods – The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, The Beatles, Queen. Take Led Zeppelin’s "Stairway to Heaven" – a rite of passage for aspiring guitarists. Or Queen’s "Bohemian Rhapsody" – a six-minute operatic masterpiece.

Fast forward to today, and what do we get? Bands with names that sound like something you’d find in a hipster café – "Tame Impala", "Glass Animals", "Lemon Demon", and "Gorillaz". Or rappers with monikers like "Lil Uzi Vert" and "6ix9ine". What happened to names that at least sounded like musicians?

And then there’s the lyrics – the heart and soul of a song. Contrast these two lines:

"Imagine there’s no heaven, it’s easy if you try…" – John Lennon.

Versus…

"I got hot sauce in my bag, swag." – Beyoncé.

Or this one:

"We all live in a yellow submarine, yellow submarine." – The Beatles.

Now compare that to:

"Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang..." – Lil Pump. Sing that 28 times !

Today we have a world where music is dominated by synthesizers and auto-tuned vocals. What used to be raw, organic music has been replaced with polished, artificial perfection. Even a mediocre singer can be auto tuned into sounding like a superstar. It’s become so easy that backing tracks are used to fill in what should be real live music.

So, here’s to the greats – the legends who gave us timeless music, powerful lyrics, and unforgettable melodies. May their songs forever echo in our hearts, even as we scroll past the latest inexplicably named viral sensation.

After all, as Bob Dylan once said, "The times, they are a-Changin’" – though I’m not sure he quite meant this.

Teach your children to pray

 Teach Your Children to Pray

Teach your children not to wait until they’re lost,

When life feels heavy, or they count the cost.

Not when their hearts are aching, filled with fear,

Or when the world seems cold and far from near.

In this busy journey, where all are in a race,

When everyone is busy, caught in time’s embrace,

Prayers often are the remedy they need—

They bring soft calm, and quiet hearts to lead.

Don’t wait for sickness, job loss, or despair,

For empty rooms, or moments hard to bear.

God is here now, in every simple day,

In laughter, love, and light that guides their way.

When morning breaks and sunlight warms their face,

When joy and peace are felt in every place,

That’s when to pray, to thank, to speak, to share—

No need for perfect words, just beautiful hearts laid bare.

And when they ask, remind them God knows best,

He hears their needs, and answers and often tests

Sometimes He gives what they have hoped and prayed,

And other times, He blesses in a way

That’s even better than what they could see,

A gift, a plan, a future meant to be.

So teach them not to wait until they’re tired,

Not to save their prayers for days uninspired.

Talk to God now, when joy is in their heart,

For He is near, and never far apart.

He listens, guides, and holds them through each storm,

With love that shapes and keeps their hearts so warm.

In every prayer, both quiet and sincere,

He answers, blesses, and draws them near.

Just smile and say WHAT

 Just smile and say ‘WHAT’!

I was listening to this interview with Mick Jagger last evening —someone asked him how he compared himself and the ‘Rolling Stones to the Beatles’. Now most people would have taken the bait, right? Not Mick. He just said, “They do what they want to do, and we do what we want to do—and that’s it. I don’t compare. We enjoy our music, and I guess they enjoy theirs” End of story. True rocker style answer for sure!

Except, of course, it wasn’t. The interviewer, itching for a headline, pressed on: “But who do you think is better at doing what they want to do?” And Mick, in all his glorious rock-star fashion, just looked at him and said: “What?” That “what” said it all—bemused, uninterested, maybe even a trifle annoyed.

And honestly, I get it. I’ve had it up to here with this obsession the world has with comparing everything—everyone—all the time. Why must there always be a competition? Why is every action, every milestone, every breath measured against someone else’s?

And it starts early. Painfully early. I’ve seen young parents- lovely people—locked in a subtle war over whose toddler walked first, talked first, sat on the potty first, rode a bicycle sooner, or got into some prestigious toddler yoga class. I mean, really? We’re benchmarking babies now. “Oh, my son’s doing phonics at 18 months.” “My daughter recites the periodic table backwards.” Congratulations!

Then they start school and things get worse. “What reading level is your child on?” “Which after-school program is she attending?” “Have you enrolled them in chess, ballet, robotics, advanced coding, and mindfulness?” “Is she on the ‘gifted and talented’ list yet?” And if your child is just… you know… being a child? Exploring, laughing, drawing blue dinosaurs with three heads and two tails- Then you’re clearly not doing enough, and you’re an awful parent.

Parenting today is strange and very different to when I grew up.  Today everyone’s child is in football, piano, and advanced math—at seven. One mum sighs, “She’s bored in class… already doing fractions for fun at home.” Right. Meanwhile, we all nod politely and quietly freak out that our kid still likes crayons and empty boxes to bang on.

It’s exhausting. Not just for the kids—but for all of us.

And we carry this utter nonsense into adulthood, don’t we? We compare houses, jobs, holidays, waistlines, watches, and of course, whose child is performing better in school, football, speech class, or ideally all three—preferably simultaneously. We cloak it all in polite language— “just curious” or “just proud”—but we all know what’s going on.

Even in the working world, this disease of comparison continues. Companies don’t just focus on their mission anymore.” No one seems to ask: ‘what do we want to do?”

Somewhere along the way, we lost the plot. We forgot that it’s okay—more than okay, in fact—to just do your own thing and do it well - To not be in a race - To not stare sideways all the time, constantly checking where others are.

Think about this - Why is it so hard to enjoy what we do, how we do it, without needing to “beat” someone else at it all the time. Frankly, I find it utterly nauseating. And more than that, I find it sad. We’ve robbed ourselves of the joy of simply doing something for its own sake, whether that’s parenting, painting, playing a guitar, or building a business.

So maybe, just maybe, we should all take a leaf out of Mick Jagger’s book. Let them do what they want to do. You do what you want to do. And do the best you can.

And if someone insists on asking, “But who’s better at it?”—just smile and say:

What?

The Bishop’s day scholars. Revised

 More Snippets – A Salute to the Day Scholars of Bishops, Pune

(After my earlier reflections on the boarders, I was promptly flooded with messages—some affectionate, others aggrieved, all quite persistent! One bold day scholar even threatened to travel to Dubai, family in tow, if I didn’t pay homage to his tribe. Well, my dear day scholar gentleman, this one’s for you. Cheers!)

Let me begin with a heartfelt apology. Dear Sirs—so many of you I remember, though not all by name. Age and memory are in a complex relationship now—not quite dementia, I assure you, but certainly a soft blur at the edges! Still, so many of your faces, voices, and mischiefs remain vivid in my mind.

I joined The Bishop’s School, Pune, in 1981 as Class Teacher of 5A. I was young, new to the rhythm of this remarkable school, and quickly discovered that in every class, there were always a few bright sparks who quietly ran the show. These were the day scholars—11-year-olds with startling maturity—who took charge of the attendance register, managed the monthly tallies, cleaned the blackboard, maintained classroom decorum, and even helped compile marksheets and report cards. Their efficiency often put adults to shame.

While the boarders, in all their rugged glory, ruled the sports fields with sweat and spirit, it was usually the day scholars who reigned supreme in the classroom. On the morning of the dreaded mark-reading, the boarders would shuffle into school, anxious and sleep-deprived, while the day scholars strode in, confident and cheerful, knowing they had little to fear.

I cannot mention the day scholars without recalling Khushru Minocherhomji, who returned to school as a football coach and gave back so much to the game and the boys. His presence uplifted the teams, and his passion was infectious.

In my many years overseeing Debating, Dramatics, and Elocution, I was astounded by the sheer talent the school housed—and much of it came from the day scholars. That said, let me also honour one unforgettable boarder who shone in the arts: Ken Ghosh—now a celebrated film director, producer, and scriptwriter. Even back then, his flair was evident.

The talent pool led me to form the Literary Club, selecting just 25 boys after a rigorous screening. Unsurprisingly, this elite group too was dominated by day scholars. Names flood my mind: Vidur Malhotra, Gopal Patwardhan, Nazir Tyrewala, Joydeep and Srideep Ganguly, Riyaz Bharucha, Youhan Doctor, Sajjid Chinoy, Zubin Patel, Vijay Menon, Umeed Kothawala, Krupal Shah, and the late Kurush Aga—each one a gem. With their brilliance, Bishops consistently triumphed at inter-school events. The Literary Club, held on Friday evenings, was pure joy—brimming with word games, wit, and laughter. That era felt golden.

It was Gopal Patwardhan and I who envisioned and launched the Patwardhan Debating Trophy, which, I’m told, continues to this day—still run by the Patwardhan family, and still regularly claimed by Bishops.

I could name many more day scholars who added so much to the life of the school—but then, this article would become a book! Still, two names spring readily to mind: Mark Choudhari and Govind Kanhere—very clever boys who consistently topped their respective classes.

Then came the Socials with St. Helena’s—our charming sister school. For many boys, it was the highlight of the year. Day scholars turned up in their smart new clothes, often looking positively swanky compared to the slightly more creased and frayed boarders. Some taught boarders how to dance, others learned themselves—awkwardly, clumsily, wonderfully. After the event, the day scholars lingered, hanging about with their boarder friends, chatting animatedly about which girls they fancied and who might’ve smiled at whom. I’ve heard whispers that a few of those innocent teenage crushes blossomed into proper romances, and even marriage. Who knows?

Now here's a detail that boarders will fondly—and perhaps hungrily—recall: day scholars almost always had more pocket money. They were, in many ways, the benevolent bankers of the school. Generous to a fault, many of them routinely treated their boarder friends to delights such as ‘India Ice Cream’—a culinary legend in its own right—Manji’s samosas, and all sorts of mysterious yet delicious fare from the school canteen, run with military efficiency by Terence Donahue, and occasionally assisted by Rudy Fox and the ever-reliable Mr. Torne. Whether it was a sticky kulfi, a packet of potato wafers, or a sweet bun that had clearly seen better days, everything tasted better when shared. And many boarders will agree—those treats weren't just snacks; they were acts of friendship, kindness, and quiet camaraderie.

Some of the boys’ parents were doctors at the nearby Command Hospital. Thanks to them, a number of us staff received free and generous medical care—consultations, medicines, even procedures. Dr. Deepankar Ganguly, father to two fine boys at Bishops, was one such benefactor.

Several families owned prominent businesses: The Serum Institute, Thermax, Weikfield, Eagle Flasks, and Sudarshan Chemicals. But what struck me most was their humility—parents treated faculty with warmth and respect, and the boys themselves blended into the school community like any other, never seeking special status.

Getting to school, though, was a theatre in itself. Some cycled in. Some were ferried by car, others by rickshaw—fifteen boys squeezed into a single auto, bags dangling, elbows out, laughter bubbling. Army and Air Force buses dropped off clusters of uniformed lads. And then came the monsoons—torrential, unpredictable. I remember days when school was cancelled abruptly. Yet, without messages, emails, or fuss, the day scholars simply turned around, drenched to the skin, and found their way home. No complaints. No drama. Just resilience.

One story stands out like a lightning flash.

It was Founders Day, and the PE Display was scheduled for 2 p.m. The skies were ominous—thick black clouds, rumbling thunder, newspaper warnings of precipitation. We advised caution. Mr. Roberts, our indomitable Principal, scoffed. “It will not rain,” he declared. That word cancel did not exist in his dictionary.

At 1:45 p.m., the stadium was a vision—flags fluttering, children in full whites, tiny tots in paper costumes ready for their drills, bands assembled, captains at attention. At 2:00 p.m. sharp, the command was given: “School! By the left, Quick March!”

Right then, the skies split open. The downpour was biblical. In minutes, the field was a giant puddle. Boys ran helter-skelter. Tiny ones cried as their crepe costumes disintegrated. Parents tried desperately to find their children amid chaos. Teachers became traffic marshals, counsellors, lifeguards. Umbrellas turned inside out, colours ran down cheeks, paper hats drooped. Yet, somehow, all the day scholars got home safely. And the next day? Not a single complaint. That, my friends, was the spirit of Bishops.

The school was a microcosm of India—boys of every religion, caste, and background. And what harmony we saw! Take Founders Week, which began with a solemn service at St. Mary’s Church next door. For over a century, the church stood proud—but the annual cleaning? That was Bishops' domain. Day scholars volunteered in droves—scrubbing pews, polishing brass, sweeping floors. Hindu, Muslim, Christian—it didn’t matter. It was their church, their school, their moment of pride.

Then came SUPW (Socially Useful Productive Work)—a cornerstone of the ICSE curriculum. Pulling down old sheds, clearing thorny fields, repairing furniture, cooking meals. Most day scholars chose to cook—and what feasts they created! Dishes laid out with tablecloths, cutlery, even garnishes. The boarders waited like hawks, swooping in the second the marks were awarded—often leaving the young chefs hungry but proud.

I left Bishops in 2001, but the bond has never broken. Whenever I visit Pune, I am met with open arms by old boys—now men with families, responsibilities, and memories. We laugh, we reminisce, we become boys again. Facebook and social media have made staying connected easier, but truth be told, the ties were never really severed.

Bishop’s  wasn’t just a school. It was, and remains, a living, breathing family.

Play up, Bishops. Never let your colours fall.

A letter to mum

 A Letter to Mum

"Those we love don't go away; they walk beside us every day."

I miss you, Mum — more than words can say.

Every single day, you’re in my thoughts and prayers.

When I dream of you, somehow, good things seem to follow. Maybe it’s true what they say — that where you are now, it’s a place of peace, light, and endless love. I hope it’s just as beautiful as we imagine: no pain, no sadness — only joy, and the quiet happiness you always deserved.

I find myself going back often to the early days, when life was simple but full.

The rickshaw rides to school — you bustling around, making sure I was ready: my uniform neat, my shoes polished, my books packed. You would remind me, "Do your homework well," "Have a bath and look clean and tidy," "Don’t be late."

Simple words, but packed with care and belief.

You taught me by your example — to be kind, to mind my words, to respect others.

"Speak no bad words," you said, and you lived it.

Character, you showed me, was far more important than anything else.

Helping with the housework was never an option; it was simply what we did. You believed in hard work and dignity — whether it was sweeping floors, folding laundry, or running small errands. I learned early that no task was beneath us, and no effort was ever wasted.

You worked so hard, Mum.

Sometimes taking up two jobs at once — managing the house, providing for me.

Not too much, never wasteful — but always enough, always just right.

Now I see what a sacrifice that truly was — and how silently you bore it all.

And then the day came when I left home to work in Pune.

Those long-distance phone calls feel so vivid even now — your voice, anxious and loving, cutting through the static.

"Can you hear me?" you would say again and again, until finally we could talk properly.

Each call was a reminder that no matter the distance, you were always with me.

Your visits to Pune, and later to Dubai, were gifts.

You brought the spirit of home with you — the familiar cooking, your laughter, your gentle chiding.

You stepped into my world with such grace, and I could see the pride in your eyes.

You were there at my wedding — radiant, proud, happy for me.

And when my daughters were born, you adored them.

You loved spending time with them — telling them stories, singing to them, gently fussing over their clothes and hair just like you once did for me.

They loved you just as deeply — their Nana, their safe place, their bundle of hugs and laughter.

I still see you with them — holding them close, laughing with them, teaching them little lessons in your soft, patient way.

Those memories are treasures now — precious, irreplaceable.

I remember the last time you left — sitting in a wheelchair at the airport, smiling and waving bravely, even though we both felt the weight of that goodbye.

Then came the fall, the hip injury, and the slow decline that no love or care could stop.

The end came too soon, and too hard.

You were irreplaceable — and you always will be.

But even now, you are with me.

In every act of kindness, in every effort to do better, in every quiet prayer whispered at the end of a long day — you are there.

You gave me a foundation built not on material things, but on love, values, strength, and humility.

I live by it every day.

And through me — and through your granddaughters — your spirit lives on.

You are, and always will be, right here with us.

With all my love, always,

Your son

Michael

Grandkids

 Grandkids are special.

In the wizardry of life, where time unwinds its tale, 

Grandchildren caper, love's boundless ship they sail.

 Their infectious laughter, echoes through time,

 As age surrenders, to their youthful climb.

Their high jinks wild, their hearts so pure,

Their comments are vague, yet love's allure. 

They mock with glee, yet in their eyes, 

A love so deep, a bond that ties.

On a pedestal, oh yes- they place you there, 

In their baby world, you're beyond compare. 

They don't see your wrinkles, just joy unfurled,

 In their tender embrace, you feel re-whirled.

"In hearts joy, we gauge" the saying goes,

Grandkids keep you young- this everyone knows.

We adore them - be they girls or boys.

Grandparents’ cherished, pristine toys.

 

In tales spun 'round, by firelights' glow,

 Grandparents’ voices, like rivers flow.

 In these moments, true magic is found,

 With grandchildren around, happiness is crowned.

So let them dance, let them explore, 

In their eyes, find youth's encore. 

Their joy becomes our cherished song, 

In grandkids' love, we eternally belong.

Loyalty cards

 Loyalty   - a strong feeling of support or allegiance.

Loyal- giving or showing firm and constant support.

Now that I have the meaning out of the way let me tell you what this is about.

It is about ‘Loyalty cards’ and I have never felt supported by having them!

It is believed that the early roots of customer loyalty programs started with “premium marketing” in the late 18th century. At this time, retailers began to give customers copper tokens with purchases that could be later redeemed for products, on future purchases. Loyalty and rewards programs have now become commonplace in our society.

As a young lad, which now seems like eons ago, we collected bottle tops, opened cans to see if the word, “Lucky winner” was engraved on the inside flap and bought various types of snacks and chewing gums  etc in an attempt to get lucky .

 No such luck ever dawned on me or on anyone I know. 

Now a days, in every part   of the world, every corner store, grocery, supermarket, hotel chain, gymnasium and the like have their own version of loyalty programmes. Me, being a sucker for loyalty, have any number of cards in my wallet – so much for privacy and all that hogwash. 

Let me relate three short instances that actually enlightened me about these ‘Loyalty cards’ and how they work. By the way, all told me made me believe that  I was a very special and valued customer! 

The first was when I was on a business trip a few years ago & checking into a well-known five-star hotel in Mumbai. On this occasion they were giving me a room with ‘no view’ whatsoever. With a certain amount of elan and oodles of confidence, I pulled out their loyalty card and asked them whether it stood for anything at all. The pretty young lady at the counter smiled & said “Sir, all our customers have these cards”. I never quite understood why I was carrying their card around in the first place.

The second was the Loyalty card of a very large mall. I was given the black and gold edged card after shopping one evening and was congratulated on joining the special programme for valued customers. I gathered points for many months, every time I made a purchase and was regularly intimated by mail about how many points were in my kitty. I often saw people redeeming their points while clearing their bill, but I felt that I would rather gather more points and redeem them once and for all. Silly, stupid me. 

Then for some obscure reason, we stopped going to that mall as we found one closer to home. A few months later we happened to be at that same mall , and it dawned on me that I may as well ‘cash in’. So, I walked up to the ‘Customer Care counter’ and produced my card. I had a few thousand points and was pleased as punch as finally I was going to pay my bill with my ‘loyalty card’. You have guessed what happened- The programme had been cancelled! They asked me if I wanted to join a New and Revised Loyalty Programme !

No, was my vehement answer. Obviously. 

 

This morning I completed the grocery shopping at the Hyper market next door and produced my ‘Loyalty card’ to pay my bill. 

After two people stared at the card long and hard, logged into a computer to confirm details, talked to a superior in under tones on a phone, asked me my name and mobile number & confirmed that I was the rightful owner of the card and no impersonator, they told me very politely that I had already used my points. It was almost like an inquisition. 

They smiled, with a certain degree of satisfaction while doing so, and I felt rather stupid. I could swear that the couple behind me were sniggering, but I could be wrong.  

That is when I almost lost it! I was vehement that the points had never been redeemed. By now there were about six or seven people in the line behind me and I was being given dirty looks as they were getting delayed. So, I did what was right – I paid my bill with cash but was still determined to find out about the so-called card, and why I could not redeem it. 

Finally, after much humming and hawing and checking their app on my mobile phone, I was assured that the next time I shopped there, they would redeem my card. To their credit they offered me some sanitizer and a tissue to clean my phone.  I smiled and looked around to see if anyone was listening – all those who were behind me had paid and left . 

Knowing my luck and the way these cards function, I will not be surprised that the programme gets canceled and a new one starts mid- week

Keeping my fingers crossed!

I must add, that filling in the forms for these cards is quite painful as well. They need their ‘valued customers’ to fill in their name, father’s name, date of birth, mobile number, address, weight, height, income, birth mark and what have you ( okay that may be a bit exaggerated) but I guess you get the drift   – so much for privacy ! 

Not sure why, but I always seem to  fall for these ‘Loyalty programmes’ 

They are fun – aren’t they?