What our children need to hear

 Gentle, Yet Truthful: What Our Children Need to Hear

Preparing Children for the Real World

Kindness matters. But when kindness means shielding children from every disappointment, are we preparing them for life—or protecting them from the very experiences that help them grow?

“If you don't work hard, you won't get very far in life or fulfil your potential.”

I said this to students as a young teacher in Pune in the 1980s and 1990s. Not to everyone, but to those I felt were coasting and needed a push. I was young, energetic and firm. Today, I would choose my words more carefully, and I respect the greater care schools now take in speaking to children.

My intention was never to belittle anyone. I wanted my students to understand that every honest occupation has dignity, but whatever path they chose, effort and commitment mattered. Not everyone will have a corner office or a secretary, and that is perfectly fine. Much of the world depends on people whose work goes largely unnoticed: the driver, the electrician, the nurse, the shopkeeper, the person who tends the garden. What matters is taking pride in one's work and striving to do it well. I wanted those boys to recognise their potential and understand that their future depended, in large measure, on their own application, not simply on their parents' position.

Own the morning

 🌅 **MORNING REFLECTION: OWN THE MORNING!**

I've been an early riser since childhood. As a kid, I woke early for the radio. Now it's for the newspaper! Age has made it even earlier!

By 4:30 a.m., my eyes are open. By 4:45, I'm out of bed. No alarm, no motivational podcast. My body simply announces, "Young man, get up. The day is waiting!" 😂

At this rate, I'll soon be waking up yesterday to prepare for tomorrow!

But tell me, those of you who sleep until noon or later on Saturdays and Sundays: WHAT EXACTLY IS HAPPENING AT THAT HOUR? 😂

Saturday and Sunday mornings vanish before you've even met them. That's not waking up, that's hibernation!

Then Monday comes and you complain the weekend was too short. Of course it was! You slept through most of it!

Now, I'm not saying everyone must wake up at 4:45 a.m. Some people work nights, and everyone needs rest. This is a reflection, not a lecture. Sleep is allowed!

But there's something special about the early morning: the peace, the clarity, and the satisfaction of being productive while the rest of the world is still negotiating five more minutes with a blanket.

Don't sleep so long that lunch starts wondering where you've been! 🤣

As for me, I'm in bed by 10 p.m. and up by 4:45 a.m. No owl here, just a very early bird! Seven hours of sleep, and a head start on the rest of you! 😂☀️

**OWN THE MORNING. OWN YOUR TIME. OWN YOUR LIFE.**

#MorningReflection #OwnTheMorning #TimeIsPrecious

 

When the Rains Take Me Home

When the Rains Take Me Home

From rainy-day holidays and muddy football fields to floods and leaking dormitory roofs, rain still takes me back to childhood.

Of all the seasons, which one do you love most?

Some people wait for winter and its cooler days; others love summer and sunshine. I have never had to think too hard about it. For me, it has always been the rains.

Recently, I read in the newspapers that rain was expected in the UAE. It immediately caught my attention and, since then, I have found myself looking at the sky more often. It also made me wonder why the prospect of rain still excites me so much. The answer, I suspect, lies in childhood.

Memory works in strange ways. A song, a familiar smell or an old photograph can suddenly carry us back years. For me, rain does that. The sight of black clouds gathering, the wind picking up, trees beginning to sway and that first distant rumble of thunder are enough. Before the rain has even fallen, I am back in Allahabad.

After the fierce summer heat, we waited eagerly for the monsoon. You didn't need a weather forecast to know it was coming. The afternoon would darken as great black clouds gathered overhead, dust swirled along the roads and trees that had stood almost motionless in the heat began to sway. Birds grew restless before flying off to shelter, while dogs searched for a dry corner.

People knew what was coming too. Roadside sellers hurriedly packed away their goods, raincoats and capes of every colour and shape appeared, children pulled on gumboots and umbrellas opened everywhere. Strong gusts turned some umbrellas inside out and occasionally one escaped altogether, leaving its unfortunate owner chasing it down the road.

Then came the thunder and lightning, followed by those first large drops, and within moments the rain was belting down. While everyone else ran for shelter, we children naturally did exactly the opposite and ran out into it.

There was a firm belief that bathing in the first rain cured prickly heat. I have no idea who established this medical theory, but we accepted it without question. Any treatment requiring a small boy to get thoroughly soaked was unlikely to face much opposition from the patient.

Once the monsoon settled in, it brought mosquitoes and floods. However carefully we tucked in our mosquito nets, one mosquito always seemed to find its way inside. The floods were far more serious, filling homes with water and displacing families, although as children we did not fully appreciate the hardship. What we did understand was that whenever there was a flood, everybody went to see it.

People arrived by bicycle, rickshaw and scooter to inspect how far the water had risen and, wherever crowds gathered, sellers appeared with balloons, mangoes, tea and pakoras. On one side were families dealing with flooded homes; a little distance away, children ate pakoras and went round on a tiny merry-go-round. As children, strangely, we saw no contradiction.

But the monsoon offered us an even greater prize: the rainy-day holiday. There were no mobile phones or WhatsApp groups, so if it had poured overnight, you still dressed and set off for school. Somewhere along the road, children would appear coming towards you shouting, “It's a holiday! Rainy-day holiday!”

Nobody asked for official confirmation. When it came to school holidays, we were remarkably trusting.

If school remained open, there was always football. The field became waterlogged and the ball would stop dead in a puddle while the boy chasing it frequently did not. Tackling became almost unnecessary because the mud did much of the work. We returned to class drenched and filthy and sat through lessons in wet clothes and squelching shoes. None of this deterred us; the next time it rained, we did exactly the same thing.

Later, in Pune, the rain followed me. I particularly remember a Sports Day when black clouds gathered and thunder provided ample warning of what was coming, but the principal remained determined to proceed. Barely had the band struck up and the command “By the left, quick march” been given when the storm broke, drenching the boys carrying ribbons and sending the colour from the pom-poms running onto white vests, shorts and faces.

The principal did not look pleased. The clouds had made their point.

Rain also gave new boarders a memorable introduction to school life. You could arrive in pouring rain, lie down in an unfamiliar dormitory and feel a drop land on your forehead. Move the bed and another leak found you, while the senior boys slept peacefully beneath the few dry patches. You learnt quickly that choosing the right bed was one of the more useful lessons boarding school had to offer.

All these years later, I live in Dubai. A couple of years ago, torrential rain flooded roads, closed schools and caused serious disruption. Watching it brought back Allahabad, although I realised I was seeing floods through different eyes. As a child, I wanted to know how far the water had risen and whether we could go and see it. Now I thought of the families affected, the people trying to get home and the disruption left behind when the excitement of the rain had passed. Age does that to you.

And yet, when I read that rain was expected again, I found myself looking upwards.

I no longer have prickly heat and am unlikely to run outside for a rain bath. Football in the mud might also be unwise. Falling down would probably still be easy; getting up may present the greater challenge.

But when the black clouds gather, the wind begins to rise and I hear that first distant rumble of thunder, part of me will be back in Allahabad, waiting to hear those wonderful words:

“It's a holiday! Rainy-day holiday!”

And for a moment, all those years in between will simply disappear.

Are the Choices We Make Really Ours?

Are the Choices We Make Really Ours? Are We Masters of Our Destiny? Am I living the life I genuinely chose, or have I spent so long meeting other people’s expectations that I have mistaken them for my own? It is a question worth asking. We tend to see our lives as the result of our decisions, believing that where we end up is largely in our own hands, yet how much of our journey is really within our control? We do not choose our parents, the family into which we are born or the religion and traditions that shape our early years. Our first school is usually someone else’s decision, and even when we have clear ambitions for a college, profession or position, circumstances can take us in another direction. We may plan our journey, but we cannot always determine where it leads. The same uncertainty extends to our personal lives - We may choose our spouse, but family expectations and practical considerations often influence whom we marry, and we cannot know how a marriage will unfold. Similarly - We have little say in the day we are born or the day we die. Two turning points in my career have often made me reflect on this tension between intention and circumstance. Looking back, I can see how events I would never have chosen shaped my future in ways I could not have anticipated. I left Allahabad following a confrontation with an aggressive pupil and the incident prompted me to move to a boarding school in Pune, something I had wanted for a long time. Although the circumstances were unwelcome, they took me towards an opportunity I had often hoped for. I remained in Pune for twenty years, thirteen of them as Deputy Head. What began as an unexpected disruption became a defining chapter of my professional life. Two decades later, I faced a very different turning point. When the Principal’s post became available in Pune, I believed I was ready for the responsibility. I had worked towards it for years and felt I had earned the opportunity, but the management chose someone else. I was hurt and felt slighted and I will not pretend otherwise. Having invested so much of myself in the school, I had to reconsider what I wanted from the next stage of my career. The contrast between the two experiences was striking. In Allahabad, an unwelcome incident had taken me towards an ambition I had long cherished. In Pune, being passed over for promotion forced me to question whether the future I had envisaged was still the future I wanted. I eventually chose to move to the UAE, where I saw better prospects for my family. The first move brought me closer to a professional ambition; the second required me to let one go and pursue a different future. Had I not left Allahabad, would my career have followed the same path? Had I been appointed Principal in Pune, would I ever have moved to the UAE? There are no answers. Now some would call this fate, others destiny, while some might simply see the unpredictable course of life. Perhaps the events in our lives follow a larger plan; perhaps only hindsight allows us to find a pattern in what once seemed unrelated. What I find particularly interesting is that, although I did not control either turning point, I was not entirely powerless in determining what followed. I could not undo what had happened in Allahabad & Pune, but I could decide how to respond. My career, like many lives, was shaped partly by circumstances and partly by the choices I made in response to them. This raises a broader question. How many of the decisions we regard as our own are actually shaped by influences we have absorbed over a lifetime? We often speak of personal ambition as though it develops in isolation, when our ideas about success, achievement and even happiness may have been formed long before we were old enough to examine them. As children, we absorb our families’ values and expectations, while teachers influence our interests and ambitions. Society has its own ideas about a respectable profession or a successful life. As we grow older, friends, colleagues and employers exert their influence, while family responsibilities can narrow our options. Some influences open doors; others steer us towards paths we might not have chosen for ourselves. Much of this guidance is valuable. A teacher may awaken an interest that shapes a career, a parent can give a child the confidence to try something new, and a mentor may recognize potential we have yet to see and we would be poorer without such encouragement. The difficulty begins when influence becomes expectation and expectation becomes obligation. We want to please our parents, earn our peers’ approval and avoid disappointing those who matter to us. We may choose a profession for prestige or security rather than fulfilment, or remain in a familiar job because change feels too risky or we fear what others might think. Gradually, it becomes difficult to distinguish what we genuinely want from what we have learnt to want. Other people’s expectations become so familiar that we no longer recognize them. We follow a path because it seems natural or respectable, without pausing to ask whether it is truly ours. Does this mean free will is an illusion? I do not believe so. Our choices are shaped by upbringing, opportunities and circumstances, but being influenced is not the same as being powerless. We may not choose the hand we are dealt, but we can sometimes choose how to play it. We can question inherited beliefs, reconsider old ambitions and decide which expectations deserve to guide us. Perhaps we will never know how much of our lives is shaped by choice, chance or destiny. My own experiences have taught me that life rarely unfolds exactly as we imagine, and that a decision made in response to disappointment can prove as consequential as one made in pursuit of an ambition. What matters is not simply what happens to us, but whether we remain willing to think, choose and move forward when circumstances change. Perhaps the real measure of free will is not whether we control everything that happens to us, but whether we have the courage to make our own decisions when the choice is ours. After all, we may not always choose what life brings us, but we should take care not to let others make all our choices for us.

It all starts in Kindergarten

# It All Starts in Kindergarten *Long before exams and results, somebody has to teach a child that school is a safe place. Often, that somebody is a KG teacher.* I can still picture myself as a little boy at St Joseph’s School and College in Allahabad, standing beside a hedge outside the principal’s office and crying because I cannot find my schoolbag. At that age, losing a bag seems like a catastrophe. Father Cyril George, the principal, comes out and asks what is wrong. Between sobs, I tell him, “I have lost my bag.” He takes me by the hand and leads me to my KG teacher, who comforts me until I stop crying before taking me along to search for it. More than half a century later, I can still picture that hedge and remember the kindness of two adults who took the time to help a frightened child. Perhaps that is why I have always felt so strongly about those early years of schooling. Today, I see those years through another lens. My elder granddaughter is in KG, and I love listening to her describe her day and show me her drawings. Her eyes light up as she waits for my reaction, and I make sure she knows how much I appreciate her efforts. What might look like a few coloured lines to an adult represents a real achievement to a young child. She wants someone to stop, look and share her happiness. It is a small reminder of how much encouragement can mean at that age. Children are also far more observant than we sometimes give them credit for. During a school visit, a little boy in the corridor confidently told me that my name was Michael Guzder and that I was the principal. When I asked what he thought I did at work, he informed me that I had no work. His evidence was that I read papers and children brought me sweets on their birthdays. Naturally, I asked what he wanted to be when he grew up. “The principal,” he replied. “Why?” “Because there’s no work and there’s lots of money.” I had no comeback. His answer still makes me smile, but it also illustrates how closely children watch the adults around them. They learn not only from formal lessons but from the way people behave, the attention they receive and how they are treated. We rightly celebrate teachers who prepare students for board examinations and help them achieve strong academic results. Yet long before a child sits an examination, somebody has to help them feel secure enough to learn, confident enough to ask questions and comfortable enough to make mistakes. For many children, that somebody is their KG teacher. The work begins with helping a child settle into school. Some arrive happily, while others cling to a parent or cry at the classroom door. Teachers must reassure them, establish routines and gradually help them discover that school can be an enjoyable place to be. Along the way, children learn to hold a pencil, share toys, take turns, express their feelings and cope with disappointment. When a friendship falls apart over a toy or a child struggles to join an activity, the teacher helps them find a way forward. These everyday encounters are as much a part of growing up as learning letters and numbers. The progress children make over their first year of KG can be astonishing. Think of the child who arrives tearful and reluctant to let go of a parent. By the end of the year, that same child may be chatting confidently with friends, expressing ideas, attempting new tasks and approaching unfamiliar experiences with curiosity. The transformation is remarkable. Behind it lies a great deal of patient, often unseen work. Day after day, the teacher encourages, reassures and celebrates small steps forward until a child who once needed constant support begins to manage independently. Helping young children develop confidence, communication skills and independence within a single year is an extraordinary achievement, deserving far greater recognition than it often receives. Sometimes, the rewards come in the simplest forms: a star in a book, a stamp on the back of a hand, a pat on the shoulder or a cheerful “Well done!” To an adult, these may seem like minor gestures. To a four-year-old, they can mean the world. The child feels noticed, the effort feels worthwhile and the next challenge becomes a little less daunting. That same patience is needed when preparing for KG concerts and sports days. Parents see the children on stage, dressed in their costumes and waving their pom-poms, but may not appreciate the hours of practice behind those few minutes. Getting a hundred or more young children to remember where to stand, when to move and which way to face requires organisation, persistence and a good sense of humour. Simply getting everyone to face the right way deserves an award of its own. And that is only one part of the job. Imagine managing 25 or 30 young children, often with just one assistant. One is crying, another needs the toilet, someone has spilt water and two others are quarrelling over a toy. Meanwhile, a little voice nearby is determined to give the teacher a detailed account of what happened at home that morning. Through it all, the teacher must keep the class engaged, attend to individual needs and ensure everyone is safe. I sometimes hear parents of a single child say, quite sincerely, “I am exhausted. I don’t know how to control him.” I understand their frustration. Looking after a young child can be demanding enough at home, so it is worth considering what a teacher manages with an entire class. Parents naturally want the best for their children. They worry about progress, friendships and whether their child is receiving enough attention. Some want reassurance that their child is keeping up; others have questions about activities or access to facilities. The teacher must listen, address legitimate concerns and explain what is appropriate for children at that stage, while keeping the needs of the whole class in mind. It is a delicate balance. A child who is crying or refusing to join an activity is not necessarily being difficult. They may be frightened, tired, missing home or struggling to express a feeling. Sometimes, the most effective response is to crouch to the child’s eye level, listen patiently and offer reassurance. Once the child feels understood, the tears often subside and curiosity returns. None of this diminishes the contribution of teachers in other phases. Every stage of education matters, and a thoughtful teacher can influence a child’s life at any age. But the early years hold a special place because they shape a child’s first impressions of learning, school and the adults entrusted with their care. I often return in my thoughts to that little boy beside the hedge in Allahabad. Father George took me by the hand and led me to my KG teacher. She comforted me, helped me stop crying and then went with me to look for my bag. I cannot remember what either of them said afterwards, or even whether we found it, but I remember their kindness. That is what makes the work of a KG teacher so important. A moment of reassurance, a word of encouragement or recognition of a small achievement may seem insignificant to the adult offering it. To a child, it can be the difference between feeling frightened and feeling that everything will be all right. Before children learn to read, write or calculate, they need to know that they belong. They need to feel that school is a place where someone will notice when they are unhappy, encourage them when they struggle and celebrate with them when they succeed. I was once that little boy who needed an adult to take him by the hand and lead him to someone who could help. Today, as a grandfather and an educator, I understand more clearly why that simple act of kindness has stayed with me for so long. We may not remember every lesson from our early schooldays, but we can carry the feeling of being cared for throughout our lives. For a KG teacher, helping a child discover that feeling may be one of the most important lessons of all.

Let them tell the story

Let Them Tell the Story Thinking, reading, speaking and writing: four simple habits that last a lifetime. Our two granddaughters, aged five and three, have discovered storytelling. I started them off with a few tales, but they have taken over, and their imagination knows few boundaries. Every story seems to need two children, a grandmother, a wolf and a dark forest, with a cat usually appearing somewhere along the way, followed by thunder, dinosaurs and an angry tiger with large teeth. They provide all the sound effects, while I do my best to look suitably horrified. The plots grow more elaborate with every telling, yet the girls need no prompting to invent characters, add unexpected twists and keep going for as long as I am willing to listen. Watching them, I am reminded of what more than four decades in education have taught me: some of the most valuable learning happens without a lesson plan, a worksheet or a mark. Examinations and qualifications certainly matter, but I have come to value four habits that serve children well long after their schooldays are over: thinking, reading, speaking and writing. They are closely connected, and their foundations can be laid in the simplest ways, often without children even realising they are learning. Room to think We are remarkably good at keeping children occupied. Between school, homework, tuition, sport and other activities, their days can be planned almost to the minute, largely because we want them to have every opportunity to succeed. Yet, in our enthusiasm to prepare them for the future, do we sometimes leave too little room for them simply to be themselves? A child lying on the bed and staring at the ceiling may appear to be doing nothing, but the mind has a life of its own, wandering through memories, revisiting conversations, asking questions and making connections. Not every worthwhile thought arrives in response to a teacher's instruction, and not every quiet moment needs to be filled by an adult. I start my day very early and value the peace before the telephone begins demanding attention. Sometimes I read or attend to work, while on other mornings I simply sit and think; it gives me a chance to put things in perspective before the day gathers pace. Children deserve a little of that freedom, too, without a screen to entertain them or an adult asking what they are doing. And when a thought or a question takes hold, a book can give the mind somewhere to travel. From the bookstall to the debating hall My love of reading began in the 1960s and 1970s, when I would cycle to a second-hand bookstall, borrow a book for next to nothing, finish it and return for another. A good story could keep me occupied for an entire afternoon because I was eager to discover what happened next, and nobody had to persuade me to turn another page. Those books introduced me to unfamiliar places, different people and ideas I might never otherwise have encountered. Reading entertained me, but it also broadened my horizons and gave me things to think about and discuss, which is why I believe children should discover its pleasures before it becomes another school requirement. Let them choose what interests them, read aloud to them when they are young and, just as importantly, let them see you enjoying a book yourself. It is difficult to persuade children that reading is a pleasure when the adults around them cannot put their phones down. Children notice the difference between what we tell them and what we do. Books also give us something to talk about, although having something to say and having the confidence to say it are two different things. I discovered this in Grade 11, when I took part in a debate on ‘Democracy is the best form of government for India’. I did not win, but the experience stayed with me and sparked an interest that continued throughout my life. Later, as an educator, I coached pupils for debates, elocution competitions and public speaking, hoping to give them the same opportunities to discover their voices. One former pupil, who now heads a large firm in India, once told me how much public speaking had helped him throughout his career, crediting his school for nurturing that interest. It was gratifying to know that an experience from his schooldays had remained useful so many years later. A child need not win a competition to benefit from speaking in public; learning to present an idea, ask a question or disagree respectfully builds confidence that can prove invaluable in adult life. The foundations, however, are often laid much earlier, around the family table, when children discover that their opinions are worth hearing. Putting phones aside, asking about their day and listening patiently can make a real difference, even when a five-minute account stretches to twenty. My granddaughters, for instance, have yet to discover the virtue of brevity, but I would not want them to lose their enthusiasm. It is far easier to help a child organise an idea when that child is eager to share it, and eventually those ideas may find their way onto paper. Finding the words My own introduction to writing was hardly enjoyable. My handwriting resembled a doctor's prescription, so I was made to fill a page every day to improve it. At St Joseph's, Allahabad, the summer holidays in Grades 4, 5 and 6 brought another assignment: twenty compositions, each about a page long. So much for a carefree holiday! I certainly did not appreciate the value of these exercises at the time, but looking back, I can see how the discipline helped me develop a habit that proved useful much later. The pleasure of writing came gradually, once the practice had become part of me. Children need opportunities to write for reasons other than marks, whether through a diary, a letter to a grandparent or an imaginative story of their own. Grammar and spelling matter, but if every effort comes back covered in corrections, the pleasure can quickly disappear. We want children to take care with their words without becoming so anxious about mistakes that they stop expressing themselves. Writing makes us slow down, choose our words and decide what we really mean. Sometimes an idea that seems perfectly clear in our heads becomes less convincing when we try to explain it on paper, and that is part of the learning. This matters particularly today, when artificial intelligence can produce an essay or summarise a book in seconds. It can be a useful aid, but children still need to understand what they submit and explain it in their own words; otherwise, the task may be finished without the learning taking place. Looking back over my years in education, I see how naturally these four habits support one another. Reading gives us ideas, reflection helps us make sense of them, speaking allows us to share them and writing helps us express them clearly. Together, they prepare children not just for examinations but for the decisions, conversations and challenges that await them beyond school. We need not turn every childhood interest into another activity to be assessed. Sometimes, a little quiet, a good book, a conversation or a blank page is quite enough. As for my granddaughters, I expect another story tonight, with the wolf returning to the dark forest, the tiger angrier than ever and the cat inevitably complicating matters. I shall listen carefully, resist the temptation to improve the plot and look suitably horrified. There will be time enough for editing when they are older.

 

My 26-Year-Old Financial Adviser

There are certain phone calls you simply don’t want to receive on a weekend afternoon.

It was about 3 p.m. the other day and I was resting when my phone rang. Unknown number. I ignored it.

It rang again. I ignored it again.

The third time, curiosity got the better of me. Perhaps it was somebody I knew whose number I hadn’t saved. Perhaps it was something important. You never know.

So I answered.

There was a very young voice at the other end. Extremely young.

He introduced himself with considerable confidence and told me he was a financial adviser. He mentioned the name of his company, which sounded impressive enough to occupy several floors in a glass building somewhere.

He was calling from India.

My first question was simple.

How did he get my number?

I hadn’t called him. I hadn’t asked for financial advice. I hadn’t filled in a form saying, “Please call me on a Saturday afternoon and tell me what to do with my money.”

Yet somehow, he had my number.

He also seemed to know, broadly speaking, that I had savings in banks and some money put away.

That is the part I find rather uncomfortable.

Where exactly is our privacy these days?

We give our numbers to banks, insurance companies, airlines, hotels, shops, websites and apps. We tick boxes without reading them. We enter our details to get a discount. Somewhere along the way, our telephone numbers seem to acquire a life of their own.

And then a complete stranger can call us and start discussing our money.

My young adviser, however, was not interested in discussing privacy.

He was interested in discussing investment.

Fixed deposits were practically useless, he explained. Gold was dangerous. There were much cleverer ways of making money.

Seven per cent?

Forget it.

He could get me eleven per cent.

Then came the numbers.

If I invested this much, it would become this much. If I left it for so many years, it would become considerably more. And judging by his enthusiasm, if I gave him enough money and enough time, it would probably eventually become the GDP of a small country.

He had already worked out how much I should invest.

I was impressed.

Not necessarily by the investment plan, but by the preparation.

I was sitting at home in my shorts, resting on a weekend afternoon, while somebody somewhere in India had apparently planned the next chapter of my financial life.

The conversation continued because I had him on speakerphone and, for reasons I still can’t explain, I didn’t hang up.

Perhaps I was curious.

Perhaps I was being polite.

Or perhaps I was simply enjoying the entertainment.

Then I asked him a question.

“How old are you?”

There was a little pause.

“Twenty-six, sir.”

Twenty-six.

Now, I have absolutely nothing against young people. I started working young myself and have enormous respect for ambition, energy and enthusiasm.

But it did make me think about the strange world of work we have created.

Young people today are entering professions where they are sometimes expected to sell financial products, insurance, property or professional services almost as soon as they enter the workplace. Many will be perfectly capable. Some may know their subject extremely well.

But there is something to be said for experience.

The young man on my phone may have had excellent qualifications. He may understand financial markets far better than I do.

But he was confidently advising me about money that I had spent decades earning, saving, investing, worrying about and, occasionally, making mistakes with.

It reminded me of being taught to drive by someone who had just passed his driving test.

Perhaps he was an excellent driver.

But I might still have preferred someone who had been on the road for a few more years.

Yet I also felt a little sorry for him.

Perhaps he was not really the problem.

Young people have to find work. They have to start somewhere. Perhaps he was sitting in an office with a list of telephone numbers, a carefully prepared script and a manager telling him to make as many calls as possible.

Perhaps he was on commission. Perhaps every person he persuaded to invest earned him something.

Perhaps he was simply trying to make a living.

And if that is the case, I can’t really blame him for picking up the phone.

What I question is the system behind him.

There is a difference between selling a financial product and giving financial advice. There is a difference between knowing how an investment works and understanding the person whose money you are discussing.

And there is a difference between confidence and experience.

Of course, he may have been absolutely right.

Perhaps my money is sitting peacefully in the bank, bored and unfulfilled, waiting for a 26-year-old financial adviser to give it a more exciting life.

Perhaps I am missing out on fabulous returns.

But I wasn’t going to discover that by handing over my financial decisions to someone who had never met me, knew almost nothing about my circumstances and had called me without being invited.

And that brings me back to the question that bothered me most.

How did he get my number?

Was it sold? Shared? Collected from some database? Obtained through a form I filled in years ago?

I don’t know.

And that is precisely the problem.

We have become remarkably casual about personal information. We worry about bank fraud and passwords, quite rightly. But sometimes the first sign that our privacy has disappeared is much simpler: a stranger suddenly has your telephone number and enough information about you to sound convincing.

I thanked my young adviser, wished him well and ended the call.

I didn’t invest a dirham.

Then I went back to my afternoon rest.

My money stayed where it was.

For now, it seems quite happy there.

But I do hope the young man does well. Perhaps in 20 years he will be exactly the sort of financial adviser I would want to speak to.

By then, he will have something no script can provide.

Experience.

As for me, I would still like to know who gave him my telephone number.

My money may be mine.

Apparently, my phone number isn’t.

 

What Would Your Organisation Miss If You Weren’t There?

Looking back on my early career, I realise that some of the opportunities that helped me progress came from simply being willing to do a little more than my job required. I wasn't thinking about career progression at the time; I was simply interested in getting involved and seeing what I could do.

Starting out as a young professional, I took an interest in anything connected with English because I was fairly good at it. Elocution, debating, drama, the school magazine and more soon followed. If something came up, I was usually willing to have a go, and the more I was given, the more I took. When an opportunity finally arose, management felt that here was someone who could be relied upon to deliver. Promotion followed.

Looking back, I can see that those opportunities allowed people to see what I could do beyond my formal role, even though I wasn't deliberately trying to build a career strategy. I simply enjoyed getting involved and was willing to try something different.

That experience has stayed with me and made me think about how valuable we are to the organisation we work for. Value has little to do with how important we think we are or how impressive our designation sounds. You don't have to be a director or manager, or have a long list of people reporting to you, to make a real difference. Some of the most valuable people in an organisation hold no grand title at all.

There is a simple test I sometimes think about: if you weren't there, what would your organisation miss? It might be your expertise, your ideas, your energy, your willingness to help or simply something you do particularly well. If the honest answer is very little, that is probably worth knowing, and perhaps doing something about.

I have interviewed extensively in schools and colleges, including B.Ed colleges in India, and have met hundreds of candidates with the right qualifications, years of experience and good subject knowledge. All of that matters, but at some point I often ask, “What else do you bring to the table?”

That doesn’t mean breakfast.

It could be the ability to coach a team, organise a charity drive, speak confidently in public, arrange an event, sing, dance, paint, write or direct a play. It might simply be the ability to connect easily with people, solve problems or bring energy to a group. These qualities don't always appear on a CV, but they can make a considerable difference to an organisation.

Being good at your job is the starting point, but there is often much more to a person than the role they have been appointed to do. The difficulty is that many people are reluctant to mention the other things they can do. There is no need to boast, but there is equally little point in being so modest that nobody knows what you can offer. An organisation cannot make use of an ability it doesn't know you have.

I see this quite often when I speak to trainee teachers in B.Ed colleges in India. I might ask whether anyone in the room has a particular talent. Usually, there are no hands. I then assure them that I am not going to ask anyone to stand up and perform, and slowly the hands begin to rise. In my experience, a surprisingly large proportion of the room has something they are good at, but most are simply hesitant to say so because they are shy or not confident enough.

I remember one teacher who was very good in the classroom but had never considered herself particularly creative. When she was asked to help with some design work, she produced invitation cards and stage backdrops and showed a real flair for it. She enjoyed the work, gained confidence and began volunteering for other responsibilities. Gradually, she became more involved in school life, grew into a more confident professional and eventually earned a promotion, developing into a strong and dependable leader.

The ability had been there all along. What she needed was someone to notice it, say, “Why don't you try?” and give her the space to discover what she could do.

That is an important part of leadership. A good leader doesn't only look at what a person is doing today; they also notice what that person might be capable of tomorrow. Sometimes a little encouragement and the right opportunity can reveal an ability that even the individual had not recognised.

Of course, this responsibility doesn't rest entirely with the leader. Speaking up can be difficult, particularly for people who are modest or unsure of themselves, but keeping quiet about something you can offer doesn't help either. In a competitive workplace, quietly waiting and hoping that someone will eventually discover what you can do is unlikely to take you very far. Sometimes you have to put your hand up and say, “Count me in.”

Not everyone wants promotion, and there is absolutely nothing wrong with being happy where you are. But if you do want to progress, do your job well, be willing to step forward when an opportunity arises and make sure people know what you can bring. Don't wait for your job title to define everything you have to offer.

So, think about your own workplace. If you weren't there tomorrow, what would your colleagues or organisation genuinely miss? Your judgement, your ideas, your energy, your ability to bring people together or something you do particularly well?

If you can answer that easily, keep doing it. If you can't, perhaps that is the challenge. Look for something you are good at, find an opportunity to use it and don't be afraid to put your hand up. You may discover an ability you didn't know you had, and others may discover it too.

Because ultimately, your value is not measured by the space your title occupies on an organisation chart. It is measured by the difference your presence makes.

Make sure you make a difference.

I'm burnt out

 

I'm Burnt Out

Young people are talking about burnout more than ever, but not every difficult day is burnout.

"I'm burnt out."

I seem to hear those words more and more these days. Young professionals say it, people in their twenties say it and sometimes even teenagers say it: "I'm done", "I can't do this anymore", "I'm running on empty." Perhaps the expression has simply become part of everyday conversation, but the numbers suggest there is something behind it. In a November 2025 survey of more than 1,400 full-time US employees by Eagle Hill Consulting, conducted by Ipsos, 66 per cent of Gen Z workers said they were experiencing burnout, compared with 37 per cent of Baby Boomers.

I don't remember using the expression when I was young, though we certainly got tired. I started working early, and decades later I am still at it. I have been fortunate to have had two long and rewarding stints in education, both of which have given me much to be grateful for, and my present role in senior leadership has been particularly rewarding. I work for a brilliant Organisation, with good people around me and work that still interests me, so I have little reason to complain. But in my early years I was irritated, tired, angry and upset more often than I care to admit, and yet quitting never crossed my mind. I assumed that some days would be difficult, that some people would annoy me and that there would be times when I would simply be fed up. I took those feelings as part of the job and part of growing up. What I wonder about now is whether we sometimes give ordinary tiredness and frustration a much bigger meaning than they need to have.

The world has changed

That does not mean I think burnout is a fashionable word invented by a generation that can't cope. It is real, and anyone who is genuinely overwhelmed deserves to be taken seriously. But the world young people are growing up in is very different from the one I knew. We had no phone in our hand telling us every few minutes what everyone else was doing, where they were travelling, what they had bought or how successful they appeared to be. We also had an extended family around us — parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts and cousins — who noticed when something was wrong. They might not always have had the right answer, but there was usually someone to talk to, or someone who would simply turn up.

Many young professionals in the Gulf have left that support behind. They arrive full of ambition, often far from family, and enter a market that is fast, international and competitive. I understand the attraction because I have lived and worked in that kind of environment myself, but I also see how easily the pressure can build when everyone around you appears to be moving forward. Slowing down can feel like falling behind. A phone call home helps, but it is not quite the same as a grandmother at the table or a cousin who simply turns up. Even when the laptop is closed, the phone remains there, and at the gym and on my walks I often see people who have come to relax or look after their health answering messages or scrolling. The body is on the treadmill while the mind is still at the desk.

I also think work has become too closely tied to identity for many young people. When a job title becomes part of who you are, a bad review can feel like a judgement on the whole person rather than a comment on a piece of work. That is a lot to carry at twenty-four. I don't think the working world is going to become less demanding, so perhaps we need to help young people learn how to handle some pressure without allowing it to take over everything else.

Learning when to speak up

One of the things I have learnt over the years is that problems are often easier to solve when people speak about them early. Many people burn out quietly, and the same survey found that only 42 per cent of burnt-out workers had told their manager. I remember two young teachers in Pune who had similar workloads. One came to me and said, "Please don't mind me telling you, but I feel exhausted with the corrections." I didn't take offence and neither did she have to make a great case for herself. We simply looked at her timetable and I replaced one of her English periods with history, where there was less to correct. The pressure eased. The other teacher said nothing and eventually left. I have often wondered what might have happened if she had felt able to say the same thing. The change cost almost nothing.

There are other things I have learnt from watching young people grow. Resilience matters, but I don't mean pretending that everything is fine or expecting people never to struggle. I mean having a bad day, feeling miserable for a while and then getting up the next morning and carrying on. In all my years in education, I have seen people become stronger after difficult periods because they were given enough space to struggle and discovered that they could get through them. Learning to take criticism without turning it into a judgement on your worth matters too. If someone says, "This needs more work", it is healthier to think, "Then I will improve it", than to hear, "I am not good enough."

I have also been lucky to have had plenty in my life besides work. From the age of eighteen I was into music, played in a band and wrote for newspapers in Allahabad. I had good friends and plenty to keep me amused, so although work mattered to me, it was never my entire world. That helped. Family and a few close friends still matter enormously, and young people who have moved abroad often have to build that circle for themselves. It also helps to laugh, particularly at yourself, because not every mistake deserves to be carried around for the rest of the week.

We set the example

There is another part of this that belongs to us, rather than to young people. They watch what we do far more than they listen to what we say. We tell them to switch off while answering emails at midnight, and warn them about comparing themselves with others while we compare schools, houses and salaries. I have been in leadership long enough to know that people notice these things. If a manager takes a proper break, goes home on time occasionally and does not make everyone feel guilty for doing the same, people understand that work is important but it is not everything.

The pressures are real, the word burnout is real, but young people also need to learn how to handle ordinary tiredness, setbacks and pressure — while employers need to create environments where asking for help is acceptable.

There is a difference between having a difficult week and being burnt out. We all have days when we are exhausted, fed up with the job or frustrated by something that has gone wrong. Usually, we sleep, take a break, talk to someone, put the problem in perspective and carry on. Burnout is different. When the exhaustion persists, the interest and energy disappear and simply getting through another day starts to feel overwhelming, it needs to be taken seriously.

So when someone says, "I'm burnt out", we should listen rather than dismissing it or immediately telling them to toughen up. But we should also help young people recognize that not every bad day, difficult assignment or piece of criticism is burnout. Learning to deal with some pressure, recover from setbacks and come back the next morning is part of growing up and part of working life.

After all these years, I am still working, and I still have difficult days. I have learnt that a difficult day is just that — a difficult day. It does not have to define the job, or define me.

Tiredness is part of working life. Having nobody to tell is not.

 

 

​​​​​

 

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.