The NEET FIASCO

 Must add my bit.....

When Democracy Responds: The NEET Controversy and the Power of Peaceful Protest

The NEET controversy has reaffirmed that democracy is strongest when citizens refuse to accept injustice in silence. Students, parents, teachers and concerned citizens across India raised serious questions about alleged paper leaks and examination irregularities that threatened confidence in one of the country's most important examinations. Their response was overwhelmingly peaceful, rooted in the Gandhian belief that change is achieved through reason rather than confrontation.

 They sought neither favours nor exceptions—only a fair investigation, transparency and accountability. The authorities were compelled to act, demonstrating that peaceful public engagement remains one of democracy's greatest strengths.

This was never just about an examination. It was about the hopes of millions of young people whose futures depend on a system that rewards merit and inspires trust. The tragic suicides associated with the immense pressures of competitive examinations were a sobering reminder of the human cost when confidence in that system is shaken.

 Anyone found responsible for wrongdoing must be identified through due process and, where the evidence warrants, prosecuted and held accountable. The lasting measure of success will not be the exposure of those who betrayed the system, but the restoration of every student's faith that honesty, hard work and ability—not dishonesty—determine success.

Don't crave the applause

 Don’t Uproot Your Garden to Prove It Is Growing

Maybe your garden isn’t flourishing because every time a plant begins to grow, you pull it out of the soil to show your neighbours how strong its roots have become.

It sounds strange, doesn’t it? Yet, in many ways, we do the same in life.

A garden does not grow because the gardener keeps digging around the roots to check the progress. It grows because the gardener has patience — watering it, caring for it, removing the weeds, and trusting that the work being done beneath the surface will eventually show.

The roots are invisible, but they are the reason the plant stands tall.

Sometimes we forget this. We become so eager to prove that we are succeeding that we interrupt our own growth. We want people to notice the flowers before the roots are strong. We seek recognition before the foundation is ready.

But true growth takes time. Whether it is our character, relationships, knowledge, or dreams, the most important work often happens quietly, away from the eyes of others.

A wise gardener does not keep pulling out plants to prove they are growing. They nurture them patiently and allow them to become what they were meant to be.

Perhaps life is the same.

Tend to your garden. Give it time. Trust the process. Let it grow.

Because the most beautiful gardens are not the ones that constantly seek attention.

They are the ones that quietly bloom.

Mentor or Coach

 Someone recently asked me, “Are you a mentor or a coach?”

After 4 decades in education, and most of those years in leadership, I would say I am probably a bit of both.

Having said that, if I had to put a number to it, I would probably say I am 90% mentor and 10% coach. The years of experience, the lessons learnt and the situations I have faced naturally make me lean towards mentoring. But coaching is important too — helping people think, question and find their own answers.

I have always believed that helping people starts with listening. Ask the right questions, understand their thinking, share experiences and help them find their own way forward.

I have never been one for fancy words or modern-day jargon that sometimes makes simple things complicated. I believe in keeping things clear and practical — understand the situation, find solutions, get the job done and help others do the same.

I know some people may feel a little uncomfortable when I interview them because I tend to ask direct questions. It is not about putting anyone on the spot. It is because I value honest conversations and want to understand the person behind the answers — their thinking, their approach and what really drives them.

I can be direct. I can be impatient at times. But it comes from wanting things to improve and wanting people to succeed. I believe in giving honest feedback, even when it is difficult, but always with respect and the intention to help.

I try to keep learning, reading widely and staying aware of what is happening around me. I don’t have all the answers — none of us do. The day we stop learning is the day we stop growing.

After all these years, what I value most is the journey — the people I have met, the challenges that have tested me, the lessons I have learnt and the privilege of helping others grow.

So, am I a mentor or a coach? Perhaps a little of both. I believe in keeping things simple, treating people with respect, asking honest questions and, when needed, having the courage to say things as they are.

The Great indian cricket dilema

 The Great Indian Cricket Conversation — A Mirror of Us 🏏

In India, cricket is rarely just a game. It is a daily conversation, a national habit and sometimes even an emotional courtroom where every fan becomes judge, jury and selector.

From tea stalls to offices, from family gatherings to social media groups, cricket debates are everywhere. The passion is unmatched, the opinions are endless and the confidence is extraordinary.

One of the most entertaining spectacles in Indian cricket does not always happen on the field. Often, the real drama begins long before the first ball is bowled.

Millions of passionate fans become selectors, coaches and strategists overnight. Living rooms, workplaces and online platforms transform into unofficial selection committees.

The confidence is remarkable. Every opinion is delivered with the authority of someone who has just walked out of a national selection meeting!

“Pick him.”

“Drop him.”

“Bring him back.”

“Give the youngster a chance.”

Sometimes the team is selected by fans before the official announcement is even made.

And then comes the inevitable question:

Have you made your own selections?

Who would you pick?

Who would you leave out?

Do you agree with the coach, captain and selectors — or do you believe you know better?

After all, every cricket fan has a team in their mind, a strategy they believe would work and a player they feel deserves an opportunity.

Who should play Test cricket? Who belongs in the ODI squad? Who is the ideal choice for T20? Everyone has an answer, and everyone believes their answer is the right one.

The coach is questioned. The captain is praised one week and criticised the next. The selectors are either celebrated as brilliant thinkers or criticised for poor decisions. Very rarely does anyone accept that the reality may be more complex.

Statistics become weapons. Averages, strike rates, fitness reports and past performances are brought out like evidence in a courtroom. Every supporter builds a strong case for the player they believe deserves a place.

But that is what makes Indian cricket fascinating. It is never just about eleven players on a field. It becomes a reflection of our emotions, loyalties and sometimes our desire to prove that our opinion was correct.

Modern cricket has also added another dimension — the business behind the sport.

Who earns what? Who has the biggest IPL contract? Who attracts the most endorsements? Who deserves more and who deserves less?

The conversation moves beyond runs and wickets into questions of value, fairness and reputation.

Naturally, another national debate follows:

“Who has earned the opportunity?”

“Who deserves more time?”

“Is selection based only on performance?”

“Are reputation and past achievements carrying too much weight?”

These questions appear after every series, every tournament and sometimes after every match.

A player’s entire career can suddenly be judged by one poor innings or one expensive spell. Years of discipline, sacrifice and achievement can be forgotten in a few moments.

At the same time, a player’s selection can become a matter of intense discussion. Fans search for explanations, question decisions and try to understand choices made behind closed doors.

The reality is that selection is among the toughest jobs in sport.

Those making the decisions see things the public may never know — fitness levels, training performances, team balance, future planning and countless conversations within the team environment.

Of course, selectors can make mistakes. Players can be given too many chances, overlooked for too long or selected when another option appears stronger.

But every decision carries the same challenge: choosing one player often means leaving out another talented individual.

And finally, the moment everyone has been waiting for arrives — the match itself.

The player who was criticised and questioned walks out and scores a magnificent century.

Suddenly, opinions change. The same player becomes a “match winner”, a “champion” and someone who “always had the ability”.

A superstar fails in the next game, and the conversation shifts again.

“Has he lost his touch?”

“Is it time for someone new?”

“Should another player get the opportunity?”

Yesterday’s hero can quickly become today’s debate.

A young player is selected and questions are raised about who was left out. Another talented player misses an opportunity and disappointment follows.

Everyone wants fairness, but everyone has a different definition of what fairness means.

Former players analyse. Television studios debate. Social media delivers instant reactions. Every decision is examined, every mistake magnified and every performance remembered — often only until the next game.

Perhaps that is why Indian cricket is so captivating.

It reveals something about all of us.

We like certainty in an uncertain world. We like predicting the future, even though the future has a habit of surprising us. We celebrate success quickly and judge failure even faster.

The reality is simple: there are only eleven places in a playing XI. With India’s depth of talent today, several world-class teams could be created from those waiting outside.

Someone deserving will miss out. Someone talented will have to wait. Someone great will occasionally fail.

That is not a problem. It is the privilege of having extraordinary talent.

So let us continue to debate, argue, celebrate and disagree. That passion is what makes Indian cricket unique.

But perhaps we should remember:

Selectors are human.

Players are human.

And the millions watching from the sidelines are human too.

We all get carried away. We all change our minds. We all love a comeback story.

Because that is the beauty of sport — and perhaps the beauty of life.

The player we question today may surprise us tomorrow. The decision we criticise today may look different with time. And the opinion we defend with complete confidence today may be the one we rethink tomorrow.

Cricket keeps teaching us the same lesson: stay humble, stay open and never write the final chapter too early.

After all, the next ball has not been bowled yet.

The Bishop's School, Pune The Bishop's School Alumni Association

Pune you're amazing

 Pune, You're Amazing... One Scooter Ride Proved It

Today, for the first time in over a decade, I climbed onto the back of a scooter.

It was only a short ride. Too short to justify calling an Uber, and too far to walk comfortably. "How bad can it be?" I thought.

Those were the last sensible words that crossed my mind.

The moment we pulled away, I was transported back about twenty-five years to my days at Bishop's. Back then, my scooter carried our little family everywhere. My wife sat behind me, one of our young daughters stood in front, proudly holding the handlebars, while our other daughter squeezed between us. It never seemed unusual. Somehow, it always worked.

This time, it was a different story.

I'm no longer that young man who thought he was indestructible. I was also flying back to Dubai later that day, and the last thing I wanted was a back spasm or a bruised leg before boarding my flight.

The weather, I must admit, was glorious. There was the gentlest drizzle, the air was wonderfully cool, and for a fleeting moment I almost felt I was somewhere in the hills. The breeze on my face was delightful.

Then reality returned.

My hair was all over the place. I looked as though I had been pulled through a hedge... legs first.

Vehicles seemed to be coming from every direction. Cars honked. Buses lumbered past. Motorcycles and scooters whizzed by my legs so closely that I was tempted to tuck both feet up onto the seat.

Then the wildlife joined in. Dogs darted across the road. A herd of buffaloes ambled through as if they owned it. A cow sat calmly in the middle of the road while everyone else figured out how to get around her.

Then came the potholes.

Every bump launched me into the air. I was convinced one particularly enthusiastic pothole would send me sailing over the rider's head. I held on with rather more determination than dignity.

Meanwhile, my imagination was working overtime. What if my back suddenly went into spasm? What if I clipped my leg on a passing motorcycle? What if I dropped the little bag I was carrying and watched twenty vehicles run over it before I could retrieve it?

Amazing how many disasters the mind can imagine in a journey lasting barely five minutes.

As we bounced over potholes, crawled over speed breakers and swerved around obstacles, I couldn't help wondering whether this is one reason so many people in Pune complain of back problems.

By the time we reached our destination, I climbed off with enormous relief. I was fine, my bag was still with me, and I had acquired a whole new respect for the millions of people who negotiate Indian roads on two wheels every day.

Twenty-five years ago, riding a scooter was just another part of life.

Today, simply sitting on the back of one felt like an act of courage.

Pune, you're amazing. One scooter ride proved it.

Know When to Cut Your Losses

 Know When to Cut Your Losses

One of life's hardest decisions is not knowing when to begin. It's knowing when to stop.

Most of us have faced that dilemma at some stage. We remain in a job that no longer challenges us, stay in a business that has lost its direction, hold on to investments hoping they will recover, or postpone important personal decisions because we've already invested so much time, effort and emotion.

The future is rarely crystal clear. More often, it's hazy. Yet we carry on, fingers—and sometimes even our toes—crossed, hoping tomorrow will somehow be better than today. Hope is important, but on its own it is rarely enough.

We even have a name for it—the sunk cost fallacy: our tendency to persist because of what we've already invested rather than because the future genuinely justifies it.

Over the years, I have watched people hold on far longer than they should, convinced that one more month, another year ,one more effort or one more opportunity will turn things around. Sadly, it often doesn't. They lose more than money or status. They lose confidence, enthusiasm and, eventually, hope. By then, they are not just disappointed; they are despondent and emotionally dejected and  drained.

As I look back on my own career, I realise this lesson has shaped many of my decisions.

I was born and educated in Allahabad and began my career as a Grade 5 teacher. Life was comfortable and predictable, but I sensed that if I wanted to grow, I needed to step outside my comfort zone. So I moved to Pune. There were sacrifices to make but I had to make them.

It turned out to be one of the best decisions I ever made. I had the privilege of working under an exceptional leader and alongside experienced colleagues whose wisdom shaped my thinking far more than any textbook or training programme could have. Looking back, I probably stayed in Pune five years longer than I should have. Yet I don't regret those years. They taught me patience, leadership and the importance of learning from people who had travelled the road before me.

Eventually another opportunity came my way, and I moved to the UAE. Once again, I was leaving behind familiarity for uncertainty. I had no idea what lay ahead, but that decision opened doors I could never have imagined.

Those experiences taught me that moving on is not admitting failure. Sometimes it is simply recognising that one chapter has run its course and another is waiting to be written.

The same principle applies beyond careers. Wise investors know that every investment should have an exit strategy. Knowing when to sell is every bit as important as knowing when to buy. Businesses discontinue products that no longer have a future. Leaders change direction when circumstances change. Holding on is not always a sign of resilience. Sometimes it is simply fear disguised as perseverance.

Today, when I face an important decision, I ask myself one question:

If I were making this decision for the first time today, knowing what I know now, would I still choose this path?

If the answer is no, it may be time to let go.

Cutting your losses is not about giving up.

It's about having the wisdom to let go of one path so that you can discover another.

#Leadership #CareerGrowth #LifeLessons #DecisionMaking #PersonalGrowth

Never forget

 Never Forget Where You've Come From

There is one story from my younger days that I never hesitate to tell.

Allahabad, my birthplace and the city where I spent my school years, will always hold a special place in my heart. After school, I wanted to go to Lucknow to do my teacher training at Lucknow Christian College. It also meant living in the hostel. The problem was simple—I just didn't have the money.

There weren't many doors to knock on, so I approached our family priest, Father George D'Souza. He didn't ask me to fill in forms or sign papers. There was no guarantor, no signature—just my word. He trusted me enough to lend me what, in those days, was a princely sum.

Some may smile at the amount today. You could probably spend it on a couple of coffees without thinking twice. But back then, it was a considerable sum—far more than my mother could afford. More importantly, it represented something far greater than money. It was trust, given freely when I needed it most.

Once I reached Lucknow, I was fortunate to receive two small scholarships. They weren't much, but they helped pay for my hostel, food and books. Looking back, I realise my journey was made possible by the kindness of several people, each helping in their own way.

I completed my teacher training, found a job and repaid the loan in small monthly instalments. When I went to pay the final ₹250, Father George smiled and said, "Keep it. Consider the loan paid in full."

It wasn't the money I remembered. It was the trust.

That single act of kindness changed the course of my life. Had he said no, my journey might have been very different.

I've shared this story many times during leadership sessions in the UAE. Not because it's about me, but because it's about what one person can do for another. Sometimes all it takes is one person who believes in you before you can fully believe in yourself.

I've never felt embarrassed telling this story. If anything, I tell it with gratitude. Every life is shaped by people who quietly make a difference. Father George was one of those people in mine.

Life has taken me much farther than I could ever have imagined. If there's one lesson I've carried with me throughout, it's this: never forget where you've come from, and never forget those who helped you get there.

If this story inspires even one person not to give up, or encourages someone to quietly open a door for another, then Father George D'Souza's kindness will continue to touch lives long after his own. I can think of no finer tribute to him.

The Bishop's School, Pune 

The Bishop's School Alumni Association 

ALLAHABAD CIVIL LINES  NOSTALGIC MEMORIES

The Happy Code

 After the rigour of Dubai, and the household chores in Pune , I desperately needed some sleep.

Outside, it was raining. Not a dramatic thunderstorm, just that gentle Pune rain that seems determined to lull you to sleep. The room was cool. The curtains had turned the afternoon into twilight. I was wrapped in that delicious, uninterrupted sleep that only comes when you've been running on empty.

I was dreaming. Chanel, our cat, was curled up on my lap, purring softly, convinced there was nowhere else in the world she needed to be. So was I.

Somewhere, far away, a phone began to ring.

At first, it drifted into my dream. I wasn't even sure it was real. It seemed distant, almost polite, as if it didn't want to disturb me. I ignored it. It rang again. By the third or fourth ring, I reluctantly accepted that this wasn't part of my dream after all.

Still half asleep, I reached for the phone. It slipped off the bed and fell to the floor. I was irritated. 

We had recently bought a new television in Pune. After installation, the company sends you something called a Happy Code—a six-digit number you're expected to read out when customer care calls. Why it's called a Happy Code, I have no idea. It sounds oddly cheerful for what is really just a verification code.

An automated voice greeted me.

It then launched into a long list of prizes I could apparently win as part of some promotion. At that moment, the last thing on my mind was winning anything. I was simply trying to wake up enough to understand why I had been called in the first place. Also worried if the glass case on my phone had cracked for the nth time .

Finally, a lady came on the line. She introduced herself and, in a cheerful mix of Hindi and Marathi, said,

"Sir... say Happy Code."

I was groggy.

"I'm sorry?"

"Sir... say Happy Code."

That sounded straightforward enough.

So I replied, "Happy Code."

A pause.

Then, a little more firmly...

"Sir... say Happy Code."

Clearly she hadn't heard me. I was wide awake now. 

Years of teaching and school assemblies came flooding back. I sat up, cleared my throat and, in my best teacher's voice, pronounced every syllable with textbook precision.

"HAAA...PPY... COOOODE."

If pronunciation carried marks, I'd have scored full points.

There was another pause.

Then she said, "Sir, please send 'Happy Code'  on my number."

Right.

I assumed she wanted it on WhatsApp.

I opened her earlier message, typed carefully in capital letters...

HAPPY CODE

...and pressed Send.

A minute later, the phone rang again.

"Sir, I have not received it."

"Really?" I replied. "There are two blue ticks. You've definitely received it."

By now, I was wondering why she couldn't see it, and she was probably wondering why I couldn't understand such a simple request.

Eventually, her supervisor came on the line.

Very patiently he said,

"Sir... we sent you a code. A number. We need you to send that number." Then your purchase will be closed. 

There was a brief silence.

Then it dawned on me.

She hadn't been asking me to say the words Happy Code. She wanted the Happy Code—the six-digit number confirming I was happy with the television and the installation so the company could close the purchase.

I couldn't help laughing. I had proudly sent the words HAPPY CODE instead of the Happy Code itself.

Two people. Speaking the same languages. Both listening. Both trying to be helpful. Yet we were having two completely different conversations.

It stayed with me because it wasn't really about televisions or codes.

It was about communication.

As leaders, parents, teachers or managers, we often explain something and assume we've been perfectly clear. The other person nods. We move on. Days later, we discover they understood something entirely different.

We then say, "But I told you."

Yes, we probably did.

But communication isn't about what we say.

It's about what the other person understands.

Leadership is not just about speaking clearly. It's about making sure you've been understood.

That rainy afternoon reminded me that before becoming frustrated with someone, it helps to ask one simple question:

"Could you tell me what you understood?"

It might save a great deal of confusion—and perhaps stop someone from proudly WhatsApping the words HAPPY CODE when all that was needed was a six-digit number.

 

It's Not About Caring More

Kindness, empathy, compassion, helpfulness and softness are different responses. Understanding them can make us better leaders.

Have you ever walked away from a conversation thinking, I meant well, but somehow I didn't help?

Most of us have.

We listened. We reassured. We offered advice. We genuinely wanted to make a difference. Yet we were left with the uncomfortable feeling that, despite our best intentions, we had somehow missed the mark.

Why does that happen?

English is a wonderfully nuanced language. Words such as kindness, empathy, compassion, helpfulness and softness often seem interchangeable, yet each carries a different meaning. But this isn't really about language.

It's about people.

These qualities are different ways of responding to another human being. The real challenge is not understanding the words. It is recognising which response the moment calls for. That, perhaps, is one of life's most underrated skills.

When I first stepped into leadership, I thought having the answer was part of the job. Looking back, I realise people were often looking for something else. Some needed encouragement. Others needed someone to listen. A few simply needed to know they weren't facing the situation alone. That lesson took me years to learn.

Kindness is often our first instinct. A smile, a thoughtful message, a patient conversation or simply giving someone our time can change the course of an ordinary day. It reminds people that they matter.

But there are moments when kindness alone isn't enough.

Someone carrying disappointment, anxiety or grief may not want reassurance or advice. They simply want to know that someone understands. Seeing the world through another person's eyes without rushing to fix it is one of the hardest things we are ever asked to do. Yet it is often the greatest gift we can offer.

There are also times when understanding must lead to action.

Recognising another person's struggle is one thing; deciding to ease it is another. Compassion quietly turns concern into action, often through the smallest of gestures—a phone call, a visit, a helping hand or simply being present.

Helpfulness has its place too, but it requires judgement. Solving every problem for someone else can quietly rob them of the confidence that comes from solving it themselves. The best help builds capability.

Then there is softness, perhaps the most misunderstood quality of all.

A gentle approach is often mistaken for weakness, while firmness is mistaken for strength. Yet during my years in education, I have known exceptional leaders who rarely raised their voices. Their calmness was not hesitation. Their gentleness reflected quiet confidence. They listened more than they spoke. They corrected without humiliating. They were firm without being harsh. Their authority came from character, not volume.

Equally, I have known leaders who were direct and decisive, yet deeply kind and compassionate. Style and substance are not the same thing.

Over the years, one lesson has become increasingly clear. The finest leaders do not succeed because they possess more admirable qualities than everyone else. They succeed because they recognise what each person and each situation call for.

The mistake is rarely that we don't care. More often, we offer the response that comes most naturally to us, rather than the one the other person actually needs.

Leadership is not measured by how much we care.

It is measured by whether we recognise what another person needs from us.

The finest leaders know the difference.

On having difficult conversations

 Reflections on feedback, trust, and the discipline of speaking honestly in leadership

The hardest conversations in leadership are rarely about what is being said. They are about what has already been indefinitely delayed.

I’ve worked in leadership for over 40 years and if there is one lesson that endures, it is this: most leadership failures are not failures of systems, but of conversation—things left unsaid until they become heavier than they needed to be.

Giving honest feedback is never easy. It must be polite and it must be diplomatic, but it also has to be direct. Say it plainly, without circling it, without softening it into ambiguity, and without stretching it beyond what is necessary. Clarity is the aim, delivered with respect, and brought to a proper close.

In my early years, I was very careful not to upset people or rock the boat. many were older and more experienced than me. Looking back, I can see how that sometimes delayed conversations that should have happened earlier. What I have learned since is simple: what you avoid does not disappear. It accumulates.

“What you avoid does not disappear. It accumulates.”

I have not had many of these conversations, but a few stay with me—not because of their frequency, but because of what they revealed. More often than not, they were with people I worked closely with every day. That is what makes them difficult. Not only the issue itself, but the weight of the relationship around it.

And yet the question remains—how do you tell someone they are underperforming, disengaged, or affecting others, when there is history, trust, and shared work between you? It is not only about language. It is about holding a tension between honesty and care, between standards and relationships. That is where leadership is most exposed.

In any organization, these issues rarely remain contained. Left alone, they do not declare themselves; they spread quietly. Standards drift, trust thins, and culture changes slowly, often without a clear moment of origin.

Handled well, these conversations do something simple but essential: they restore clarity, and clarity, in any organization, is a form of respect. One of the harder lessons in leadership is this: people can tolerate discomfort, but they struggle with uncertainty. What is left unsaid does not vanish; it reappears elsewhere as frustration, withdrawal, or decline in standards and we all know what that can lead to. .

Over the years, I have had to give difficult feedback, including formal warnings, to people I genuinely valued. In some cases, those relationships not only held—they matured. But only when the conversation was honest and without aggression, firm without ego, and focused on behaviour rather than personality. That distinction matters. You are not defining the person. You are addressing what needs to change. And once it is said, it should be left there.

I have often shared a cup of tea afterwards with the same colleague, talking about everything except what was just discussed. That matters more than it sounds. It restores normality and separates correction from rejection.

Much of this also comes down to credibility. People do not reject feedback easily; they reject inconsistency. So the question is always present: are you fair, are you steady, do your standards shift depending on the person or the moment? Trust is built long before the conversation begins.

Feedback is never only about words. It is tone, body language , facial expression, timing, restraint, and presence. I have seen conversations fail because they were delivered in frustration, and I have seen difficult truths accepted because they were delivered calmly, without ego.

The principle is simple, though never easy: be clear, be specific, be human. If someone is repeatedly late, say it. If they are disengaged, name what you observe. If behaviour is affecting others, do not blur it into language that removes meaning. People can only respond to what is real. But we must always remember that clarity does not require force.

I once had to tell a colleague—someone I genuinely liked—that their attitude was affecting the team. It was direct, but not personal. A few weeks later, the change was visible not only in behaviour, but in atmosphere. On another occasion, I spoke to a leader whose disengagement had become visible over time. When the focus shifted from identity to impact, the response changed quickly.

A few principles have remained constant. Start with shared purpose—you are protecting something, not attacking someone. Be specific, because vagueness creates defensiveness. Stay anchored in behaviour, not character. Allow silence to do its work. And remember that what happens after the conversation matters more than the conversation itself.

So there is something I have often pondered over - Is feedback a science or an art? It is both. The science explains how people respond to clarity and threat. The art is judgement—when to speak, how to say it, and when to stop.

But the real discipline is restraint, knowing when to speak and when not to overstate what has already been said. These conversations are never comfortable, but discomfort is not the problem—avoidance is.

In the end, this is not separate from leadership; it is leadership. And perhaps the real test is not whether you can have the conversation, but whether trust remains afterwards.

omfortable, but discomfort is not the problem—avoidance is.

In the end, this is not separate from leadership; it is leadership. And perhaps the real test is not whether you can have the conversation, but whether trust remains afterwards.

Say what needs to be said. Say it clearly, and with care. Then leave it there.

Say what needs to be said. Say it clearly, and with care. Then leave it there.

Who owns the first hour

 Here is your final full LinkedIn article with the chosen closing line integrated cleanly:

---

Who owns the first hour?

I often think about this early in the morning, before the day starts asking for attention. Before messages, before noise, before everything starts pulling at you.

I wake at five. Not by design—it just became my rhythm over the years. My mother was the same, already awake, moving quietly through the house, like the morning belonged to her before anyone else showed up.

That time feels different. The world hasn’t fully started yet, everything is slower, less crowded, and there is a kind of stillness you don’t really get later in the day.

I make tea and just stand there for a bit, no phone, no messages, no noise. My cat comes and settles beside me like she’s always been part of that hour. The house feels calm in a way that is hard to explain.

Sometimes my mind drifts without effort—childhood mornings, old friends, the games we played, things that felt so large back then but now just sit quietly in memory.

It reminds me how attention used to feel, not something you managed, just something that was there.

And how easily that has changed.

If I pick up the phone first, the day breaks into pieces immediately. Messages, emails, urgency that doesn’t really belong to me but still takes over. I see the same thing in work too—people walking into meetings already divided in their attention, physically present but not fully there.

We talk a lot about productivity, but much less about attention, even though attention is what actually shapes the quality of everything else.

We are not short of time. We are short of attention.

If I leave the phone alone, even for a while, the day begins differently. Thoughts return at their own pace. I notice more. I think more clearly. I feel more present in what I am doing. It is a small shift, but it changes the tone of everything that follows.

I am trying, in my own way, to write more and react less.

Because when attention is divided, thinking becomes thin. When it is steady, thinking has space.

These days, being present is not automatic anymore. It is something you choose.

That first hour is just a reminder of that.

Not to do more.

Just to actually be there when life begins.

Who owns your first hour—you or the world?

The lizard drama

 

The Great Lizard Drama of This Morning

There are a few things that make me uncomfortable. One of them is lizards.

When I was a young boy, there was an old saying that if you saw a lizard with two tails, it brought good luck. I remember finding what looked like two tiny lizard tails in a plastic bag somewhere in the house and being convinced my fortune had arrived. It didn't, but that's another story.

This morning, Chanel the cat was behaving very strangely. She was mewing, stamping her paws, jumping around and generally acting as if she had discovered something important.

Then I saw it.

On our cream carpet was a tiny baby lizard, almost exactly the same colour as the carpet. It had no tail and was still wriggling.

The moment I spotted it, my blood ran cold.

Now, all thoughts of kindness, conservation and wildlife appreciation disappeared instantly. My only thought was: that thing has to go.

I went looking for a broom.

No broom.

I looked everywhere.

Still no broom.

Meanwhile Chanel was hovering over the lizard like a security guard protecting valuable property.

Eventually I found one of those long-handled dust pickers. It wasn't what I wanted, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

First job: remove the cat.

This turned out to be more difficult than removing the lizard.

Chanel had decided that the lizard belonged to her and she was not giving it up without a fight. She was hissing, swiping, trying to claw me and generally behaving like a tiny tiger defending its territory.

Thankfully, Chanel is a small cat and I am considerably larger.

After a brief struggle involving some water spray, a lot of indignation from Chanel and a complete breakdown in our relationship, I managed to overpower her and move her to a safe distance.

She sat there glaring at me as if she was already planning revenge.

Only then could I turn my attention to the actual problem.

The lizard.

Or, as it had become by then in my imagination, a fully grown crocodile.

Then the real performance began.

I jumped onto the sofa.

Peered behind the sofa.

Jumped off the sofa.

Pulled the sofa out.

Nearly pulled a muscle in my back.

Jumped back onto the sofa.

Poked underneath with the long stick.

Retreated.

Advanced.

Retreated again.

If anyone had been watching through the window, they would have seen an elderly man repeatedly climbing on furniture, waving a stick around and looking mildly unwell.

After much effort, heavy breathing and a surprising amount of furniture rearranging, the battle finally ended.

The lizard was gone.

I stood there exhausted, breathing like I had just completed a marathon.

Chanel sat nearby watching the whole thing, probably wondering why I had taken over a job she was handling perfectly well.

So that was my morning.

Some people start the day with coffee.

Some go for a walk.

I spent mine conducting a military operation against a baby lizard, wrestling a furious cat, rearranging the furniture and nearly needing a chiropractor afterwards.

A perfectly normal start to the day. 😄

Boarders in school are always hungry

 “The 9 O’Clock Knock: Boarding Life, Hunger, and the Art of Finding Food”

Memories from The Bishop’s School, Pune, where boys were always active, always hungry, and somehow always fed

A quarter of a century has passed, but somehow it still feels like yesterday for me.

Those were the days at The Bishop’s School, Pune – the boarding years from the mid-80s through to 2000 – when life on campus moved with a simple, steady rhythm that only really makes sense when you look back.

I stayed in the staff quarters in Lunn Block and later in Simba Block. Both homes were beside the dormitory, with the house door and dormitory door very close to each other, so you were constantly part of what was happening inside. You could see it, hear it, and feel it all the time, and that closeness also meant responsibility never really switched off – discipline, safety, routine, and everything that went on in the dormitory. In both places, I was the dormitory in-charge as well.

In Lunn, the middle school dormitory had around thirty-five to fifty boys, while Simba had a similar number of senior boys. Lunn was younger and more restless, always on the move, while Simba was older and more settled, with head boy, prefects, and senior prefects forming the structure of order and daily life.

Life was always active, with hockey, badminton, volleyball, table tennis, boxing, and football filling the days as boys moved from one game to another with endless energy. Even when formal games ended, that movement never really stopped, as if the day itself was not ready to slow down.

Then night would settle.

And with it came a familiar pattern.

Hunger.

Not something dramatic, just that steady feeling after long days of study, sport, and routine, when supper was done, lights were dim, and yet the day still felt unfinished for many of them.

And then came the knock.

Soft, hesitant, never rushed.

My wife would usually go to the door, and there would be a boy standing there, sometimes alone, sometimes with another, speaking softly: “Ma’am… can I have some coffee or milk?”

Then slowly the rest would come out – bread, butter, eggs, Maggie noodles – simple things, never demanded, just what was needed to get through the night or a long stretch of study.

It became a rhythm, especially during exams, when sleep was pushed late and the dormitory had already gone quiet. The knock would come again and again through those nights, always soft, always familiar.

And somehow, there was always something – bread, butter, a warm drink, an egg quickly made – enough to carry them through the night into morning.

It was never only in our home. Across The Bishop’s School, Pune, in staff quarters close to the dormitories, the same thing happened again and again. Different blocks, different doors, but the same exchanges – the same knock, the same soft voice, the same simple request. It was simply part of boarding life then, unspoken but understood everywhere on campus.

Somehow, we always felt a quiet sympathy for the boarders, because life in a boarding school was never easy. There were cold winter mornings when geysers didn’t work and baths still had to be taken, hot days in dormitories without fans in those years, constant movement between games, study, and routine, and all the small things boys had to manage on their own. Above all, there was the distance from home – for many, just two visits a year, sometimes even less.

Life in boarding was tough, but within that toughness there was something deeply human. Those of us who lived on campus – masters, teachers, and families – shared a close bond with the boys. It was not formal, but lived every day through presence, familiarity, and small acts of care, and over time it became mutual respect and, quietly, affection.

We knew the boys well over the years, many from their earliest days right through to Grade 10. We knew their families, their strengths, their habits – who ran hardest on the field, who lived for hockey or badminton or volleyball, who spent hours at table tennis, who took to boxing with focus, who never missed a football game – and we also knew the steady ones, the restless ones, and those still finding their way.

They grew up in front of us, slowly and without drama, until one day you realised they were no longer children.

Many are still in touch with me, and I have met them in different cities across the world. Each meeting brings those days back for a moment – the dormitories, the fields, the routines, and those quiet evenings – and although time has changed their faces, it has not changed the connection.

Looking back, what remains is not any single moment, but the feeling of it all – the closeness, the shared responsibility, and the everyday humanity of that life.

Simple days. Full days. Real days.

And in those soft knocks on the door, there was a quiet trust that never needed words, and somehow still lingers to this day.

A few Modest Requirements for food bloggers

 

A Few Modest Requirements for Food Bloggers

I've been watching food bloggers for some time now and have concluded that there should be a few minimum qualifications before anyone is allowed near a camera and a plate of food.

1. Have Some Idea How Food Is Cooked

You don't need to be a chef with a Michelin star, but a basic understanding of cooking would help. Anyone who cooks regularly can tell within thirty seconds, whether you know what you're talking about or not.

2. Learn to Pronounce What You're Eating

If there's something on the menu you can't pronounce, look it up. We live in an age where AI can answer almost any question. Surely it can help you not mispronounce the name of the dish you've just ordered.

3. Taste It Before Declaring It Life-Changing

The food arrives. The camera appears. The gasping begins.

"Oh my God!" "Wow!" "Incredible!"

But the fork is still on the table. Please taste it first.

4. Not Every Restaurant Is a Hidden Gem

If it has three branches, valet parking and thousands of online reviews, it is certainly not a hidden gem. Maybe you have just heard about it,

5. Everything Cannot Be the Best

Every burger cannot be the best burger in town. Every dessert cannot be insane. Sometimes food is simply good. Try and be honest – its not too difficult

And finally, remember what you're doing. You're eating a nice burger- that’s it

But it’s still a burger and it’s not going to make a difference to humanity.  

(With apologies to all food bloggers. Well... most food bloggers.)

Do you remember when it rained

 

Do You Remember When It Rained?

A memory of rain across places and time

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As a young child in Allahabad, rain was mostly something to worry about.

It usually began with the sky changing early in the morning—dark clouds gathering low and heavy, making the day feel uncertain before anything had actually happened. I used to go to school by rickshaw, watching the sky and trying to read it.

Because the concern was simple. If it rained, the rickshaw might not come back. If it didn’t, I might be stuck at school. And in childhood thinking, that wasn’t inconvenience—it was being left behind in a large, dark school with no food, no water, and the occasional imagined ghost moving through empty corridors.

Even before the rain came, the sky kept us busy. Clouds became animals, faces, shifting shapes that never stayed still for long. As children, we pointed, argued, corrected each other, watched them form and disappear within minutes. A daily argument with the sky.

Then the rain arrived.

In India, rain did not just fall—it changed the day. When it came heavily, people gathered under trees, bus stops, tin roofs, anywhere with cover. But what stood out was not shelter. It was waiting.

Nobody really left. Minutes stretched without noticing. And waiting became normal.

Even then, nothing really stopped. People kept looking up, reading the sky, offering predictions. Someone said it would pass. Someone disagreed. Someone else studied the clouds as if they knew better. Nobody was certain, but everyone spoke.

In that waiting, strangers became briefly familiar.

Tea and coffee appeared—small, strong cups passed around, heat cutting through the damp air. And then bhajiyas or pakoras.

Potatoes, onions, chillies in spiced gram flour, fried crisp at the edges. Nothing special otherwise. In rain, they felt necessary.

School days had their own rain stories. The “rainy day holiday” was never official—just something that spread faster than fact. You would be on your way when boys cycled back shouting, “It is a holiday!”

And the day split. Turn back and risk being wrong. Continue and risk being alone in school. The ones announcing it always looked pleased, as if they had found a shortcut in the system.

In boarding school in Pune, rain often arrived with returning students—trains, heavy trunks, tired faces—and then, almost immediately, the rain itself. Arriving soaked stays with you longer than the journey: clothes that never fully dry, socks that stay cold, a dampness that seems to settle into the place.

And yet rain was never the same everywhere.

In the UAE, it interrupts rather than disrupts. Children run into it shouting, as if something rare has arrived. Even adults pause longer than they expect to, looking up as rain briefly changes the rhythm of the day.

Of course, here too, rain can become serious. Heavy downpours once turned roads into channels and underpasses into pools, stopping movement in places that usually never stop.

And still, it feels familiar in a way that is hard to explain.

Because somewhere in it is the same moment—standing still, waiting, looking up, not quite sure when it will pass.

The same rain. The same pause. Just different places.

I don't know

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Whatever Happened to “I Don’t Know”?

In a world of instant answers, we may be losing the simplest form of honesty.

“I don’t know” used to be an honest beginning. Today, it feels almost like an awkward pause we rush to fill.

Somewhere between ambition and authority, we quietly pushed “I don’t know” out of our vocabulary. It was once simply honesty. Today, it is often mistaken for hesitation.

As a young teacher at The Bishop’s School, Pune, I first taught Grades 5 and 6. A year later, I moved to Grades 7 and 8, and then, almost without ceremony, straight into Grades 9 and 10—the board classes. I hesitated, not out of reluctance, but from that familiar early-career doubt of whether one is truly ready for what is being asked.

But I took it on.

There was no Google then, no ChatGPT either—only Encyclopedia Britannica and a willingness to learn while teaching. It was a simple rhythm: teach, learn, adjust, and teach again. Slowly, confidence settled. The classroom became familiar, though never entirely predictable.

Then came poetry, Shakespeare, and questions that didn’t always offer neat answers. That is when I realised something simple but important: it is perfectly fine not to know.

If I didn’t understand something, I would tell the class, “I don’t know. Let me find out.” I never felt the need to pretend. The boys were sharp—they would have known anyway. More importantly, honesty mattered more than performance. And strangely, those were often the moments when the classroom felt most real.

Sometimes Britannica helped. Sometimes it didn’t. And when it didn’t, there was Mr Beeman.

Mr Beeman was a retired principal of Sherwood College, Nainital—a man of discipline, precision, and quiet authority. One did not simply walk in and meet him; one asked for time properly, as though stepping into a space where thinking itself had order.

At the appointed hour, I would climb the wooden stairs of Cambridge Block, knock on his door, and wait. He would have just finished corrections or listening to the BBC news, sitting in a short window of quiet.

I would ask my questions—often about poets, authors, or Shakespeare. Sometimes a line that resisted meaning, sometimes the background of a text, sometimes the world behind a word.

“Excuse me, Mr Beeman, I am trying to understand this—could you help me think it through?”

He would listen first—properly listen—and then respond with a clarity and patience that no textbook ever managed to replicate. I would take notes, go back, reflect, and reshape the lesson. The next day, I would walk into class and say, without hesitation, “I checked this with Mr Beeman, and here is what I understand.” No pretence. Just learning.

I still meet some of those boys now—working professionals, many far more worldly than we were then—and we often look back on those school days with fondness, amused at how life has unfolded for all of us.

Over time, I have noticed something subtle in professional life. Language has become more indirect—not to hide meaning, but to manage uncertainty. We “circle back,” “take it offline,” “align internally,” or “park it for now.” We “move things forward,” even when clarity is still forming. None of this is wrong, but it often replaces something simpler: the ability to say we don’t yet know.

This becomes most visible in interviews and professional conversations. Answers are structured and polished, which is important, but even when the question invites uncertainty, people rarely pause to acknowledge it.

Perhaps it is because information is so easily available today that we are expected to always appear prepared. In that process, social pressure quietly makes it harder to simply say, “I don’t know,” even when it would be the most honest response.

And I often wonder how it would land if someone simply said, “Sorry, I don’t know that yet—but I am willing to learn.”

Somewhere along the way, we began to equate certainty with competence—as though doubt weakens capability, instead of being the first stage of understanding.

But in real work—especially in education—certainty is rarely where things begin. It usually comes later, after thinking, trying, and sometimes failing.

It makes you wonder: when was the last time we, as professionals, said quite simply, “I don’t know”?

And when someone younger in a team or classroom says it, how do we receive it? Do we see it as honesty in the process of learning, or do we, even unintentionally, expect a more polished answer?

We rarely notice how quickly certainty gets rewarded—and how quietly openness gets pushed aside.

This matters deeply in schools. Children should feel comfortable saying “I don’t know” without hesitation—not as failure, but as thinking aloud. When received well, it is often the most honest starting point of learning.

Of course, honesty does not need an audience. Learning does not need declarations; it needs space, trust, and patience. Most understanding begins in that quiet space where thinking is still forming, not yet fixed.

Education, at its core, is not only about correct answers. It is about building the confidence to sit with not knowing, without rushing to fill the gap.

Which brings me back to those three words.

“I don’t know.”

Perhaps they have not disappeared. Perhaps they have simply gone quiet—waiting to be welcomed back into classrooms, workplaces, and conversations where they are not judged, but understood.

Because in education and leadership, the goal is not to remove uncertainty.

It is to create environments where it is safe to think, safe to question, and safe to be unfinished.

And sometimes, real learning begins right there—with the courage to simply say:

“I don’t know.”

When did life become a system

When Did Life Become a System?
A reflection on how life quietly moved from being lived to being managed.

I grew up in a rather simple world.

We didn’t call it a system then. In fact, we didn’t call it anything at all. There were no manuals, no frameworks, no structured ideas telling us how life should be lived. Life simply happened, quietly and without explanation, and we moved with it without any fuss.

School was just school—a bell ringing somewhere in the distance, a dusty playground filled with constant movement, classrooms with strict teachers, and a small infirmary, often without a doctor, where you went when you felt unwell. You showed up each day, and the day unfolded on its own. Nothing felt measured or managed; simply being there was enough.

Meals carried the same simplicity. Food was food. Coffee was coffee. Ghee was ghee. Lunch often meant sitting under neem trees or in open courtyards, sharing whatever had been packed from home. It wasn’t an “experience.” It was just lunch. No one spoke about nutrients or balance or protein or fiber . You ate, you were full, and that was that. Health, too, was straightforward. You were either unwell or recovering. Terms like cholesterol or hypertension rarely entered everyday conversation. The same clarity extended to emotions. Stress, sadness, pressure existed, but not as categories to be analyzed. They were felt, not framed. Support came directly—parents or teachers corrected you, sometimes very  firmly, sometimes quietly, with a steady expectation: adjust, continue, try again.

Family life had its own rhythm. Homes were full, noise was constant, play was aplenty  and responsibility was shared without being assigned. Even routines like vaccination were simple—once a year, no reminders, no alerts. Things were done because they had to be done, not because they were scheduled.

The world outside home and school felt equally unlabeled. Environmental change, pollution, melting glaciers—these were not part of everyday vocabulary. Trees were cut, and over time, they grew back. Consequences existed, but they were not organized into systems of thought. Even animals were simply part of life, not part of structured care. Pets lived within homes, not within schedules.

Movement was just movement. Walking to school, cycling through streets, running, jumping ,  climbing stairs, playing until dusk—that was simply how bodies lived. It was not called exercise, and it did not need to be named. Self-care, too, was unstructured. There were no routines built around optimization, no wellness calendars, no quiet pressure to improve the self. Care was practical, not packaged. You lived in your body without constantly observing it through data or devices.

And yet, life was full. People studied, worked, travelled, raised families, fell sick, recovered, argued, laughed, and continued. Life did not need to be explained to function. It simply unfolded.

But over time, something subtle shifted. Life began to be described more than it was lived. Sleep became data. Work became structure. Health became monitoring. Habits became tracking. Even emotions started to be arranged into frameworks designed to make them easier to understand and manage.

Please don’t get me wrong . It’s not that life has become worse but  It has certainly  become much faster, more connected, smarter, more informed, and more efficient—but also more demanding of visibility than human memory can comfortably hold.

Still, a quiet unease remains.

We now measure so much of life that we often experience it in fragments—tracked, labelled, optimized, reviewed—as if living itself feels incomplete without evidence that it was lived properly. And yes we do seem to be living for approval !

So the question lingers: when did our lives  stop being something we simply lived, and start becoming something we constantly managed?