Why teaching has always been my calling

 Over the years, I have led countless sessions on leadership—something I am truly passionate about. Recently, I asked a simple question: Did you always want to become a teacher? If not, what did you want to become?

It reminded me of that old saying: “Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach.” I’ve never believed that. Teaching isn’t a fallback—it’s a calling. For me, aside from some whimsical moments in youth when I thought of becoming a priest (perhaps drawn to the calm and the robe!) or dreaming of being the lead singer and rhythm guitarist in a band, teaching quietly stayed with me.

I began at my old school—The Boys High School, Allahabad—teaching English and History to grades 5 through 8. I loved teaching English—the stories, the poems, the magic of language. History was harder to bring alive, so my heart truly belonged to English and the literature we shared.

In 1981, I moved to The Bishop's School, Pune, where I spent the next twenty years until 2001. Initially teaching both English and History, soon English became my sole focus. Teaching literature—whether the joys of a story or the complexity of Shakespeare’s plays—was a delight. The classroom buzzed with laughter, questions, and discovery.

At Bishop’s, boys were clever. Those days, without Google or ChatGPT, my main reference was Encyclopedia Britannica. When stuck, I consulted the master of English himself—Mr. Beaman ( Senior teacher and Boarding Suptd) . Looking back, I surely erred sometimes, but I did what I knew best. I remember telling curious boys, “Let me check, I’m not too sure,” when they tried to catch a young master out. It was all part of the lively dance between teacher and pupil.

Early on, I took private tuition sessions before school, sitting on benches outside my accommodation. Between five and eight boys gathered—always talkative and quick to offer chores to escape studying. Many have become doctors, business leaders, politicians—hardworking, simple, and down to earth.

I played a lot of badminton, volleyball, and table tennis with the boys—the competition was intense and every point fiercely contested.

Boys being boys, they tried their tricks—bunking classes, inventing excuses to visit the infirmary, sneaking peeks during exams. I was firm, sometimes too firm. The punishments I handed out are not something I’m proud of today, and I always apologise when I reflect on them. But I was only doing what I had learned as a schoolboy.

Teaching is a two-way street. Pupils influence us as much as we influence them. The joy extends beyond lessons—games, duties, co-curricular activities, parental engagement, welcoming new pupils, and saying goodbye to board exam finishers. Each part is a thread in the rich tapestry of school life.

Boarding life at Bishop’s was special. Living on campus with 240 boarders and 100 staff felt like one big family. Everyone helped each other—sometimes a little too much! The school became a ghost town during holidays—quiet compared to the usual buzz.

A small fond memory is the old billiards table in the staff room, where teachers sneaked quick games after hours. It was more than a game—it was camaraderie and relaxation amid a busy day.

After Bishop’s, I taught at The Modern High School, Dubai, teaching English to boys and girls. Teaching girls was different—their responses, learning styles, and subtlety were refreshing. Though brief before moving fully into leadership, those years remain close to my heart.

There is no greater joy than being in a classroom, feeding off the energy of young minds. Education is about connection, empathy, and the human spirit. No robot or AI can replace a good teacher. The kindness, encouragement, and understanding a teacher offers—no machine can replicate.

Will teachers ever be replaced? No. And I hope not. Teaching is the heart of education—the spark lighting every learner’s journey.

If I had to do it all over again, would I choose teaching? Without hesitation, yes.

My teachers

 My Teachers in Allahabad in the 60's and 70's. I am sure many of you would remember at least some of them. 

There were many who taught me—but some left an indelible mark, for reasons hard to explain yet impossible to forget. These weren’t just lessons on blackboards; they were acts of quiet kindness, stern guidance, and generous gifts of time—given freely, without expectation.

It all began in Allahabad—a city steeped in history, culture, and learning. Known as the city of confluence, Allahabad produced luminaries in politics, literature, and the arts. My first school was St. Joseph’s—a vibrant and prestigious institution, widely regarded as one of the finest in the city. The imposing gothic structure of All Saints’ Cathedral stood nearby, adding grandeur to our daily lives.

If memory serves me right, the magic of teaching first revealed itself to me in Class 3 through Mrs. Daniels. She was a gentle soul—sweet and ladylike. Her rickshaw—one of those upright, rattly ones—passed our home on 3rd Avenue, as the puller lived near the railway quarters. She offered me a ride; each morning, the rickshaw stopped at my house before collecting her. She paid the fare; I got a free ride. It was a quiet kindness, no fuss, no announcements. She chatted animatedly during the ride, while I was half-asleep or lost in thought. That simple ride made me feel seen, included, and safe.

In Class 4 came quite the contrast: Mrs. Pen-Anthony, our formidable Math teacher with piercing grey eyes and a strict presence. I was poor at Math, which didn’t help my nerves. But instead of giving up on me, she offered free after-school tutoring. For three months, I stayed back, struggling with sums while she watched over me, sometimes giving my desk a thwack with her umbrella out of exasperation. Her intentions were kind—she wanted me to succeed.

Math continued to challenge me, but angels kept arriving in disguise. One was Mrs. Mona Shepherd, who lived just across the road. Every evening, I’d head over for tuition under her gentle, watchful eye. Her garden had a large plum tree, and I often joined other boys in trying to bring down the ripest fruit. She had a daughter—very pretty, I thought—but I only admired her from afar.

Then came Trevor Bunting—a senior teacher well known in town and our family circles. If anyone could make a child understand Math, it was him. He tutored me briefly in Grade 6, always calm and patient. With him, I began to see the logic behind numbers. His kindness and consistency helped build my confidence.

In Grade 7, I studied under Joseph Shanker—Joe to most. He was energetic, engaging, and brilliant with numbers. A group of us showed up at his house at 6 a.m. during summer break—yes, 6 a.m.! He made Math come alive with real-world examples and relentless encouragement. Under his care, I genuinely improved.

Another teacher I remember fondly—though he never tutored me—was Mr. Carl D’Cruz. Most of us feared him. He was stern, controlled, and never raised his voice. Yet beneath that exterior was a man who quietly looked out for his students. He often called me to the blackboard—not to catch me out, but to solve a problem he knew I could handle. He corrected my careless mistakes gently but firmly and taught me that discipline and kindness could coexist. He made me believe in myself.

Here lies the golden thread running through all of this: every one of these teachers gave their time freely. No one spoke of payment. They taught not for profit, but because they believed—in us, in learning, in the noble craft of teaching.

When I shifted to Boys’ High School (BHS) in Grade 8, I left my Math struggles behind—but my learning journey deepened in other ways. At BHS, three teachers shaped my path profoundly: Tony McLeod, Winston Gardner, and Ian Scott.

English had always been a strength, so they never tutored me outside class. But they opened entire worlds of thought, language, and expression.

Winston Gardner, in particular, started me on my path into leadership and public speaking. One day, he called me aside and said, “I want you to captain the debate team.” I had no clue what I was doing—and, unsurprisingly, botched my first debate. But he didn’t give up on me, and I didn’t give up on myself. That opportunity lit a spark that became a lifelong love of public speaking and leadership—all because one teacher believed I could stand up and speak.

Tony McLeod and Ian Scott were masters of their craft. Their lessons were never just about grammar or Shakespeare; they were about clarity, emotion, and thought. They made me fall in love with the English language—so much so that I would eventually make it my profession. Their passion was infectious, and their belief in me gave me the confidence to write, speak, and teach.

And how can I forget Miss Sybil Caston. I went to her for Math and Geography in grade 11. She was tiny but tough and what a great teacher. There were some pretty girls as her neighbours so she kept a close eye on me.!

Looking back, I trace the roots of my life’s work to those classrooms and those teachers .

What united all these teachers was not just intelligence or skill—it was empathy. A quiet, steadfast belief in education’s power. They didn’t just teach subjects; they shaped lives. They gave time, effort, and trust—and asked for nothing in return.

Teaching remains one of the noblest professions in the world. It creates all other professions. And when done with heart, empathy, and love—it transforms.

John M. Zamen 

Marvin Bunting 

Sanjaya Kala 

Darren Dcruze 

Aubrey Mcgowan 

Sandra Sheridan 

Iona Lee 

Valentine Massey 

Alan Seymour 

Michael Mackrodt 

Sandra Dacosta 

Aninda Chatterji 

AvaShanker Ganguly 

Boys' High School 

SJC Old Boys' Association-OBA 

Syed Qaisar Mehdi

Ash Burn

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.