Mathematics

 

I can still remember my Grade 6 mathematics periods at St Joseph’s, Allahabad.

It is 2 pm on a blazing summer afternoon. Lunch is over and I have spent the last hour playing in the sun. I gulp down some decidedly not-cold water from the cement water tank with its 12 taps, wipe the sweat from my face and hear the bell.

I hurry back to class. Mathematics awaits — and, unfortunately, so does the strictest teacher in school.

The lone fan is turning at half speed, moving little more than hot air around the room. Fifty boys are packed into the classroom, sweaty, sticky and not exactly fragrant. The weekend is approaching. My mind is already there.

Then the master walks in.

A hurried, noisy “Good afternoon, Sir!” erupts from 50 boys.

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t say a word. He walks straight to the front, picks up a stick of chalk and starts writing on the blackboard.

Screeeech.

The chalk squeaks. The noise in the classroom slowly dies down. He carries on writing as though none of us exists.

Then we see the dreaded sum:

A train travelling at 125 kmph enters a platform 100 metres long. The train itself is 150 metres long. How long will it take for the entire train to clear the platform?

I stare at the blackboard.

At that moment, I had absolutely no interest in trains.

I was struggling to keep my eyes open. I certainly wasn’t interested in the love life of a train and a platform.

The answer, of course, is 7.2 seconds.

And even now I wonder: who needed to know this?

The driver? The station master? The passengers?

I had travelled by train many times as a boy. I loved trains. I loved sitting by the window and watching Allahabad disappear into the countryside. But never once did I wonder whether the train would take exactly 7.2 seconds to clear a platform.

And if it took 7.3 seconds, what exactly was I supposed to do about it?

Somewhere along the way, we decided that knowing this was an essential life skill.

I’m still waiting for it to become useful.

But perhaps that isn’t really the point.

Those sums, those blackboards, those squeaking pieces of chalk and those stern masters are part of the landscape of childhood. We didn’t know it then, but we were collecting memories along with marks.

I may have forgotten many of the answers I was expected to remember.

But I remember the classroom.

I remember the heat, the fan, the noise, the trains — and 50 boys trying very hard not to fall asleep.

Maybe that was the real lesson. Some things are useful because they help you solve a problem. Others are useful because, years later, they help you remember who you were.

 

Are We Being Influenced Beyond Reason?

'When a ring light becomes a qualification'

There was a time when an influencer was somebody who had earned the right to influence you. He or she knew a subject well enough to make their opinion worth hearing. Their standing came from what they knew, not from how many people happened to follow them.

Now all you need is a smartphone, a ring light, a confident voice and the ability to look seriously into a camera while saying something that sounds vaguely profound.

And there are so many of them. They have sprung up like blades of grass after rain. Open Instagram, TikTok, YouTube or whichever platform we acquired this month, and somebody is ready to tell you what to eat, how to sleep, how to lose weight, make money, live longer and look younger. You begin to wonder whether you are living your life or following instructions from people living theirs on a screen.

Travel influencers have some of the most extraordinary jobs on earth. They fly First and Business Class around the world and describe it in minute detail: the seat that becomes a bed, the champagne, the caviar, the pyjamas, a verdict on the scrambled eggs at 38,000 feet. And every one of them, without fail, shows us the toilet: how big it is, how lavish it is and, apparently, whether the flush deserves a five-star rating.

And this is a career.

Meanwhile, many of us are at home debating whether turning the air-conditioning down by one degree will make enough difference to the electricity bill. I am not jealous; I am simply wondering whether I made a few questionable career choices.

The trouble begins when popularity is mistaken for expertise. Now everybody seems to be an authority on health, money and happiness. Someone will announce, with great gravity, “Seven things you must stop doing immediately if you want to live longer.”

Seven? Why seven? Why not six or eight?

And what qualifies this person to advise me on longevity?

Apparently, 427,000 followers is enough.

A million followers cannot turn an opinion into a fact, and a ring light is not a qualification.

It is easy to laugh at the airline toilets. It is much harder to laugh when the advice concerns somebody’s body, because that is where this stops being funny.

Body image already troubles many young people. A survey of more than 21,000 of them across six countries found that only 45 per cent were satisfied with their body size. Into that anxiety step health influencers, promising a “quick way” to lose weight.

The advice can be alarming: skip meals, live on liquids, exercise for hours. None of it comes from a doctor or dietitian, yet a teenager who watches the same face every day can begin to treat it as gospel. Several former pupils, now parents of teenagers, have told me they worry about what their children eat and where they learned it. Young people can sometimes trust a stranger online before a parent or teacher.

Then there are those selling the dream itself. A car at nineteen, a mansion at twenty-two, a millionaire at twenty-six. The lifestyle may be exaggerated, but a teenager may not know that. Recent research from the US and Norway found that social media is now a major influence on how young people think about their future careers.

Some months ago, a former pupil asked me for advice. His teenage son had been admitted to a college in Canada but wanted to become a holiday influencer because he loved travelling. Eventually, he listened to a counsellor and decided to go to college.

Influencing is a career, and some people do it well. But behind the successful ones there is usually knowledge, experience, talent or years of learning. For a teenager, walking away from education because an online career looks glamorous can be a costly gamble. The years spent learning cannot simply be recovered later.

Social media has also made it possible for people with little or no training to give health, financial and lifestyle advice to millions within minutes. In professions where bad advice can cause serious harm, we expect people to have qualifications and to be clear about their expertise. It seems reasonable to expect the same transparency online. If you are giving specialist advice, people should be able to see what qualifies you to give it.

There are genuine experts who use social media well. Doctors, scientists, educators, chefs and athletes can share useful knowledge with millions who might never otherwise encounter it. That is influence in the proper sense: knowledge reaching people who can benefit from it.

The problem is not influence. It is unearned influence.

But we have a part to play too. Every view, like, share and follow tells the algorithm that we want more. We can become a little harder to influence. Put the phone down. Have a conversation without filming it. Eat a meal without photographing it. And perhaps listen to people who have spent years learning something rather than simply to the person with the biggest following.

And perhaps we can bring back one small phrase that has almost disappeared from social media:

“I don’t know.”

There is something reassuring about someone who can say it. Real knowledge does not need a ring light, a discount code or a million followers. Sometimes the person worth listening to is simply the one who knows what they are talking about.

 

Please Let Children Be Children

Kids need room to struggle, and time to do nothing.

I am supposed to be the expert. Yet when my six-year-old granddaughter gives me that look and asks for a second chocolate, and her three-year-old sister copies her, I hand over two. Their mother is not amused.

I know what I should do. After more than 40 years in education, I have told parents that children need to hear the word “no”, to lose sometimes and to solve their own problems. Then my granddaughters appear, and the theory quietly leaves the room.

It seems the girls have already worked out how the system runs. Yesterday they handed me their list for Santa, and some of the requests were rather outrageous, including a pink pony with a long tail. I must accept some of the blame. I had told them to write to him well in advance because the jolly old man gets very busy, and they took my advice very seriously. Perhaps Santa needs a gentle word with Grandpa.

It also made me think about how different their childhood is from my own. When we were growing up, children were simply allowed to be children. On holidays we played outside until it got dark, and then we knew it was time to go home, or there could be repercussions. We cried, we were rewarded, we were sometimes told no, and we learned about boundaries without anyone having to explain them. We were noisy and messy and entirely ourselves, and we learned about the world by living in it. I do not say that was better. It was just different.

Childhood today is different again, and much of it is lived in a hurry. In neighbourhoods across the UAE, we rush our children from an improvement class to a game to another activity. Every one of these things may be worthwhile, but put them all together and children can end up exhausted, and so can their parents. I say this with sympathy because I understand exactly why we do it. We want the best for them.

As a principal, I often spoke about this, and one moment has stayed with me. I once asked a pupil, “When do you just lie on your bed or sit on the sofa and do nothing?” She gave me a look that said, quite clearly, “Are you mad?” At least, that is how I read it.

Her parents later told me why. She ate a meal in the car on the way from one activity to the next and changed her clothes there too. It was one mad rush, six days a week. She was a real go-getter, and so were her parents, but she often looked tired, sometimes exhausted. I have never forgotten it.

Even the most motivated child needs time to stop, breathe and simply be.

Doing nothing has become almost unthinkable, for children and increasingly for adults too. Yet quiet time is not wasted time. It is when the mind gets a chance to rest, and when a child invents a game, wonders about something or simply thinks. We know what constant pressure can do to a child’s mood, sleep and joy in learning.

We say we want our children to be resilient, but resilience only grows when there is something to recover from. I have watched parents become quite worked up over a squabble between two children at play, something the children themselves had forgotten within minutes.

I understand it. Love makes it hard to watch a child struggle.

But a child who falls, gets up and discovers that falling did not destroy them has learned something no lecture can teach. And a child with no spare time has little room to fall, or to get up.

So where does that leave our schools? They have changed remarkably in my time, and that progress gives us the confidence to ask a gentle question: are we preparing children for the world they will inherit, or for the one we grew up in?

The world they are growing into will not run on timetables. I relied on the bulky Encyclopedia Britannica, and ChatGPT, Claude and other tools are a big improvement. I would not go back. But when answers arrive in seconds, the skills that matter most are the human ones: asking good questions, judging whether something is true, listening, disagreeing respectfully, saying sorry and admitting, “I was wrong.”

None of these appear on an examination paper, and most of them grow in unhurried time.

Perhaps we could start small. One afternoon a week with nothing planned, and see what our children do with it.

We cannot prepare them for every possible future. The best gift we can give them is not another qualification or another carefully planned activity, but the confidence to ask questions, make decisions and cope when things do not go to plan. Sometimes it is simply an empty afternoon.

I say that as an educator, and, rather more humbly, as a grandfather of two little girls who knows exactly what he should do and occasionally does the opposite.

What is yours will find you

 

What Is YoWhat Is Yours Will Find You

Not every disappointment is a blessing, but some only make sense much later.

“What is yours will find you.” I have always liked the saying. To me, it speaks of something we all eventually learn: we can work hard for what we want, but we cannot always decide how things will turn out.

It sounds comforting, but it can also be misunderstood. Some people take it as a reason to leave things to fate. If something is meant to happen, they believe it will happen anyway, so there is little point in working too hard towards it.

I have never seen life that way.

If you want something, you have to work for it. You have to prepare, take chances and put yourself forward. You cannot simply sit back and expect destiny to do the work for you. But effort has its limits too. Working hard does not guarantee that you will get the particular outcome you have in mind.

I have spent much of my working life on the other side of interview tables, interviewing teachers and leaders, and I have seen this many times. The person who wants the job most is not necessarily the person who gets it.

I remember a young teacher I once interviewed. She was bright, capable and extremely well prepared, but she wanted the job so badly that it seemed to get in the way. She had rehearsed her answers and was trying to give us what she thought we wanted to hear. In the process, we weren't really seeing her.

We didn't appoint her.

A year later, she applied again. She still wanted the job, but something had changed. She was more relaxed, answered honestly and wasn't afraid to admit when she didn't know something. She wasn't trying to be the perfect candidate. She was simply herself.

We appointed her.

It stayed with me because there is a difference between wanting something and needing it so badly that we become consumed by the outcome.

Perhaps we do this more often than we realise. We become convinced that a particular promotion, career, relationship or opportunity has to work out because we have invested so much in it. We start to confuse effort with entitlement.

Life doesn't always agree.

I learnt that lesson myself many years ago in Pune.

There was a time when I was quite sure I was about to become a principal. I wanted the job badly and believed I was ready for it. If I am being completely honest, I thought I deserved it. I had worked towards it and had begun to imagine myself in the role.

Then it didn't happen.

I was deeply disappointed. At the time, I could see only what I had lost and couldn't understand why something I had worked for and felt ready for had not come my way.

It was, although I didn't know it then, a turning point in my life.

Looking back now, I can see that had I become a principal in Pune at that particular time, the course of my career could have been very different. The opportunities that followed, the people I met and the journey that eventually brought me to Dubai might never have unfolded in quite the same way.

Sometimes what we thought was a disappointment was simply something whose significance we could not see at the time.

And don't I know that.

I have learnt not to romanticise disappointment. Not everything that goes wrong turns out to be a blessing, and some disappointments remain just that. But time has a way of changing our perspective. At the moment something happens, we see the event. Years later, we may begin to see where it led.

That has made me more comfortable with uncertainty. I still make plans, work hard and want things, but I am less convinced that I know exactly how my life should unfold.

Perhaps that is where fate or destiny has a place — not as an excuse for doing nothing, but as an acknowledgement that we are not entirely in charge.

We do what we can, then we live with what happens. Sometimes, it takes time to see the whole picture.

I think that is the more useful meaning of “What is yours will find you.” It doesn't mean everything we want will eventually be ours, nor does it mean every closed door is hiding something better. It simply reminds us that we cannot always judge something by the way it feels when it happens.

The life we eventually live is shaped by many things, including the things that didn't happen.

I know that because of Pune.

And I suspect most of us have a Pune of our own — a job we didn't get, an opportunity that passed us by, a relationship that ended or a plan that didn't work out as we had hoped.

At the time, we wondered why.

Years later, we may see it differently.

I certainly do.

I still don't know whether everything happens for a reason. But I have learnt that not everything has to make sense when it happens. Sometimes, you understand it only much later.urs Will Find You

Not every disappointment is a blessing, but some only make sense much later.

“What is yours will find you.” I have always liked the saying. To me, it speaks of something we all eventually learn: we can work hard for what we want, but we cannot always decide how things will turn out.

It sounds comforting, but it can also be misunderstood. Some people take it as a reason to leave things to fate. If something is meant to happen, they believe it will happen anyway, so there is little point in working too hard towards it.

I have never seen life that way.

If you want something, you have to work for it. You have to prepare, take chances and put yourself forward. You cannot simply sit back and expect destiny to do the work for you. But effort has its limits too. Working hard does not guarantee that you will get the particular outcome you have in mind.

I have spent much of my working life on the other side of interview tables, interviewing teachers and leaders, and I have seen this many times. The person who wants the job most is not necessarily the person who gets it.

I remember a young teacher I once interviewed. She was bright, capable and extremely well prepared, but she wanted the job so badly that it seemed to get in the way. She had rehearsed her answers and was trying to give us what she thought we wanted to hear. In the process, we weren't really seeing her.

We didn't appoint her.

A year later, she applied again. She still wanted the job, but something had changed. She was more relaxed, answered honestly and wasn't afraid to admit when she didn't know something. She wasn't trying to be the perfect candidate. She was simply herself.

We appointed her.

It stayed with me because there is a difference between wanting something and needing it so badly that we become consumed by the outcome.

Perhaps we do this more often than we realise. We become convinced that a particular promotion, career, relationship or opportunity has to work out because we have invested so much in it. We start to confuse effort with entitlement.

Life doesn't always agree.

I learnt that lesson myself many years ago in Pune.

There was a time when I was quite sure I was about to become a principal. I wanted the job badly and believed I was ready for it. If I am being completely honest, I thought I deserved it. I had worked towards it and had begun to imagine myself in the role.

Then it didn't happen.

I was deeply disappointed. At the time, I could see only what I had lost and couldn't understand why something I had worked for and felt ready for had not come my way.

It was, although I didn't know it then, a turning point in my life.

Looking back now, I can see that had I become a principal in Pune at that particular time, the course of my career could have been very different. The opportunities that followed, the people I met and the journey that eventually brought me to Dubai might never have unfolded in quite the same way.

Sometimes what we thought was a disappointment was simply something whose significance we could not see at the time.

And don't I know that.

I have learnt not to romanticise disappointment. Not everything that goes wrong turns out to be a blessing, and some disappointments remain just that. But time has a way of changing our perspective. At the moment something happens, we see the event. Years later, we may begin to see where it led.

That has made me more comfortable with uncertainty. I still make plans, work hard and want things, but I am less convinced that I know exactly how my life should unfold.

Perhaps that is where fate or destiny has a place — not as an excuse for doing nothing, but as an acknowledgement that we are not entirely in charge.

We do what we can, then we live with what happens. Sometimes, it takes time to see the whole picture.

I think that is the more useful meaning of “What is yours will find you.” It doesn't mean everything we want will eventually be ours, nor does it mean every closed door is hiding something better. It simply reminds us that we cannot always judge something by the way it feels when it happens.

The life we eventually live is shaped by many things, including the things that didn't happen.

I know that because of Pune.

And I suspect most of us have a Pune of our own — a job we didn't get, an opportunity that passed us by, a relationship that ended or a plan that didn't work out as we had hoped.

At the time, we wondered why.

Years later, we may see it differently.

I certainly do.

I still don't know whether everything happens for a reason. But I have learnt that not everything has to make sense when it happens. Sometimes, you understand it only much later.

Sometimes Growth Looks Like Not Fitting In Anymore

 Sometimes Growth Looks Like Not Fitting In Anymore

The WhatsApp Group That Never Arrived

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

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

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

The Place We Came From

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

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

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

When Things Stop Fitting

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

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

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

Going Back, Without Going Back

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keep it simple

 Morning reflection - Keep it SIMPLE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing extraordinary. Just things that make me happy.

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

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

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

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

The Bishop's School, Pune

Grateful

 MORNING REFLECTION- GRATEFUL

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

Not for anything in particular. Just thankful.

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

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

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

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

There were miracles along the way. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Bishop's School, Pune 

ALLAHABAD CIVIL LINES  NOSTALGIC MEMORIES

The LOLLYPOP Man

 THE LOLLYPOP MAN

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

And somehow, that simple picture has stayed with me.

Who remembers it?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Bishop's School, Pune

Letting go

 MORNING REFLECTION 

**Sometimes, You Have to Let Go**

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

to plans, to people,

to dreams we once believed were meant for us,

taught that seeing things through

is the measure of strength.

But some roads that once felt right

stop feeling like home.

A job left after many good years.

Not because it was bad,

or the people were wrong,

but because something else, quietly, felt right instead.

Dreams age too.

Some belonged to an earlier version of ourselves:

worth everything then,

proud of even now,

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

That doesn't make those years a mistake.

We look back at them with gratitude, with affection,

the lessons, the friendships,

the people they built.

A thing doesn't have to last forever

to have mattered.

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

Life keeps moving. We move with it.

New rooms open,

and sometimes we notice, almost by accident,

that the life ahead fits better

than the one we're still holding.

A life well lived isn't measured

by how long we held on,

but by the gratitude for where we've been,

the nerve to stand where we are,

and the readiness to see

 where we're headed next.

On leading people

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

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

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

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

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

And I think that is a good thing.

That is where Logos, Ethos and Pathos come in.

Logos — make the case.

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

Ethos — earn the trust.

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

Pathos — touch the heart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why should learning be a race against time?

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

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

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

Logos makes the case.

Ethos earns the trust.

Pathos touches the heart.

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

You create commitment.

The invisible leader

 # If You Are Not Visible, You Are Invisible

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

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

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

## The Slow Disappearance

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

## Now Say the Quiet Part

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

## Visible Is Not the Same as Loud

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

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

## What This Actually Costs You

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

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

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

Are We Preparing for the Future We Are Creating?

 

Are We Preparing for the Future We Are Creating?

Reimagining Education: Perhaps the Only Logical Answer

Every now and then, I find myself wondering what sort of world we are leaving behind for the next generation.

Perhaps it is because there is so much uncertainty around us. Wars continue, tensions between countries are rising, nuclear weapons remain a frightening reality and climate change is bringing its own challenges. Add floods, earthquakes, droughts and extreme temperatures, and it is difficult not to wonder where all this could take us. I am not saying the world is coming to an end. It isn't. Mankind has faced difficult times before and has shown an amazing ability to survive and adapt. But with so much confusion and mistrust between countries, can we completely rule out another major global conflict? I sincerely hope not.

A war between major powers today would be very different from the wars of the past. Nuclear weapons have changed the picture completely. Surely that alone should make leaders think very carefully before choosing confrontation over dialogue.

Then there is nature. Floods, earthquakes, droughts and extreme heat have always been with us. But today, millions of people live in large cities and depend on complicated systems for almost everything. When something goes wrong, the impact can be huge. The World Meteorological Organization says that 2015–2025 were the eleven warmest years on record.

I am not suggesting that we should live in fear, but perhaps we should take a little more notice of what is happening around us.

We Know the Problems. But Are We Doing Enough?

I know I am hardly the first person to raise these issues-  Newspapers, scientists, researchers, academics and world leaders have been talking about them for years. There are plenty of meetings and organizations looking at these problems too. The United Nations, COP, the G20, the World Economic Forum and many others bring people together to discuss the future. The UN's 2024 Summit of the Future was another serious attempt to get countries to think together about peace, climate, technology and future generations.

And, to be fair, a lot is being done.

The UAE has taken important steps in sustainability, climate action, artificial intelligence and education. Singapore and several other countries are also looking seriously at sustainability, technology and the skills their young people will need.

So I am not saying that nothing is being done. A lot is being done, and there are many people working seriously on these challenges.

But I sometimes wonder whether it is enough.

We have become very good at identifying problems, producing reports, holding conferences and making commitments. The harder part is turning all that discussion into action that lasts. I know this is not easy. Governments have competing priorities, businesses have pressures and societies do not always agree on what should come first.

But perhaps we need to spend a little less time talking about the future and a little more time preparing for it.

And that brings me to education.

Reimagining Education: Looking 50 Years Ahead

As an educator, I have often wondered whether we are asking the right questions about education. We rightly talk about preparing children for jobs. We talk about digital skills, artificial intelligence, new technology and the jobs of tomorrow. All of that is important. But I think we need to look further.

Curriculum change is a must — not simply to keep up with the times, but to look 50 years ahead.

A child entering school today could still be working, leading organizations and making important decisions in 2075. We have very little idea what that world will look like. So perhaps we need to ask a different question. Instead of only asking, “What does a child need to know?”, should we also be asking, “What sort of person will the world need 50 years from now?”

Of course, knowledge will always matter. Mathematics, science, languages, history, literature and the arts are important. We should never lose sight of that. But knowledge alone is not enough.

Young people need to learn how to think, question, reason, adapt and make good decisions. They need to know the difference between fact and opinion, recognize misinformation and understand how technology and artificial intelligence should be used responsibly.

They also need to learn how to disagree without becoming disagreeable. They need to listen to people who think differently and understand that their own view may not always be the only view.  And we need to give more importance to judgement and character — integrity, empathy, resilience, responsibility, courage and respect. These things may not always show up in an examination result, but they will matter enormously when today's children become parents, professionals, citizens and leaders.

Perhaps one of the most important things we can teach them is the ability to say, “I may be wrong.”

We should teach children how to think, not what to think. Give them knowledge, but encourage curiosity. Give them technology, but teach them when to use it and when they need to think for themselves. Let them solve real problems, work with others, make decisions, get things wrong and try again.

Education should not simply prepare young people to earn a living. It should prepare them to live in a complicated world and to make it a little better.

After all, the people who will one day make decisions about conflict, climate, technology, resources and society are sitting in classrooms today. That is why I believe education is about much more than getting a job. It is about preparing people for life.

What Can We Actually Do?

Perhaps the answer is not as complicated as we sometimes make it.

We need wiser leaders who are prepared to listen and talk rather than always trying to win. Governments have to look beyond the next election or political cycle. Countries have to recognise that some problems simply cannot be solved alone. And we need to give young people the education to do better than we have done.

I don't know what challenges mankind will face over the next fifty years. Neither does anyone else. But we don't have to know exactly what the future will look like to prepare better for it. We can help young people become curious enough to keep learning, confident enough to ask questions, sensible enough to make good choices, resilient enough to deal with setbacks and thoughtful enough to understand other people.

We may not be able to tell them what the future will bring but we can certainly prepare them to face it.

And perhaps that is where we should begin — in the classroom.

 

The Childhood Lesson I Didn’t Know I Was Learning

Some childhood memories stay with you for years. I have one that takes me back to the railway quarters where my cousins Annette and Penny and I spent quite a lot of time together.

Whenever guests were coming, we knew what was expected of us.

First, have a bath and make sure you looked clean and tidy.

Then tidy up the hallroom. We had to make sure everything looked good before the guests arrived. And we did it with pride. It was our home, and we wanted it to look nice.

There was no maid to do everything for us.

I sometimes think about that today when I see children who don't lift a finger at home because there is someone to do it for them. Perhaps they are missing out on the simple satisfaction of helping and taking responsibility.

Then the guests arrived.

We had to greet them properly.

“Hello, Auntie.”

“Hello, Uncle.”

And if we said it too softly, we would hear:

“Auntie, Uncle, haven't heard you!”

So we said it again, louder this time. There would be smiles and laughter.

And then, after the guests had settled down with their tea, coffee and snacks, came the part I dreaded.

We had to perform.

Annette and Penny would sing or dance. I would often have to recite a poem. One I remember particularly well was Casabianca. I was under ten, quite shy, and I hated standing there with everyone looking at me.

But I did it.

I also remember Annette and Penny singing Sisters:

“Sisters, sisters, there were never such devoted sisters…”

Which was rather amusing because, after singing about being such devoted sisters, they would sometimes go inside and have a good fight!

Looking back, though, I realise those little performances did something for me.

They gave me confidence.

I was learning to stand up, speak clearly and not be afraid of people listening to me.

Years later, I found myself speaking to large audiences and singing in a band. I am sure those early experiences helped.

And perhaps there is a small leadership lesson here too.

When we have a young recruit or someone new to the team, we should give them opportunities to show what they can do. Encourage them to speak, present an idea, lead a small task or simply share what they are good at.

They may be nervous at first, but a little encouragement can build confidence. Sometimes people don't need to be pushed into the spotlight; they just need someone to invite them into it.

So here is my unsolicited advice to young parents.

When guests come over, bring the children out.

Let them say hello. Let them talk. Let them help around the house. Let them tell a story, recite a poem or sing a song.

They may not like it.

I certainly didn't.

But you may be helping them develop confidence without even realising it.

Today, I thank my mother and my aunt for making us do those things.

At the time, I thought they were embarrassing us.

Now I realize they were helping us.

And when I think back to those railway-quarter days, I remember the laughter, the tea, Annette and Penny singing about being “devoted sisters” and then going off to fight, and me standing there reciting Casabianca.

I wouldn't change any of it.

Funny how the things we dislike as children can become some of the things we are most grateful for as adults.

Some childhood memories stay with you for years. I have one that takes me back to the railway quarters where my cousins Annette and Penny and I spent quite a lot of time together.

Whenever guests were coming, we knew what was expected of us.

First, have a bath and make sure you looked clean and tidy.

Then tidy up the hallroom. We had to make sure everything looked good before the guests arrived. And we did it with pride. It was our home, and we wanted it to look nice.

There was no maid to do everything for us.

I sometimes think about that today when I see children who don't lift a finger at home because there is someone to do it for them. Perhaps they are missing out on the simple satisfaction of helping and taking responsibility.

Then the guests arrived.

We had to greet them properly.

“Hello, Auntie.”

“Hello, Uncle.”

And if we said it too softly, we would hear:

“Auntie, Uncle, haven't heard you!”

So we said it again, louder this time. There would be smiles and laughter.

And then, after the guests had settled down with their tea, coffee and snacks, came the part I dreaded.

We had to perform.

Annette and Penny would sing or dance. I would often have to recite a poem. One I remember particularly well was Casabianca. I was under ten, quite shy, and I hated standing there with everyone looking at me.

But I did it.

I also remember Annette and Penny singing Sisters:

“Sisters, sisters, there were never such devoted sisters…”

Which was rather amusing because, after singing about being such devoted sisters, they would sometimes go inside and have a good fight!

Looking back, though, I realise those little performances did something for me.

They gave me confidence.

I was learning to stand up, speak clearly and not be afraid of people listening to me.

Years later, I found myself speaking to large audiences and singing in a band. I am sure those early experiences helped.

And perhaps there is a small leadership lesson here too.

When we have a young recruit or someone new to the team, we should give them opportunities to show what they can do. Encourage them to speak, present an idea, lead a small task or simply share what they are good at.

They may be nervous at first, but a little encouragement can build confidence. Sometimes people don't need to be pushed into the spotlight; they just need someone to invite them into it.

So here is my unsolicited advice to young parents.

When guests come over, bring the children out.

Let them say hello. Let them talk. Let them help around the house. Let them tell a story, recite a poem or sing a song.

They may not like it.

I certainly didn't.

But you may be helping them develop confidence without even realising it.

Today, I thank my mother and my aunt for making us do those things.

At the time, I thought they were embarrassing us.

Now I realise they were helping us.

And when I think back to those railway-quarter days, I remember the laughter, the tea, Annette and Penny singing about being “devoted sisters” and then going off to fight, and me standing there reciting Casabianca.

I wouldn't change any of it.

Funny how the things we dislike as children can become some of the things we are most grateful for as adults.

What flying a kite taught me about life

 

What Flying a Kite Taught Me About Life

I was never very good at flying kites. There was the ritual of preparing the thread, patiently untangling knots, waiting for the right breeze, coaxing the kite into the sky, and then watching two kites dance, circle and tangle high above us, each trying to outwit the other. It was all rather hit and miss. I don't remember winning many kite battles. What I do remember is the excitement, the shouts from neighbouring rooftops, and that sinking feeling as my kite drifted away.

Only years later did I realise that flying a kite had taught me something about life.

A kite doesn't soar because someone holds the string tightly. It flies because the person below knows when to pull, when to ease, and when to trust the wind.

I've come to believe that people are much the same.

As parents, partners, teachers, friends or leaders, we often think that holding on tighter is the best way to protect those we care about. But people flourish when they are trusted.

Hold on too tightly and you hold people back. Let go completely and the connection is lost.

The real skill lies in staying connected while giving others the freedom to find their own way.

Like flying a kite, the secret isn't in holding on tighter. It's in knowing when to loosen the string.

Funny how some of life's biggest lessons arrive on the end of a piece of string... and stay with us long after the kite has disappeared from the sky.

Senior citizens

 When Do We Actually Become Senior Citizens?

There are two or three pews in our church reserved for senior citizens, particularly the elderly or infirm. Our church is more often than not packed, with people standing at the back or looking for somewhere to sit, yet these particular pews can remain empty for quite some time.

Then, halfway through the service, someone of almost any age will quietly walk in and occupy one of them. Nobody says a word.

My wife and I have always avoided these seats. We have felt that if someone older or someone who genuinely needed them came along, those seats should be available. But perhaps there is a flaw in that thinking. If everyone who qualifies thinks the same way, the seats could remain empty when someone actually needs them.

On one occasion, however, there wasn't much space, so we reluctantly sat in one of the reserved pews. We had barely settled down when an over-officious usher appeared and politely told us that those seats were reserved for senior citizens.

I looked at her and asked, "What age?"

She smiled.

It was a lovely, polite smile, but it also said quite clearly, Sir, let us not go there.

She suggested that we move to the next row.

We did.

I couldn't help smiling afterwards because there is something rather amusing about growing older.

Most of us don't mind getting older. What we don't particularly like is being treated as old.

You can be 60, 70 or even 80 and still feel perfectly young. You can travel, work, drive, climb stairs, go to the gym and carry on with life. In your own mind, you are still the same person you have always been.

Then someone points you towards a special seat for "senior citizens" and, suddenly, you wonder when exactly you acquired the label.

Perhaps that is the problem. The people who qualify don't necessarily want to announce the fact.

I have decided I am past worrying about it.

I am a senior citizen. I may not be infirm, but I am certainly not going to argue with my birth certificate.

Perhaps the sensible thing is simply to accept growing older for what it is. We can remain active, enjoy life, laugh at ourselves and accept a little consideration when we need it.

Growing older is inevitable. Looking older, however, is something we can still negotiate.

So the next time I see those reserved pews empty, I may just walk over and sit down.

And if the usher appears again with that same polite smile, I think I will smile back and say, "This time, I think I qualify."

After all, there has to be some advantage to getting older.

Self confidence

 

Perhaps You Are More Capable Than You Think

Confidence isn't about always being right. It is about trusting yourself enough to speak, decide and sometimes get it wrong.

I sometimes think that a surprisingly large number of people lack self-confidence.

I know I did when I was growing up.

I was never one of the bigger or stronger boys. I was particularly good at English and public speaking, but I never saw myself as someone who really excelled. I wasn't a top sportsman, and I wasn't at the top of the class academically either. In many ways, I was just an ordinary boy.

We weren't rich by any means, and I was being brought up by a single parent. I wasn't particularly ambitious and, for quite a long time, I had no real idea what I wanted to do with my life.

Looking back, I can see how those things affected the way I saw myself. None of them, individually, was particularly important, but taken together, they made me question myself.

Perhaps that is how a lack of confidence develops. Not necessarily because someone tells you that you aren't good enough, but because you gradually start believing it yourself.

You would think that as we get older, those feelings would disappear, but they don't always. They simply become less obvious.

But I think it is important to say what self-confidence isn't. It isn't ego or arrogance, and it certainly isn't the need to prove that you are better than everyone else. In fact, genuine self-confidence is almost the opposite. It is being comfortable enough with yourself that you don't constantly need the approval of others.

Now, as a leader, I can often spot a lack of confidence quite quickly in others.

You meet someone who is clearly intelligent. They know their subject, they have good judgement and they may even be better at something than many of the people around them. And yet they don't seem to believe it themselves.

They hesitate, second-guess themselves and hold back when they should be putting themselves forward. Sometimes it is simply a fear of making a mistake.

I have come across people who would rather delay a decision than risk making the wrong one. They look for more information, more reassurance or someone else to make the call.

Of course, there is nothing wrong with wanting to get things right. But when the fear of being wrong becomes greater than the confidence to make a judgement, it can hold us back.

I have probably noticed this most at work.

How many times have we sat in a meeting and watched someone remain silent even though they probably had the solution? They may have the best idea in the room, or even know that the discussion is heading in the wrong direction, but they don't say anything because they don't want to go against the majority.

There is actually a phrase for this — the spiral of silence.

You know what you think. You may even believe you are right. But you assume that everyone else thinks differently, and the fear of being the person who stands apart is enough to keep you quiet.

We see it in classrooms, staffrooms, meetings, boardrooms and leadership teams. Sometimes the person with the best idea in the room isn't the person who speaks, while the person who speaks with the greatest confidence isn't necessarily the person who knows the most.

Confidence and competence don't always arrive together.

That matters enormously in leadership.

A leader who lacks confidence may hesitate when a decision needs to be made. They may look for reassurance, avoid difficult conversations or be too easily influenced by the strongest voice in the room.

Leadership becomes decisive when a leader has confidence in their own judgement. That doesn't mean always getting it right. It means being prepared to make the best decision you can with the information you have, knowing that sometimes you will get it wrong.

And that is where I think self-assurance comes in.

Self-assurance isn't arrogance, and it isn't believing that you are always right or that you know more than everyone else. It is being comfortable enough with yourself and your judgement to say, “I don't know,” or “I may be wrong,” or “That's a good point. I hadn't thought of it that way.”

Confidence also grows with experience. You make a decision and learn to live with the outcome, make a mistake and discover that life goes on, or take on something you weren't sure you could do and find that you managed it. Slowly, you begin to trust yourself.

But sometimes we need someone else to help us get there: a teacher who believes in a child, a parent who encourages them, a colleague who says, “I think you should say something,” or a leader who gives someone an opportunity before they are convinced they are ready.

I wonder how many people have had the ability, the ideas and the potential to do something really well, but never quite found the confidence to show it.

And perhaps this is one of the less obvious responsibilities of leadership. It isn't simply about making decisions, setting direction and holding people accountable. It is also about creating an environment where people feel comfortable enough to question, challenge and disagree.

A good leader shouldn't just have confidence.

They should give confidence to others.

Because somewhere in the room there may be someone who has the answer, someone who sees something the rest of us have missed, or someone with an idea that could make a real difference. If they don't have the confidence to say it, we may never know.

How often have you held yourself back, not because you weren't capable, but because you weren't quite confident enough to believe you were?

Perhaps, looking back, I understand something about that boy I once was that I didn't understand then.

Confidence isn't about thinking you are better than everyone else. It is simply about not assuming that everyone else is better than you.

And perhaps self-assurance comes from learning that you don't have to get everything right to trust your own judgement.

Sometimes you have to make the call.

And then have the confidence to live with it.

Before the School Bell Breaks the Spell

  **Before the School Bell Breaks the Spell**

### *As the summer break winds down, perhaps we should remember that children aren't the only ones wishing it would last a little longer.*

Do you remember those last few days of the summer holidays when we were at school? We looked at the calendar and wished someone would give us another week. Just a few more days of sleeping late, playing with friends, visiting grandparents and staying up without worrying about the alarm clock.

I remember that feeling. Perhaps you do too.

But here is the funny thing. Now that we are adults, perhaps we haven’t changed as much as we think.

Children may be looking at the calendar and thinking, *“I wish we had another week of holidays.”* Parents might quietly be thinking exactly the same thing.

No early morning rush. No frantic calls to get children out of bed, no searching for the missing school shoe, no hurried breakfast while someone is asking where the water bottle has gone. No traffic, no school drop-off and no trying to get everyone out of the house on time.

And perhaps there are teachers preparing to return to school who are thinking, *“You know what? Another week wouldn’t be so bad.”* They too have had a busy year. Another slow morning and a cup of coffee without looking at the clock might be welcome.

So the end of the summer break is not something only children have to adjust to. Parents and teachers are making the transition too.

When we were children, our holidays were different. We played outside, rode bicycles, met friends and somehow managed to fill an entire afternoon.

We also had holiday homework.

I can still remember the question that would eventually come from a parent: *“Have you finished your homework?”* We would say yes, promise to do it later and hope the subject disappeared.

But we also had time when nobody expected us to achieve anything. We played, talked, visited relatives, read a little and sometimes simply got bored.

Perhaps children need some of that space today too.

We have become very good at filling their time with classes, camps, sports, activities and screens. Even holidays can become surprisingly busy. A proper break from school is not wasted time. They need time with family, time to travel, make memories and simply be themselves.

The difficult part comes when that easy holiday rhythm gives way to the school routine.

Late nights become early mornings. Breakfast has to happen at a particular time. Suddenly everyone is expected to be awake and organised before the sun has properly joined the day.

We know the feeling ourselves. After a long break, returning to work isn’t always greeted with enthusiasm. We switch on the computer, see the emails waiting and wonder whether another week would have been better.

So perhaps we can give children the same understanding we give ourselves.

Bedtimes can move gradually towards normal, mornings can become a little earlier and screen time can be reduced without making the house feel like a prison.

And perhaps we can talk about school differently.

Instead of saying, *“The holidays are nearly over. Time to get serious,”* ask, *“What are you looking forward to when you go back?”*

Which friends will they see? Which teacher did they enjoy? Is there a new subject, sport or activity they are curious about?

It changes the conversation. School becomes something to look forward to.

Schools can help too. Teachers remember what the first day feels like because many of them were once the children wishing for another week.

The first few days don’t have to be an academic assault. They have travelled, visited family, played and explored. The child who went overseas has a story; so does the child who stayed in Dubai.

Let them talk, reconnect with friends and find their rhythm again.

Before long, the uniforms will be hanging by the door, the bags will be packed and the alarm clock will once again become the most unpopular member of the household.

There will be sleepy children, tired parents, forgotten books and probably a dramatic declaration of *“I don’t want to go to school.”*

And somewhere in the middle of all this, a parent will quietly think, *“I wish the holidays were another week longer.”*

A teacher might think it too.

And the child certainly will.

Perhaps that is what makes the end of the summer break universal. We grow older and change roles, but some feelings from childhood stay with us.

We may become parents and teachers, but that child is still somewhere inside us.

The school bell is coming.

But for now, there is still time.

Enjoy the holidays.

See less