When the sun rises.....

 “When the sun rises, it rises for everyone” — Cuban proverb

Every morning begins the same way. The sun doesn’t negotiate or select. It simply rises—same sky, same light, same start for all.

And yet, outcomes are never the same.

If the beginning is equal, what creates the difference?

It is what we bring into the day. Dedication. Consistency. The discipline to show up fully, even when it is inconvenient. The ability to make intelligent, decisive choices when things are unclear—calm decisions, not hurried ones. Grounded, steady thinking.

In school leadership, this becomes visible very quickly.

Each school day is a shared sunrise. Same timetable, same systems, same expectations. But culture is not built by structure—it is shaped by leadership. By tone set early. By standards held without fluctuation. By quiet follow-through that builds trust rather than noise. By decisions that are firm, fair, and uncluttered.

Equally important is the atmosphere we create: peace in the environment, calm in minds, dignity in how people are treated and spoken to. Schools don’t need constant intensity; they need clarity without chaos. When leadership is steady, people settle. When decisions are calm, confidence rises. When expectations are consistent, behaviour follows.

And at the centre of it all are people—teachers carrying responsibility, students carrying potential, families placing trust in the system. Progress comes when that ecosystem is held together with care, not pressure. Innovation matters too, but only when it is purposeful—improving learning, not complicating it.

The proverb, then, is not about fairness. It is about responsibility.

The light is given. The difference lies in how it is used.

So the question is simple:

When the sun rises tomorrow, what will we do with it?

The Quiet power of choice

 

When constant availability starts to cost more than it gives

It is early morning and the day has barely started, yet attention is already being pulled in different directions as the phone lights up, messages arrive, and before you’ve even settled into your morning, your focus has shifted elsewhere.

What should be a simple start quickly becomes a chain of interruptions—requests, clarifications, replies that seem small on their own but together fragment focus and quietly break rhythm.

Here is something worth noting: not every message requires an answer, not every misunderstanding needs immediate repair, and not every moment of urgency deserves immediate attention.

Yet reaction becomes automatic. Everything starts to feel immediate, and in that constant pull of urgency, something important is quietly lost.

People who are always available often end up the most drained, while those who are selective with their time tend to remain steadier—not distant, just less scattered.

Because attention is not elastic. Every unnecessary response takes something away—clarity, focus, calm.

That is where the pause matters. Not avoidance, not withdrawal, but a small deliberate space between what happens and how you respond, where reaction gives way to choice.

And in that space, something shifts: you stop reacting by default and begin responding with intent. The day feels less rushed, less reactive, more deliberate.

When everything receives an immediate answer, everything begins to feel the same. Importance flattens, urgency blurs, and over time attention spreads too thin to hold anything properly.

You see it everywhere. Some people are always available—replying instantly, explaining constantly, reachable at all times. Others are more selective; they show up when it matters and step back when it doesn’t, and their presence feels quieter but more grounded.

There is something similar in nature. A cat does not chase every sound or movement; it moves on its own terms—not out of distance, but awareness.

Modern life makes this harder. Messages, groups, work chats, family threads—everything feels urgent, even when most of it isn’t. Most things can wait longer than we assume.

And when you begin to see that clearly, something shifts. Many situations settle without immediate involvement. Some concerns fade. Some conversations lose weight on their own.

What remains is not distance from life, but a more deliberate way of engaging with it—where time and attention are no longer automatically surrendered, but consciously given.

Leaving a message for later is not avoidance; it is structure. It is simply the recognition that attention is not a constant obligation.

And slowly, clarity returns.

There is a quiet discipline in this: not reacting out of habit, not explaining instantly, not feeling responsible for every interruption.

Over time, it doesn’t make you distant; it makes you more grounded, more in control of your own time and energy.

And in that steadiness, something becomes clear—you are no longer being pulled everywhere, because not everything deserves access to you.
You decide what does.

Not everything that reaches you deserves a response. 

When marbles ruled

 WHEN MARBLES RULED....

I remember playing marbles in St Joseph’s, Allahabad, as a schoolboy. I The Boy's High School too. Walking—or cycling—to school, pockets heavy, mind already in the game before the first bell rang.

We played at home too with neighbours and friends and entire afternoons passed by with us engrossed in one game after another. What fun......

In many Indian boys’ schools, marbles weren’t just a game. They were currency. Reputation. A pocket-sized economy that announced itself before you even entered the gate.

Mornings began with a ritual. Uniform on, hair half-combed, shoes negotiable… and then the real decision: which marbles make the cut today? Into the pocket they went.

Jingle… jingle…

That sound on the walk—or the cycle ride—to school? That was swagger.

At home, they were stored like treasure. Usually in an old biscuit tin. Open it and you didn’t just see marbles—you saw victories. Losses. Stories. Sometimes they were washed, rolled in water, wiped on a shirt, brought back to a shine.

And then came the inspection.

The special ones were held up to the light—turned slowly between fingers, examined like a jeweller studying a precious stone. The swirl had to be right. The colour deep. The clarity perfect. These weren’t just marbles. These were assets.

There were types everyone knew. The tiny ones. The normal, everyday ones. And the prized oversized ones—bunta—solid, heavy, meant to dominate. Then there were the transparent ones—sodial—clear, almost glass-pure, catching the light in a way that made them feel rare, almost magical.

And of course, there was the buying.

That little corner shop outside school. For 1 paisa you got one marble… and on a generous day, maybe two. Bought in small paper packets, opened with anticipation, judged immediately. Good day or bad day decided right there.

But more than anything, boys loved to compete.

By the time school started, the market—and the rivalry—was already alive.

Break time? War.

Free period? Extended war.

Every group had its own adda—a patch of earth claimed over time. Under a tree, by a wall, behind the cycle stand. Territory was understood. No one crossed that line.

Games were simple. Stakes were not.

A circle in the dust. Marbles placed inside. One good shot—you win. One bad shot—you lose your best piece. Aim. Flick. Silence. Impact. Cheers. Groans. Collections changed hands in seconds.

And then came the losing streaks.

Pockets empty. Confidence shaken. But the game didn’t stop.

You borrowed.

From the winner, usually. A quiet deal. “I’ll return… with extra.” A few more marbles added later as interest—or penalty. Early lessons in risk, debt, and reputation. Fail to return, and your name travelled faster than any marble ever could.

There was always that one boy. Deadly accurate. Calm. Slightly feared.

And then… the crackdowns.

Prefects. Sudden, ruthless. A shout, a scramble, hands in pockets. Confiscation. Weeks of collecting gone in under a minute.

Teachers had their own breaking point.

Nothing irritated them more than betrayal by pocket—clink… clink… clink… as marbles escaped mid-lesson and rolled across the classroom floor. Every head turned. The owner froze.

Confiscated.

No discussion.

And yet, the next morning… same ritual.

And now, years later, it’s strange what stays.

Not the lessons. Not the exams.

But the feel of a marble in your hand. The weight of a bunta. The clarity of a sodial held up to the sun. The quiet pride of a full pocket. The sting of an empty one.

Memory is like that. It doesn’t keep the big things as carefully as we expect. It holds on to small, round pieces of time… smooth, colourful, slightly imperfect.

And sometimes, if you listen closely—

you can still hear it.

jingle… jingle… all the way to school.

Herman Gomes 

John Beveridge 

Krishna Mohan Trivedi 

Manish Chopra 

Neville N Helen Baker 

Dorothy Tressler 

Vernon Gosse 

Kenneth McGowan 

Glenn N Dorothy McGowan

Nana Ellen

 Nana Ellen

I must have been about seven or eight when, one morning, I woke to the surprising news: Nana Ellen had arrived! Back then, children weren’t part of adult conversations—we were kept firmly in the dark about plans, decisions, and especially about people we hadn’t yet met. Unlike today’s children, who seem to be in on everything - from travel bookings and holiday plans to family squabbles, we just waited for life to unfold around us and to play!

I’d never even heard of Nana Ellen before that day, let alone realized that I had a grandmother who was alive. She was my mother’s mother, who had been living in England for many years and was now returning to India. Who brought her? When did she arrive? I had no idea. I later overheard she’d come by ship to Bombay and then travelled by train to Allahabad.

There was quiet excitement in the house. I crept into the room next to ours, and there she was—fast asleep. Tall, still, and wrapped in an air of quiet authority even in sleep. Later that day, when I returned from school, I was introduced to her properly. She looked very old to my young eyes—though she must have been in her mid-sixties. Her grey hair was neatly tied in a bun, she wore large spectacles and had on an ankle-length dress. She looked regal. Strict. It’s a bit intimidating.

And then she drew me close and smothered me with kisses.

Nana Ellen settled into our home as if she’d always belonged. A true matriarch, she didn’t ask to be consulted, she simply took charge. There was no questioning who now held quiet authority in the house. She rose before anyone else, was always impeccably dressed before dawn, and maintained her room like a sacred space. Cleanliness and order were non-negotiable. Her bed was always neatly made, and we were strictly forbidden from sitting on it. A side table held her Bible, her rosary, and a few worn prayer booklets. Her room always smelled faintly of lavender and talcum powder.

She had a cupboard filled with ankle-length dresses—mostly in shades of blue, as I remember—and the most curious thing of all: a square leather hat box with brass studs. The hat box was strictly off-limits. Which, of course, made it irresistible.

Every Sunday, she wore a different hat to church—one with feathers, one with stones, another with a netted veil. I remember my mother and aunt wearing hats too, it was the fashion then, a sign of grace and decorum. But Nana’s collection was something else. One Sunday, when everyone was out, I gave in to temptation. I snuck into her room and lifted the lid of the hat box. It was like opening a treasure chest. Twenty or so exquisite hats in all colours and styles. I tried on a few, admiring myself in the mirror, grinning from ear to ear.

But Nana knew. Somehow, she knew. The moment she returned, she could tell someone had been in her room. I don’t recall how I gave myself away—but the scolding I received was swift and sharp. Perhaps even a slap or two—common in those days and never taken to heart.

Despite her strictness, there was great kindness in her. She was deeply particular about things - how we dressed, whether we had bathed properly (especially behind the ears!), how we said our prayers (on our knees, in her room), how we chewed our food (no noise, mouths closed), and of course, saying grace before and after meals. Elbows off the table! No talking with food in our mouths. No wasting any food and how to place the spoon and fork after we had finished the meal! Thinking back now, she was a tough cookie!

She had her ways, but she cared. She would ask if I had finished my homework, and oddly enough, she seemed to be involved in our daily rhythm without making a big show of it. We all learned a lot from her—even if we tried to avoid her when we could. To be honest, I often stayed out of her path. If she called for you, it usually meant you were in trouble!

And then one day, everything changed. I woke up to a strange stillness. There were too many people in the house. Soft voices, muffled sobs. We were not allowed into her room. Priests came. I remember shadows and whispers. And then—nothing. It’s as though my memory closed a curtain over that day.

Nana was gone.

Just like she had appeared in my life—without warning, she vanished. We never saw her again.

In those days, death was handled differently. Children weren’t told much. We were not part of the grieving process, not really. We sensed the sorrow, but we didn’t fully understand it. It was as if the adults carried the weight of loss alone, while we remained on the periphery—confused, quiet, a little lost.

Looking back, I realize what a force she was. She brought discipline, ritual, and a quiet elegance into our home. She ruled gently but firmly. She made her presence felt without ever raising her voice. She was the kind of matriarch every household once had—steady, prayerful, rooted in her ways.

And even now, I sometimes see her in my mind’s eye—tall, grey-haired, glasses perched on her nose, wearing a blue dress, a hat in hand… and watching us, always watching, with that mix of stern love and quiet pride.