The Quiet Art of Negotiation

 

The Quiet Art of Negotiation: How Everyday Conversations Shape a Lifetime

A reflective look at how quiet, everyday exchanges shape our decisions, relationships, and sense of agency.

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Have you ever noticed that every interaction in life is really a negotiation? From toddlers refusing broccoli to teenagers lobbying for the latest gadgets, life is one continuous exercise in give-and-take — and we rarely pause to examine it.

I see this truth the moment I wake up. Chanel, my cat and a seasoned negotiator, leaps onto me with the confidence of a creature who owns the house and merely permits my presence in it. She wants breakfast, I want peace — and she always wins. Even before my eyes are open, I’m reminded that navigating outcomes is woven into everyday life.

After more than 40 years in education, I’ve negotiated nearly every aspect of school life: responsibilities, schedules, committee assignments, parent feedback, recruitment interviews, and countless student requests. Some conversations were effortless; others required the strategic patience of a chess match. These exchanges are not casual “soft skills” — they are subtle, continuous, and essential. They shape relationships, influence outcomes, and build trust. I often remind colleagues and students that mastery isn’t about winning; it’s about navigating life with respect, insight, and understanding.

Then there is spousal negotiation — the ultimate arena. Husbands and wives bargain constantly: where to eat, how to decorate, what to buy, where to holiday. But in most households, the final decision is rarely in doubt. Certain discussions call for a graceful bow, a quiet surrender, and the acceptance of defeat — whether it concerns dinner, gifts, or travel plans. Knowing when to compromise, when to stand firm, and when to smile and yield is a masterclass in domestic diplomacy.

Life is full of conversations, but not all serve the same purpose. Some are arguments aimed at proving a point; others are exchanges seeking the best possible outcome. True skill lies in balance, compromise, and mutual satisfaction. Effective communicators also read the unspoken: tone, posture, and gestures often reveal more than words.

Even toddlers are instinctive strategists. Ask them to eat vegetables, share a toy, or go to bed, and you’ll witness their techniques. They stall, distract, plead, and appeal to “fairness” with a solemnity that suggests deep injustice. Bedtime is a masterclass: one more story, another sip of water, promises to be “super good tomorrow” — all designed to delay the inevitable.

By the teenage years, negotiation becomes more sophisticated. Whether it’s a request for a new phone, extra pocket money, or a late-night outing, teenagers approach discussions with charm and strategy. Millennials relied on persistence; Gen Z adds evidence, statistics, and social media comparisons. Many young people today have refined a skill that adults are still learning.

I consider myself a seasoned negotiator — decades in education will do that — yet my grandkids, aged four and two, remind me daily that the fiercest negotiators come in the smallest sizes. Tiny, tireless, and fearless, they are masters of persuasion, distraction, and charm. It’s humbling, hilarious, and a reminder that we begin practising these skills almost from birth.

Families continue these dances daily: where to eat, who washes the dishes, whose turn it is to drive, which movie to watch, who gets the remote. Beyond the home, the stakes rise. Carpenters, electricians, tailors, tricksters, doctors, dealers, banks, and bureaucrats each have their own rules of engagement. Even fellow travellers negotiate their way through queues, boarding gates, and overhead-bin real estate.

The practice of bargaining is ancient. Early humans traded meat for fire; tribes bartered tools, land, marriages, peace, and power. Courts, banks, governments, airports — all run on structured conversations and calibrated outcomes.

Yet despite its importance, formal lessons in negotiation are rare. Most children learn by observing family dynamics, working through school projects, or taking on leadership roles. Some schools are now creating spaces where students can practise these skills intentionally. The goal isn’t to replace traditional subjects, but to complement them — helping young people advocate for themselves, resolve differences, and balance confidence with empathy.

From birth to death, and in every space in between, we exchange ideas, make compromises, and influence outcomes — often without noticing. Negotiation is more than a practical skill; it is a fundamental art that shapes every relationship, every decision, and ultimately, our ability to succeed. Mastering its nuances doesn’t just help us navigate life — it empowers us to shape it. Life rarely hands us victories; it hands us opportunities to negotiate them.

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The Timeless Language of Prayer

 

The Timeless Language of Prayer

From whispered hopes to simple words, prayer connects us to something beyond ourselves, across time and cultures.

Prayer has always been a quiet anchor in my life, a gentle pause that steadies the mind and calms the heart. From the first words I learned as a child—short night prayers that brought comfort and focus—it has guided me through fear, uncertainty, and moments of hope. It did not belong only to bedtime; it rose before journeys, in moments of worry, beside those who were unwell, and even before tests and exams. I often watched elders pray at home—voices soft, hands folded, eyes lowered—and I realized that prayer was less about ritual and more about connection, a way to gather oneself and reach beyond the immediate.

Across history, humans have turned to prayer whenever they faced uncertainty, hope, or gratitude. Traditions from all cultures reflect the same longing: to be guided, to be understood, to find strength. Even in moments of triumph, a sportsman may lift his eyes to the sky after scoring a goal in football, strike an ace in tennis, cross the finish line in a race, clear a high bar in pole vaulting, or complete a century in cricket. These quiet gestures of thanks show that prayer can be instinctive, natural, and deeply personal. It is a practice that transcends age, faith, and circumstance.

Prayer flows both through crowds and solitude. It rises in halls filled with voices and rests in quiet corners by rivers, on mountain paths, or beneath trees. It asks for no perfection, no special words, no formal permission. It belongs to anyone who opens their heart—those who are weary, hopeful, grateful, or searching. In every case, it is a language of intention, a way of acknowledging that life is larger than ourselves.

Kahlil Gibran once wrote, “Prayer is the hidden longing of the heart.” These words capture the essence of what I have always felt: that prayer is not merely words or ceremony, but an instinctive reaching toward something beyond ourselves—a quiet, private dialogue with hope, courage, and gratitude.

There is a saying I once heard: “When you pray, coincidences happen; when you do not, they do not.” Perhaps it is mystery, or perhaps it is the shift prayer brings within—the way it steadies the mind, calms fear, and sharpens focus. Prayer teaches us to look inward even as it reaches outward, connecting the personal to the universal, the individual to the larger flow of life.

Prayer is also found in the natural world. In the flow of rivers, the rustle of leaves, the soft light of dawn, or the pause before rain, there is a quiet language that asks nothing but attention. Nature itself offers moments that feel like prayer, inviting reflection, stillness, and gratitude.

Even music, poetry, and stories carry this instinct to reach beyond ourselves. Human voices have long turned longing into song, and gratitude into rhythm. These are prayers too—not shaped by doctrine, not bound by words or form, but by the deep human impulse to express hope, thanks, or need.

Ultimately, prayer is timeless and universal. It is the quiet breath before courage, the gentle hand that steadies us in fear, the invisible thread stitching one heart to another. It is the soft hush in the middle of a busy day, the warmth that settles quietly in the chest, the gentle pause that reminds us of all that is good, all that is larger than ourselves. And in that silent space between the seen and unseen, prayer blooms quietly, fully, and endlessly—reminding us, softly, that we are never alone.

 

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CHAOS ISN’T THE EXCEPTION, IT’S THE RULE

A world in perpetual turmoil — and the art of staying afloat

Think life is orderly? Think again. The illusion collapses the moment you open a newspaper, switch on the television, or scroll through social media. Conflicts smoulder across continents, markets wobble, storms arrive without warning, and even the closest relationships reveal fragile fault lines under quiet pressure.

The headlines are appalling, the disruption horrific — and “alarming” is an understatement. Ceasefires seem plausible, treaties look inevitable, and diplomatic handshakes fill our screens. Then, almost inevitably, tensions flare again, old disputes reignite, and familiar fault lines crack open. We are dragged back to the uncomfortable truth: chaos is not an occasional visitor - It is the architecture of the modern world. Permanent solutions are the comforting illusions we cling to.

Chaos does not live only in capitals or newsrooms. It sits quietly in our homes, in our minds, in strained silences, whispered resentments, and unspoken expectations. Family ties strain over money, pride, inheritance, and ambition. Friendships buckle; marriages wobble; trust is fragile, and often, it is broken. Societies mirror the same pattern- promises rise, optimism surges, and then falters again. Yet the question persists: are we truly the rational animals we claim to be, or creatures still guided by fear, impulse, and survival instinct?

Television and social media do more than report disorder; they amplify it. They compress distance and time until every crisis feels immediate, personal, and overwhelming. Panic spreads faster than verification and outrage becomes habit. Reason often arrives late, if at all, leaving the world in what feels like a permanent state of tension.

Even religion, imagined as a sanctuary of calm, is not immune. Movements founded on unity stumble over power struggles, ego, and interpretation. Institutions built to heal sometimes divide. Faith, for all its beauty, has always carried seeds of human conflict.

This is not about right or wrong- It is not about blame or justice-:It is about rhythm. History rarely moves in straight lines. Peace appears, then pauses, retreats, and eventually returns. Order forms, it cracks and then reforms. The pattern repeats, stubborn and relentless. And one truth emerges:

“CHAOS ISN’T THE EXCEPTION — IT’S THE RULE.”

We can sit with fingers and toes crossed, hoping the storm will pass. We can tell ourselves relief is just one election, one agreement, or one miracle away, but hope alone is not a strategy. Experience shows the storm is not passing through; it is home , and if that feels bleak- there is always one enduring human habit to fall back on: blame. When all else fails, we can always blame Santa.

So how do we live in this world? 

Not by waiting for perfection, but by learning to manage imperfection. Strength lies in adaptation, and calm grows from discipline. We focus on what we can influence, and release what we cannot. We build resilience in ourselves, our habits, and our relationships.

And here is the uplifting truth: within the turbulence, life is still rich, full of connection, joy, love, and purpose. We cannot stop the storm, but we can stand firm, adapt, and find learn to live honest lives.

“The storm may rage, but human resilience shines—we keep moving, adapt, and find our own calm amid the chaos.”

Expecting chaos to disappear is like asking the ocean to stand still. It will not. But that does not mean we are powerless- That is not despair-:That is clarity. 

And in that clarity lies courage: the courage to live fully, to cherish moments of calm, and to thrive despite the storm

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EVERYONE HAS A STORY
Moments That Mattered, Echoes You Didn’t Hear

Life writes its stories in the moments we least expect—in the twists, the falls, the quiet turns that shape who we are, leaving imprints that are nearly invisible at first, only revealing themselves when we pause, when we look back.

As 2025 winds down, take a moment and ask yourself—did this year lift you to dizzying highs, drag you through unseen lows, or drift quietly, leaving subtle echoes behind? Was it harsh, gentle, or somewhere in between?

Pause-  Reflect - Wonder.

Take a few moments to recall the laughter that buoyed you, the challenges that weighed you down, the love that filled your heart ,  the victories that passed unnoticed, and the tears no one saw, for every life carries peaks and valleys, hidden struggles, fleeting triumphs—and every story matters.

For me, this year has been quietly hopeful, filled with small victories, fleeting joys, a deeper sense of fulfillment in work, richer connections with loved ones, and vivid reminders of God’s presence, guiding me through light and shadow, and filling each moment with quiet gratitude.

Isn’t that the story of most of us—different paths, yet the same journey: fragile, fleeting, miraculous, a passage of joys, lessons, and quiet revelations?

Life traces its graph—peaks of joy that spark like sunlight on water, stretches of calm that hum beneath the surface, sudden plunges, moments when hope seems almost invisible—and yet, just when the world feels overbearing , tight and confining, we turn a corner and life surprises us.

Some journeyed the bustling highways, others wandered the quiet roads less traveled; some walked with the influential, others with the humble- and yes, some of us navigated it all like rush-hour traffic—unexpected jams, sudden detours, and the occasional “how did I even get here?”

Every step, every encounter wove its thread into the story of our year, and even the darkest valleys carried the seeds of new beginnings.

Some were broken, some reborn -  Some bore losses too heavy for words, while others were struck by fortune, sudden and brilliant as lightning. Weddings opened doors, deaths closed worlds, new life arrived—tiny, miraculous—reminding us that hope endures. Friendships were forged in laughter and struggle, love blossomed in quiet corners, and life, in its subtle arithmetic, added, subtracted, multiplied, and divided—leaving imprints we may only recognize later. Yet through it all, many carried on—bravely, quietly, unseen—because life demands it.

Life is remarkable, full of small miracles and countless reasons for gratitude, though it could always be harder. And yet, we often rush past the blessings we already hold, restless for more, forgetting to marvel at the extraordinary gift of simply being alive.

In these final days, the year’s imprint is visible in everyone we meet. Families gather, friends reach out, communities carry both joy and grief. Some feel the absence of those who have left, while others celebrate beginnings that transform lives. Behind every gaze is a hidden story, a life etched with beauty and pain, resilience and wonder—a story we will never wholly know.

If you notice carefully- there is a quiet, unhurried rhythm in the turning of the year. The past hums softly, the future glows faintly, the present grows tender, ready for reflection. It reminds us to look at one another with deeper compassion, to see the storms no one speaks of, the triumphs left uncelebrated. Empathy, understanding, quiet connection—these are among the most profound gifts we can give and receive.

As this year folds into memory and another rises on the horizon, may we carry gentleness, patience, and room for the untold stories around us.

 

Resilience, Gratitude, and the Journey Forward

 Resilience, Gratitude, and the Journey Forward

Opportunities don’t just come to you—you have to make them happen. Every challenge can teach you something, every choice is a step toward your goals, and the people you meet along the way can leave a mark on how you think and act.

I was born and educated in Allahabad, where I also had my first job. Starting young, full of energy and eagerness, meant I made mistakes—but each one taught me something. Those early lessons in discipline, focus, and perseverance became the foundation for everything that followed.

Later, I moved to Pune, a transformative chapter that shaped both my professional and personal growth. It wasn’t always smooth sailing, and the waves were often choppy, but each challenge taught me to adapt, keep moving, and make the most of every opportunity. Six years into my time there, I stepped into a leadership role for the first time. Suddenly, I was guiding colleagues who had almost as much professional experience as I had life. That period tested my ability to earn respect, make decisions, and grow as a leader, teaching me resilience, humility, and how to lead effectively. It was a clear reminder that leadership is not about age or tenure—it’s about insight, integrity, and the willingness to learn alongside your team.

For almost 25 years, I’ve been in the UAE, a land brimming with both opportunities and challenges. Every single day requires focus, strategy, and deliberate action. It demands knowing your priorities, making choices that translate ideas into tangible results, seizing every opportunity to learn, and constantly keeping the bigger picture in view while navigating the fast-paced, dynamic environment around you.

Family and loved ones provide grounding. Their support offers perspective, stability, and a reminder of what truly matters—beyond titles, milestones, or achievements.

I’ve also learned to read people and situations carefully. Not everyone who smiles is your ally, and not every serious expression signals opposition. Sometimes the smartest move is to stay silent, observe, and choose your battles wisely. Being proactive rather than reactive allows us to stay focused and in control as we navigate life’s journey.

Gratitude has become a guiding principle in my life. It reminds me to notice the support I receive, act on it, and extend it to others whenever possible. Small acts of guidance or kindness ripple farther than we imagine, giving every effort greater meaning and every success deeper significance.

No one achieves success alone. Every milestone rests on countless unseen contributions. True growth isn’t just about what we accomplish for ourselves—it’s about the difference we make for others. Embrace the journey fully: take responsibility for your path, pursue your goals with courage and clarity, work smart, act decisively, and lift those around you.

Every challenge you face is an opportunity to grow stronger. Every decision, no matter how small, can move you closer to your dreams. Every act of kindness, guidance, or support can ripple far beyond what you imagine.

So move forward with purpose, resilience, and gratitude. Celebrate your achievements, learn from your setbacks, and never stop striving to make a meaningful impact. That is how we grow, thrive, and leave a lasting mark—not just on our own lives, but on the world around us.

Here’s to courage, focus, and the relentless pursuit of growth—in this year, and every year to come.

Winter holidays in Allahabad

 Frost, Festivities, and Family: Allahabad’s Magical Winters

As a schoolboy growing up in Allahabad, the winter holidays were pure magic. Around Christmas, North India was usually in the grip of a cold wave—foggy mornings, drizzle that made clothes cling stubbornly, and icy winds that made every fire, every steaming cup of chai, and every warm kitchen feel like a small miracle. Life in the Railway Colony slowed down, shifting to the rhythm of anticipation. Schoolbooks were temporarily forgotten, streets became playgrounds, and every corner hummed with excitement for Christmas. Everyone walked around in layers—thermals, cardigans, coats, scarves wound like tourniquets, and the legendary monkey cap perched like a crown. We didn’t bother with matching gloves—any pair that kept our hands warm would do.

The streets were alive with bonfires. Groups huddled around them, warming hands, gossiping, and complaining about the cold as if it were a personal enemy. Tea stalls overflowed with crowds slurping steaming hot chai, while at home in the colony, tea and pakoras, sweets, and salted meat were practically mandatory. Hot food never tasted better—winter made even the simplest fry-up divine.

Music blared from houses—carols, Bollywood hits, pop songs you couldn’t name—and nobody cared about volume or harmony. Friends and relatives dropped in at any hour, unannounced and uninvited, often staying until late. Spot us outside? “Chalo, let’s go inside for tea.” And in they came.

The ladies’ tailors stitched clothes at home, always secretive, hiding their work from prying neighbours. Shops roared with business in Civil Lines, Chowk Market, and Katra Market—material shops, toy shops, bakeries—all packed with shoppers, bargaining, laughing, stocking up. Rickshaw-wallas pedalled through the streets in Santa hats and costumes, wobbling hilariously over puddles. Few people had cars; cycles, cycle rickshaws, and doolies made of wood and mesh were the main transport.

In the week before Christmas, the dhobi and cobbler were in huge demand. Everyone rushed to the dhobi to get clothes ironed, and the cobbler worked overtime, resoling and polishing shoes that would be proudly worn on Christmas Day. Unlike today, shoes were repaired and reused until they practically became family heirlooms.

At home, the kitchen became a warzone of sweets and snacks—shakarpara, namakpara, rose cookies, kulkuls, murukku, and salted meat—all competing for the title of “most devoured.” Dry fruits were chopped for the Christmas cake, filling the house with a smell that was December itself. Boys ran around hunting for branches to make Christmas trees, and those trees—well-decorated in each home with ornaments, tinsel, and twinkling lights—gave the colony a magical shimmer. One cousin inevitably got tangled in the tinsel, creating fits of laughter. Christmas cards arrived by the bagful—25 to 50 per family—and were proudly strung around the mantle piece, turning living rooms into glittering galleries of greetings.

Sometimes, family members arrived from hill stations, the UK, or Australia to spend Christmas in Allahabad. Their sudden appearance added excitement, laughter, and a touch of glamour, as cousins reunited, stories were swapped, and everyone tried to impress the visiting relatives with the best food, decorations, and festive cheer.

Of course, there was the must-do midnight Mass at every church. Despite the cold, drizzle, or mud underfoot, people trudged along on cycles, rickshaws, or just their legs, arriving to see candles flicker, bells ring, and the whole town united in music and cheer.

Christmas Day itself was a parade. The postman, telegram man, household helpers—all arrived to collect their goodie bags. Snacks disappeared as fast as they were fried. Evenings meant parties everywhere, music spilling through the colony, and club dances where adults attempted foxtrots and jives while children tried desperately to look grown-up.

The true highlight of Christmas Day was opening gifts. Almost every house had its own Santa—usually a willing uncle or elder brother—disguised with a hat, a fake beard, or a booming voice. The thrill, laughter, and sneaky attempts to peek at presents made it a day everyone remembered long after the last card was read or the last cookie eaten.

Christmas wasn’t just for Christians—it belonged to everyone. Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, Christians—all joined in, ate sweets, laughed, danced, and celebrated together. The whole town became a festival, bursting with joy, chaos, and warmth.

All small towns like Allahabad had very similar festive rhythms. Everybody knew everybody. Between Christmas and New Year, and well into early January, the wedding season kicked in. Invitations arrived in string-tied envelopes, and suddenly every street was a blur of music, lights, dancing, and enough food to feed a small army. Every wedding was another excuse for merriment, more snacks, more music, and, naturally, more mischief.

It was also a magical time, when friendships deepened, laughter was shared, and young romances quietly sparked in the festive air.

Those were fun times. Simple times. Good times.

The cold winds, hot chai, pakoras, salted meat, music, Christmas cards on the mantle, twinkling lights on well-decorated trees and houses, midnight Mass, doolies, rickshaws, fires on street corners, bustling tailors, cobblers, dhobis—all of it blended into a warm, sparkling tapestry. Most of all, it was the family gathered together, teasing, laughing, sharing stories, helping each other, eating, dancing, celebrating—every moment wrapped in love. Those winters were more than holidays; they were a reminder that life’s simplest joys—togetherness, laughter, and festive cheer—leave the deepest memories. 

That was the real magic of an Allahabad winter, and of every small town where the holidays meant hearts full of warmth, laughter, and love that lingered long after the season ended.

Camping

 Camping: The Luxury I Don’t Need

With the great weather in the UAE now, anybody and everybody is out camping. Cars loaded, convoys taking off—like cheerful desert expeditions marching proudly into the sand. It’s the winter holiday highlight. Lovely for them. Truly. But I’ll admire it from a distance… preferably from indoors.

Think back to your last camping trip… alright, maybe this hits harder if you’re under 40. As for me, I’ve earned the right to prefer comfort over chaos. A neck with dramatic tendencies, a back with strong opinions, and a digestive system that demands diplomacy do not pair well with “let’s sleep on rocks.” Camping and I follow entirely different life philosophies.

Sleeping on the ground? My back wheezes with laughter. Cold nights in a tent? My neck drafts a legal complaint. Food with a hint of grit? My digestion stages a walkout. Toilets? If the sales pitch begins with “just find a spot,” I’m already gone.

Big crowds? Hard pass. I’m a few-close-friends type of guy. And tents? Unless they’re tall enough to host a wedding, my claustrophobia will start rehearsing for a full dramatic performance. Please, don’t fence me in.

I sleep by 10 p.m., wake up rested, and avoid dirt, mosquitoes, and surprise back spasms. So enjoy your campfires and midnight owl concerts—I’ll be perfectly cozy at home, whispering with conviction: “Amen.

 No tents for me.

A Year Older, A Heart Fuller: Reflections on Joy, Purpose, and Life’s Journey

 A Year Older, A Heart Fuller: Reflections on Joy, Purpose, and Life’s Journey

On my birthday this year, I find myself reflecting on the journey so far and cherishing the people and moments that matter most. From a young age, I was curious, eager to explore, and ready to make the most of every opportunity. I was inspired by my mother — honest, hard-working, sincere, and always truthful. Watching her navigate life with integrity showed me that character, effort, and kindness matter more than circumstances. I even dreamed of becoming a priest — not out of a calling, but because I saw priests living comfortably, respected, and being called “Father” everywhere they went. I thought, “Why not me?” Life had other plans — and a better sense of humor.

Music became my first teacher. Playing drums, strumming the guitar, and singing taught me that joy isn’t something that happens by chance — it’s something you cultivate. Part-time gigs and small earnings showed me that music is both a delight and a teacher. Each rhythm and melody brought laughter, camaraderie, and freedom that made life vibrant.

Purpose naturally followed. Teaching became my calling. I took a small loan to pursue my studies, started as a young teacher, and over the decades moved into leadership — first as a headmaster, then principal, and later as a senior administrator and mentor. Purpose gave my work direction and meaning. Leadership is never a solo act. I’ve been fortunate to be surrounded by talented, committed people who made everything possible. I often joke that my teams made me look good — and they did. Watching those I mentored rise to senior leadership roles has been one of life’s greatest rewards. Over the years, I have taught thousands of pupils, many of whom are still in touch, which fills me with joy and a sense of continuity. Through talks, TED presentations, blogs, and newspaper articles, I’ve loved inspiring others to find their own path and purpose.

Even the small journeys along the way have been part of the adventure. As a teen I started commuting on a ladies’ cycle because that was all I had, then moved on to a second-hand gents’ bike, a scooter, and later a variety of cars. Now I enjoy the comfort and safety of my current vehicle — not bad for someone who started on two wheels meant for someone else!

Joy and purpose are amplified by gratitude. I notice small miracles: sunlight streaming through a window, the feel of earth in my garden, a cat purring on my lap, the sparkle in a grandchild’s eye, the comfort of reading the newspapers, or a conversation with a close friend. Faith reminds me that life itself is a gift, fleeting and precious. Family, a small circle of friends, simple pleasures, and visits to new countries are constant reminders of life’s richness.

I have often been told that I haven’t changed over the years — and I find myself thinking, why should I? The core of who I am, my values and passions, has always guided me.

Looking back, my life has been shaped not by inheritance but by choices — to work hard, play music, teach, mentor, inspire, laugh, and embrace opportunities. Hard work, commitment, and kindness have been my compass. Joy, purpose, and gratitude are threads woven together, creating a life rich in meaning and connection.

Learning never stops. Even now, I keep discovering new things — from reading and writing to observing the world and listening to those around me. Being in education has its advantages: youth surround you, their energy and curiosity constantly challenge and inspire you, keeping the mind young.

Life continues to surprise me. There are still songs to play, rides to enjoy, lessons to learn, laughter to share, and stories to tell. Yet living well demands seriousness: there are no shortcuts to growth. Strive, work hard and smart, be accountable, and deliver. Make a difference where you can, adapt to the world as it is, and accept that you can’t always have your way. Learn when to stand your ground and when to keep your peace. Embracing these lessons builds resilience, character, and the ability to contribute meaningfully to something greater than yourself.

A life well lived is one filled with joy, purpose, gratitude, and the people who matter most. To live fully is to embrace these gifts — and to leave the world a little better than you found it. That is my guide, my mission, and my gift.

Digital madness

 Digital Madness: When Sanity Takes a Holiday

Why do we keep watching videos we know are fake, ridiculous, and probably designed to melt our brains? These clips — you know the ones — are instantly recognizable as AI-generated, yet somehow wildly entertaining. Extra-large tigers pouncing on people. Midget lions leaping onto motorcycles and dragging riders into some digital abyss. Humans attempting “stunts” that start with a hint of the sublime and plunge straight into the absurd. Scenes so implausible they defy logic before your finger even reaches the “scroll” button. Reason clocked out early.

And the audio… oh, the audio. Screeches sharp enough to slice eardrums. Commentary that reads like it was typed by someone trapped in a basement with no oxygen. That hideous, hyena-like laughter — the kind that makes you want to toss your phone into the nearest river. These “creators,” if we can call them that, clearly have more time than sense. Any thinking human spots the fakeness instantly, yet the videos stride boldly across your feed, adding insult to injury with every pixel. Common sense kidnapped. Patience mildly electrocuted.

Each scroll is a fresh assault on sanity. Cars flipping in ways that would make physics file an official complaint. People surviving falls that would bury an elephant. Wild animals treating humans like props from a low-budget cartoon. You squint, groan, laugh, despair, and consider a digital detox — all in three seconds. Disgust, fascination, helpless laughter — pick your poison.

Sometimes, you pause to wonder: who are these people? What cosmic boredom birthed their creativity? And why, oh why, do they persist in making tigers look like stunt doubles for action movies no one asked for? Yet there you are, scrolling, eyes wide, half in disbelief, half in delight, knowing full well sanity has quietly taken an extended vacation. Humanity at its finest — absurd, relentless, and strangely compelling.

Congratulations, internet — welcome to the theatre of the absurd. Take a bow.

The Air Walk saga- My eight glorious paces of Ridiculousness

 The Air Walk Saga: My Eight Glorious Paces of Ridiculousness

Gravity, ageing knees, and a craze I had no business attempting.

Have you ever attempted something so ridiculous, so utterly absurd, that embarrassment was inevitable… and yet you couldn’t resist?

That, my friends, is how I found myself attempting the Air Walk — the mystical move where you drift in slow motion like a low-budget sci-fi hero, then — WHOOSH — break into a sprint as if someone yelled, “FINAL CALL FOR BOARDING!”

Naturally, I thought, How hard can it be?

First came mental rehearsal. In my head? Majestic. Weightless. Feather-in-the-breeze elegance. I even imagined a heroic soundtrack.

Then came sofa rehearsal. I sat there, mimicking the footwork. I looked like a confused pigeon. My cat glanced at me, then walked away, unimpressed.

Finally, bed rehearsal. Legs in the air, toes pointed, feeling oddly powerful. Thank goodness my wife and grandkids were downstairs — their expressions would have been legendary. I imagined their applause anyway, which made the effort feel cinematic.

Now, before you judge: I am old, but not yet ancient. I can walk unaided, jog a bit, even manage an energetic sprint. You get the drift. But extreme sporty stuff like AIR WALKING? That’s a different ball game. I had promised myself the days of reckless heroism were behind me — no more illusions of youthful bravado. Some things are best admired from a safe distance.

And yet, here I was. Every so often, a crazy thought strikes: Tonight — Air Walk. Adrenaline pumping. Silly, but thrilling. I slipped out quietly, like a secret agent on a ridiculous mission.

I slunk onto the little dead-end road near our place. Not a soul in sight. Perfect — my runway, my destiny.

The air was cool, carrying a gentle hush. A few stars shimmered above, shy against the city glow. Streetlights cast soft pools of light, and a wind rustled the leaves — as if the universe itself was holding its breath.

Then, like solemn critics in a front-row box, our two stray cats appeared. One perched on the curb, tail flicking, the other lounging in shadows. Their eyes followed me with unblinking attention — the only witnesses. My daughters and sons-in-law would have been spellbound. My wife? Possibly questioning all her life choices.

Deep breath… steady… and go.

Slow start. Check. Picked up the pace. Check. Limbs cooperating, Sketchers loyal, dignity mostly intact.

Then: the REAL DEAL.

Before you could say “Jackson” or “Elvis Presley,” I was AIR WALKING — eight glorious paces of pure ridiculousness. Muscles protesting, movements exaggerated, cats judging in solemn silence.

By the end… collapse in slow motion. Breathless. Gasping. Limbs flailing like a hero in a low-budget action scene. Muscles staging a full revolt. Utterly spent, yet undeniably legendary.

The only regret? I didn’t record it. No one will believe me. My colleagues might have muttered, “Is that really Mr Guzder?”

Calves tight. Knees sulking. Back threatening to resign.

And yet… for those eight glorious paces, I was weightless, ridiculous, and entirely, unapologetically alive. I was not just a senior citizen — I was a hero, a performer, a legend — if only in the solemn, judging eyes of two unimpressed cats.

The Air Walk is deceptive. It looks easy. It feels glorious. It humbles you. It mocks you. It leaves you questioning every life choice… while laughing at yourself harder than you have in years.

I may have promised myself no more illusions of bravado, no more reckless heroics. But for those eight absurd, glorious paces, I would do it all over again — slow motion, flailing, pride bruised, dignity optional… and loving every ridiculous second of it.

 

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Confidence: The Subtle Strength Behind Great Leadership

Confidence is the quiet engine behind every great leader — and it should be developed. A perfect example is the new UAE Student Council, a visionary initiative by UAE leadership. Sixteen students from diverse schools represent their peers, engage with authorities, and help shape education policy. Beyond giving students a voice, this council builds responsibility, critical thinking, and the confidence that forms the foundation of future leaders.

Confidence should be nurtured from an early age — a simple, everyday approach can make all the difference. Children grow more secure when they are allowed to try, make mistakes, and solve problems on their own — without constant checking or hovering. These little freedoms quietly build resilience and self-assurance, laying the foundation for confident future leaders. “We don’t raise children to succeed; we raise them to believe they can.”

Years ago, I worked with a colleague who reported directly to me, whose quiet confidence left a lasting impression. In meetings, I would suggest, and most people would nod politely. But he would gently suggest I might want to reconsider. No drama, no ego, just a calm nudge. The next morning, he’d smile warmly — almost apologetic for even speaking up — and ask whether I had thought about his perspective. His confidence wasn’t in proving himself right; it was in offering insight without insisting on it. He made it easy to think, not react — a rare gift in leadership.

Too often, we confuse confidence with ego or the need to always be right. True confidence shows up quietly — in the willingness to listen, rethink, and loosen our grip on our own ideas. Confident leaders smile easily, stay positive, make decisions decisively, and focus on solutions rather than blame — reflecting the solution-oriented spirit that drives the UAE and its people.

At its core, confidence is being secure enough not to feel threatened. Insecure leaders cling to every task, while confident leaders delegate boldly, trust others, and create space for new ideas to flourish. Empowering others multiplies impact. Over decades in education, I’ve seen colleagues who once sought reassurance grow into thoughtful leaders. Leadership done with confidence and generosity has a ripple effect across teams, schools, and communities.

Some of the UAE’s most admired leaders demonstrate how confidence and humility work together. They lead with conviction, moral clarity, and compassion — not to assert dominance, but to elevate others. Their example reminds us that leadership is not about being invincible; it’s about being secure enough to rethink, strong enough to lift others, and wise enough to know that the measure of leadership is how many you help rise to their full height.

Leadership is not about being the dominant voice. It’s about creating spaces where others feel safe to speak, grow, and lead themselves. The quiet, steady leaders — the ones who encourage, mentor, and trust — leave the deepest legacy.

 “Empowering others doesn’t diminish you — it multiplies their impact.”

So, the next time you think of confidence, keep it simple. Look past the bravado. Look for leaders who lift people up, make thinking easy, and turn potential into action. Confidence, once nurtured, is contagious — shaping not just individuals, but the society of tomorrow. 

In a nation that thrives on innovation, multicultural energy, and ambition, the leaders we cultivate today set the tone for a stronger, wiser, and more inclusive UAE

The year of the Family - Rediscovering the Art of Connection

 The Year of the Family: Rediscovering the Art of Connection

2026 has been designated as the UAE’s Year of the Family—a clear invitation to pause in our busy lives and rediscover what it means to truly see, listen, and connect with those closest to us. In a world overflowing with distractions—where devices constantly compete for our attention—we are often absorbed in screens, schedules, and concerns, leaving even those closest to us unnoticed.

Parents reading to children, cousins laughing together, grandparents guiding little hands in cooking or craft—these moments of presence are rare treasures, yet they strengthen bonds and shape family life. I remember my childhood as if it were yesterday, even though it was decades ago. Family meals were long, holidays and picnics brought everyone together, and parties were full of laughter. Board games or card games were evening rituals, complete with playful arguments over rules or points won and lost—charming memories that endure. Stories were shared, lessons learned, and values passed along naturally. Today, these traditions seem to be vanishing, making deliberate connection more important than ever.

“Will you pay attention? Can you focus for a moment? Are you truly listening?” Most of us heard such phrases countless times as children—at home, in school, even in church. Once, they were simple reminders to engage, and they immediately got us to refocus. Today, it feels almost revolutionary. Notifications ping, messages pile up, and social media never sleeps. If adults struggle to focus, how can children learn the skill? The irony is everywhere: at family dinners, birthday parties, or even clinic waiting rooms, people are so absorbed in devices that those beside them go unnoticed. Sometimes, even gestures of kindness carry the air of a facade, appearing sincere on the surface but lacking true engagement.

Teachers know this struggle well, repeating “pay attention” in tones ranging from playful to exasperated. Perhaps one day, it will appear in the dictionary as the phrase of the year—a reminder that attention is no longer trivial; it is essential. Teaching children, and reminding ourselves, to notice and engage fully is teaching them to live fully.

There is hope. In the UAE, the focus on family is deliberate and inspiring: the Year of the Family encourages households to slow down, reconnect, and celebrate bonds. Adults may miss a child’s proud grin or a sibling’s playful nudge—but small, deliberate acts of presence are powerful. We must make time—and make the effort. It is easy to say we are busy, yet where there is a will, there is a way. We owe this to our children and grandchildren. Around the world, families face similar challenges: they are pulled apart by distractions, distance, or competing demands. Choosing to pause, to be truly present in the moment, and to engage meaningfully is not just a personal act—it is a commitment to the continuity and strength of family bonds.

By putting down devices, noticing those around us, and listening with intent, we honour our families and reclaim the richness of life that too often slips by—because it is connection, not mere presence, that truly sustains us, strengthens our bonds, and shapes the world we live in.

The Leadership Secret Too Many Ignore: Kindness

 

The Leadership Secret Too Many Ignore: Kindness
How small acts of care can inspire, build trust, and leave a lasting legacy

When I was a schoolboy in Allahabad, three of my teachers gave extra math tuition to a few of us who could not afford it, asking for nothing in return, simply because they cared. Years later, a priest lent me a small but crucial sum to pursue my teacher training — another quiet act of generosity that made all the difference. These gestures left a mark far deeper than any prize, showing me how even the smallest acts of care can ripple through a life, shaping hope, character, and courage to keep moving forward.

Reflect for a moment. When was the last time someone showed you real kindness? When did you offer it yourself, without expecting anything in return? Even the simplest gesture can change the mood, the moment, or the course of a day.

As a working professional for over forty years, I’ve seen how kindness transforms people and communities — and how its absence quietly corrodes them. True leadership is not about asserting power. It is about listening, guiding, and inspiring through compassion. Arrogance, impatience, or harsh authority — even in clipped emails, curt words, or cold body language — erode trust, dampen morale, and alienate those around us. Leadership without kindness may secure short-term compliance, but it rarely earns loyalty, respect, or lasting influence.

Kindness appears in many forms: the words we speak or write, warmth in our tone, patience in our gestures, respect in our body language. It matters most when extended to those who may never repay us: the watchmen at the gate, lift operators, waiters, taxi drivers, or delivery riders who smooth our daily lives. These everyday, often invisible gestures reflect a society’s character, shaping culture and connection in ways we may never see.

Trust, goodwill, and the sense of community that help people work together grow when people, especially leaders, act with care. Ethics begins in recognising the humanity of others, even when they cannot reciprocate. Kindness is not optional; it is foundational to morality, leadership, and social cohesion.

Around the world, kindness is increasingly recognised as a driver of progress. Societies that cultivate empathy flourish. The UAE offers a striking example: respect, courtesy, and consideration are woven into daily life, creating communities where people feel valued. Leadership here, visible or subtle, often reflects a principle that care matters as much as competence.

In a world that is fast, divided, and distracted, kindness is not soft; it is essential. A thoughtful word, a sincere smile, a respectful gesture, or even a carefully considered message may seem small, but their impact is profound. Leaders who practise kindness do not weaken authority; they strengthen it. They balance accountability with empathy, firmness with humanity.

Imagine kindness as a public ethic — every classroom, office, and street corner carrying a quiet awareness that every person matters. That ambition need not exclude compassion. That innovation and ethics can go hand in hand. Workplaces would thrive. Communities would flourish. Trust, not fear, would define society.

Across continents and cultures, the lesson is clear: kindness is the most underrated leadership skill. In a world that often prizes speed, force, and results above all else, leading with care — in words, actions, gestures, and even brief messages — does more than achieve goals. It plants seeds of hope, nurtures hearts, and quietly shapes lives, leaving a legacy of warmth and humanity that outlives titles, accolades, and even time itself.

Take a moment to reflect, and let kindness guide your actions and nurture your capacity for care.

Nourished in Silence

 Nourished in Silence

Almost a year has passed since I planted you,

A slender sapling in this arid land.

No rain descends, yet I have nourished you,

Drop by patient drop, morning and evening.

I have watched your roots probe the thirsty soil,

Your tender leaves stretch slowly toward the sun,

Learning, with quiet resolve, to claim your place.

You braved the torrid summer, searing winds,

And now rise nine feet in measured triumph,

A living testament to care, patience, and endurance.

Sunlight dances upon your expanding leaves,

The desert breeze murmurs softly through your branches.

Sitting here this afternoon, I feel such joy,

Wondering how high your crown might rise, how deep your shade,

And even in harsh earth, hope endures,

For in steadfast tending, life takes root and flourishes.

A brilliant weekend until the bird arrived

 A Brilliant Weekend… Until the Bird Arrived

This morning felt different. It’s the weekend, the weather is finally cool and brilliant, and I woke up feeling unusually cheerful. The wife was still asleep, so I shuffled out — gracefully, for someone bordering on senile. Not quite Shakespeare’s “lean and slipper’d pantaloon” age, but certainly strolling in that direction.

I made myself a steaming cup of Lipton tea, my faithful favourite, and stepped into the garden like a man entering a private wellness retreat. I chose a comfortable chair and settled in, admiring the flowers and the trees we’d planted over the years. The air was so fresh it felt like I was inhaling premium-grade oxygen. Summer was finally behind us, and I told myself I should do this more often.

Yes, I missed the newspapers a bit, but I was already making plans for the day — sensible, age-appropriate plans. No, not ziplining across a canyon or hiking up a mountain or doing anything that involves signing a waiver. At my stage in life, excitement is gentler: giving my white shirts a proper wash, buying some plants, and maybe a few solar lights. Truly thrilling stuff.

And then came the moment of cosmic comedy.

A lone bird — one bird in the entire UAE, with billions of square metres of empty sky — decided to make me its chosen target. Why me? What was going through that tiny feathery mind? Did it hover above, weighing its options? “Palm tree? No. Wall? No. Wait… that man sipping tea with a cat at his feet — yes, him.”

My cat glanced up at me as if to say, “You do realise you’re sitting under the express lane?”

And then: plop — the bird deposited its droppings on me with sniper-level accuracy. Head and shoulder. A perfect strike.

Superstition insists this is good luck.

If so, I’m due for an extraordinary weekend — right after a long, soap-heavy shower.

AISLE SEATS, ANXIETY AND AIRPORTS

 AISLE SEATS, ANXIETY AND AIRPORTS - my tryst with Travel 

Living in the UAE makes it so easy to travel around the world. Non-stop flights, well-connected hubs, and short travel times mean the globe feels closer than ever. And yet, for me, the joy of travelling is complicated. 

When my wife suggested a short trip after Christmas, my stomach tightened. Everything connected with travel and airports unsettles me. I am no Christopher Columbus, no Ibn Battuta; I enjoy the destination but detest everything that precedes it. Flying doesn’t faze me—but ticket booking, baggage check, airport lights, and security scanners do.

There are three types of travellers: the audacious who live to travel, the ambitious who travel to live, and hapless mortals like me, who need a week of recovery after booking a ticket. Those demi-gods of the skies who casually drop, “I just flew in from Timbuktu via Belarus, didn’t even have time to shave,” deserve constellations named in their honour. Meanwhile, I prepare for a simple three-day trip as if it were a mission to Mars during monsoon season, complete with packing simulations, passport drills, frantic calculator sessions to check baggage weight, and mental rehearsals of surviving security scans without collapsing.

My Mumbai trip—a short three-and-a-half-hour flight—felt like a dramatic ordeal. Booking the ticket was a test of endurance. About 35 flight options appeared: 1-stop, 2-stop, 3-stop flights via strange countries—Nauru, Sri Lanka, Kyrgyzstan—essentially a world tour in the sky minus sightseeing but with all the nausea. The non-stop flights felt like VIPs hidden at the bottom of the list. When I finally reached them and began keying in my details, panic set in: did I spell my name correctly, enter the right passport number, type the date wrong, transpose numbers in my credit card? Every keystroke felt like walking a tightrope over lava. The verification code didn’t arrive. By the time I tried again, the fare had risen by three hundred rupees.

Packing was no less dramatic. Indecisive weighing scales, rebellious zippers, and a suitcase that mocked me made it feel like an obstacle course. I pack, unpack, reweigh obsessively, then prepare hand luggage: clothes in case the suitcase vanishes, passport, ticket, phone, chargers, pens, wallet, iPad, key ring, spare keys. I obsess over trivialities—what if the suit feels too warm, the shirt collar too tight, or I burn something while re-ironing? Extra unnecessary clothes are inevitable. Three pairs of cufflinks? Of course—what if one falls into the luggage abyss? The tiny locks and their keys always add more chaos.

Early morning flights make the night before dramatic. Two alarms are set, checked, rechecked, while I imagine a dozen catastrophic scenarios. Breakfast is avoided—two fried eggs and leftover vegetables could launch a digestive revolt. My wife is kind, supportive, and likes to act as if she’s a travel expert, yet she convinces our daughters that I am the reason our luggage is singled out for inspection. When we travel together, she mutters, “Just behave normally. Don’t talk unnecessarily,” as if my mere existence triggers chaos. She becomes a backstreet driver guiding me straight to the gallows, pointing at every pothole and danger along the way.

At the airport, static shocks from the trolley, serpentine queues, and check-in staff wielding more power over my happiness than anyone else greet me. My single wish is simple: an aisle seat. I always pay extra yet still fret I won’t get it. To add to the misery, I am horribly claustrophobic. I smile, project humility, and wait for the golden words—“Mr Guzder, I’ve given you an aisle.” Heaven opens.

Then comes passport control, the stage for all my anxieties. My name is always mispronounced—creatively, confidently, and with conviction—and I never look at the right light or camera. My mind races through catastrophic possibilities: What if my passport image is unrecognisable? What if the chip is damaged? What if a page is torn? What if someone with my name is wanted in Argentina? The officer studies me, the screen, me again. I am convinced a supervisor, a sniffer dog, and a small committee are about to appear. Only when the stamp is finally applied do I exhale with relief.

Security is no less nerve-wracking. I remove every metal object—watch, belt, coins, key ring, mobile, pens—emptying my personality into a tray. I hope they don’t ask me to remove my chain and pray my hand-luggage contains no rogue nail-cutter. Inevitably, my bag is pulled aside, my heart rate doubles, and I imagine someone has planted an explosive device inside. After a thorough check, they find nothing more dangerous than a camel-shaped key ring, a packet of coins, and a pen so blunt it couldn’t injure butter.

Finally, the flight itself is serene: food, drinks, the loo, and the aisle seat are all manageable. At my destination, I repeat the ritual in reverse—passport control, luggage scan, hand-luggage inspection, endless questions—while trying not to burst from nerves or bladder pressure. Stepping outside into the fresh air, I realise I have survived once more, ready to endure it all again the next time someone casually says, “Let’s take a short trip after Christmas'

Our world is out of Balance

 Our World Is Out of Balance — But Not Beyond Repair

The rhythm of life may have faltered, but harmony is still within reach.

We seem to have lost — or be losing — our rhythm, as if life itself is out of step. The world moves faster, louder, and brighter than ever before, yet something still feels unsettled. We are connected across continents but often disconnected from ourselves, flooded with information yet starved of understanding. The quiet pulse of everyday balance is now something we have to consciously reclaim.

Look at our lives. Our days begin with a phone in hand and end with a weary scroll through headlines that blur together, and everything is about more: more speed, more noise, more choice. We rush to keep up — with news, trends, and each other — and in the process often forget what we’re actually chasing.

 We call it progress, even when it sometimes feels like motion without direction. Reflection, that old-fashioned pause between thought and action, has been replaced by the constant urge to respond, to post, to prove ourselves. The quiet space to think has almost vanished.

And this rush spills over into how we look at the world. Everyone seems to be talking about how the planet is going to hell — or whatever the latest phrase happens to be — yet there is endless talk and very little follow-through. We hold panels, post slogans, shake our heads at disasters, and then slip back into comfort, leaving the Earth, like ourselves, overstimulated and under-rested.

 Nature once taught us balance through tides and seasons, but we have stopped listening. And noticing this imbalance makes it impossible not to see that it extends into the way we live together in society.

Society, too, feels off balance. Conversation has become competition, opinion has replaced understanding, and outrage travels faster than empathy. We’ve become experts at reacting and amateurs at reflecting. 

There was a time when disagreement could coexist with respect, yet now it often serves as another reason to shout. We are louder but lonelier, more visible but less truly seen. The way we interact in society mirrors the way we live our personal lives — rushing and reacting without pause, almost as if we are afraid to stop. Society itself feels like a swinging pendulum, moving between outrage and indifference, volume and silence, never quite settling into reason.

Our personal scales are equally uneven. They tilt like a see-saw, as we work harder to earn more, fill our days with tasks, and measure our moments, rarely pausing to find equilibrium. The pursuit of success feels like a high-wire act — precarious and exhausting — and even leisure has become a performance, with steps counted, moments measured, and achievements displayed. While we live in an age of efficiency, we are perpetually short of time. And while we look to technology for a solution, it often adds to the imbalance instead of fixing it.

Technology connects and simplifies, yes, but it also distracts and consumes. The human touch — conversation, laughter, eye contact — now competes with screens for attention. We are surrounded by clever machines that can do almost everything except make us feel whole. And beyond all of this, there is a shortage of courage, because the world can do without bullies and cowards. What it desperately needs are people willing to stand up, speak honestly, and act decently even when no one is watching — those who understand that balance isn’t about staying neutral, but about knowing where to stand and having the strength and grace to hold that ground.

The world may not slow down. Still, we can move through it with a little more awareness, a little more kindness, and a renewed sense of proportion. Every time we pause to listen, to laugh, to care, we tilt the scales back toward harmony. 

The clock is ticking — though not the doomsday clock so many like to warn us about — just the rhythm of life nudging us to pay attention, reminding us that balance was never lost; it has only been waiting for us to find our footing again.

Harding hall memories - REVISITED

 Harding Hall Nostalgia

– Can We Ever Forget It?

Which Bishopite wouldn’t remember Harding Hall, named after the then Bishop of Bombay, John Harding, and associate some memory with it?

From its small, timeworn walls, seemingly made of rocks, to the echo of footsteps and laughter, Harding Hall has been at the heart of Bishops, one of India’s oldest boarding schools, established in 1864.

Every boarder, teacher, and visitor left a trace—memories of assemblies, Prize Days, socials, and quiet, reflective moments—that still linger.

Adjoining the office and the basketball court, Harding Hall was an impressive building, standing as a silent witness to decades of school life.

In 1981, when I first joined Bishops, I rushed to the Principal’s bungalow and found Mr. Roberts, the towering figure of Bishops, having breakfast. Known for his impeccable discipline, fairness, and sharp wit, he commanded instant respect from both staff and boys alike. Yet beneath his formidable presence was a warm, thoughtful man who genuinely cared for the school and its students.

I also met Mrs. Roberts very briefly that morning. She was gentle, motherly, and quietly efficient, directing Harry to bring tea and biscuits with a soft smile. As Head of the Primary Section, she was deeply respected and well loved by both pupils and staff. Her calm, reassuring presence added warmth to the bustling bungalow, a perfect complement to Mr. Roberts’ commanding stature.

I was offered steaming tea and home-baked biscuits at the dining table by his butler, Harry—a quiet, short, white-haired man whose warmth and dedication were unmistakable. Men like Harry were part of the living legacy of many old boarding schools, often followed by sons and grandsons continuing their work. Harry’s silent presence, carrying tea or a tray of biscuits, held generations together with warmth that needed no words.

After this brief pause, Mr. Roberts took me to Harding Hall. In about 30 minutes, he shared the essence of the school, walking me through the hall and pointing out its treasures. It felt like traveling through the soul of Bishops—years of achievements, memories, and traditions captured in honours boards, photographs, and memorabilia.Honours boards displayed the names of Head Boys, Captains of Games, and ISC/ICSE toppers. Photographs, some decades old, captured school groups, class groups, and sports teams.

Many faces I once knew have since passed on. Photographs of former Principals, including the legendary Mr. Lunn, graced the walls—beloved by generations of boys for his fairness, wit, and quiet wisdom. His presence was iconic, and even decades later, alumni still remember his warm guidance and the respect he commanded without ever needing to raise his voice.

I often wonder how much of the memorabilia—the photographs, shields, and flags—has been preserved. Hopefully it has not been discarded. Perhaps a dedicated room in the new building would allow alumni to revisit the legacy—a suggestion I have made before.

When I became Headmaster in 1987, one of my first tasks was restoring old frames and photographs, carefully reinstalling them on the boards, and creating a board listing all Principals over the years. Old flags, carefully framed, reminded us of the school’s proud heritage.

The small stage witnessed boarders setting up panels and curtains for Prize Day and handling sound and lights. Their dedication became part of the school spirit.Prize Days were among the biggest events. The maroon blazers glistened under the morning light as boys walked proudly across the stage to receive awards—some of which were over a century old. I still remember the glint in a boy’s eyes when he received the Gentlemanly Qualities cup, weathered by a century but shining brighter than ever in that moment.

Assemblies took place every morning. Boys trooped in, masters lined the sides, and Mr. Roberts would often arrive five to ten minutes after the boys had settled, his black gown flapping slightly as he walked in. The moment he entered, there was pin-drop silence, a mix of awe and respect filling the hall. The routine—a Bible reading, prayer, hymn accompanied by the grand piano, and announcements from the large red register—was familiar. Staff quaked if Mr. Roberts was in a foul mood. And the boys? Some cast furtive glances to St. Mary’s Hall next door, hoping—usually in vain—to spot some girls. Even the bravest staff felt the weight of his presence, yet all who knew him remembered his fairness, integrity, and unwavering commitment to the school’s values.

Harding Hall was lively for sports too. Table tennis and badminton were played with enthusiasm, the hall buzzing between assemblies, exams, and other functions.

It was a place of both discipline and delight—a hall where serious learning and playful energy coexisted.During Founders Week, when old boys returned, Harding Hall had a magnetic charm. Many made a beeline for the hall, tracing the honours boards, pausing at photographs, and quietly recalling their own school days. Old boys made a beeline for Harding Hall, hands tracing the honours boards, eyes lingering on decades-old photographs, hearts full of nostalgia.

Harding Hall also had a mischievous reputation—Mark Reading Day. Bright students enjoyed it; weaker ones dreaded it when Mr. Roberts read their marks, scolding them for wasting their parents’ money. Yet it worked—failures were few. Every time the roll number was called, hearts raced—fear and pride mingled in the air like electricity.ICSE examinations were conducted here as well. Desks were arranged meticulously, boys lined up outside, walked in silently, and took their places—a scene of disciplined anticipation.

And then there was the Social with St. Helenas—the heartbeat of the school year. The Social was more than a dance—it was a universe of music, laughter, and fleeting romances. For one night, Harding Hall transformed into a universe of music, laughter, and fleeting romances. Nervous glances, polished shoes, last-minute adjustments of ties and dresses, and the scent of excitement lingering in the hall created memories that lasted a lifetime.

I worked at Bishops from 1981 to 2001—as a teacher, housemaster, dormitory in-charge, and eventually the first Headmaster. There were First Assistant Masters before me, but I was the first to hold the title of Headmaster—how many of you know that? That too is part of the school’s history.

Those were glorious years of teaching, learning, and growing.Harding Hall was more than a building. It was a repository of memories, achievements, and emotions. Prize Days, assemblies, exams, mark readings, socials, sports, and countless routines—everything passed through that hall, leaving echoes of laughter, discipline, and learning.

The honours boards and photographs weren’t just decorations—they were storytellers. Each name, each image, whispered tales of triumph, laughter, and sometimes mischief. And quietly moving through the hall with trays of tea or warm smiles, Harry and the other staff were the invisible threads holding generations together.

Harding Hall, akin to a heritage structure, may have been pulled down for a modern building, but its memories remain vivid in the hearts of thousands of Bishopites. It lives on—not in bricks and mortar, but in the laughter, achievements, and spirit of those who walked its floors, including quiet, devoted souls like Harry, the gentle, motherly presence of Mrs. Roberts, and the countless alumni who carry its memories wherever they go.

Confusion personified

 Disclaimer -:A bit lengthy so only read if you have time. 

I’m not quite sure where to begin this story, but tell it I must. Have you ever been on a simple evening walk that suddenly turned absurdly confusing? That’s exactly how I felt one evening during one of my regular walks — an evening that was meant to be calm and restorative.

I’ve always been fairly fit — volleyball, badminton, table tennis, the gym — I’ve done them all. I’m not fat or podgy — at least that’s my opinion. According to my wife and daughters, however, I’m probably bordering on obese. They exaggerate, of course — purely to get me moving. So, I made my walks more regular, brisk, and determined, something my colleagues and I often discuss, comparing diets, gym routines, green smoothies, and walking habits.

Fitness is a frequent topic at work. Some colleagues are diet-conscious — green tea, salads, quinoa, kale smoothies, avocado toast, chia seeds, and other things I pretend to understand. Some are vegetarians, some meat-eaters, others vegan, and a few pescetarian (I’m not sure what that even is, but it sounds impressive). Some religiously take omega-3, protein shakes, or gluten-free snacks. Others are walkers like me, though they usually stroll elsewhere, living in various parts of the city. Then there are the yoga practitioners, gym-goers, and one dignified gent whose only identifiable habit is an impressive devotion to coffee at a regular café, reading and tapping away on his iPad; what else he does, I’m not sure. Some are slim, some like me — so I don’t particularly stand out.

It was during one of my evening walks by the lake, green and calm yet abuzz with dog walkers, joggers, strollers, cat feeders, and chattering maids (some letting dangerous-looking dogs pull on the leash), that I encountered a situation that would test all my good intentions.

A kindly-looking couple, clearly tourists, appeared. They seemed a little oldish, both wearing hats and masks. He carried a laptop, she had a camera. Masks made it even harder to decipher what they were saying, and I caught myself thinking, What if they’re infected? Every time I stepped back, they stepped forward.

They approached me with a question, seemingly searching for some place. She pointed to her watch, and that’s when I realised they needed directions.

At first, I couldn’t understand him — the accent and all. Then his wife joined in, and she was worse! They both spoke at once, words tumbling over each other in polite desperation. After about three attempts, I finally caught the word souq. Or did I? I thought he’d said soup. Suddenly I was nodding like a chef, recommending cafés, imagining bowls of steaming soup. SPRINGS SOUQ IT WAS — maybe they wanted soup there too. Life’s little confusions, served piping hot.

Meanwhile, they were smiling and bowing — she every time she spoke, he every time I replied. So naturally, I started bowing too. We must have looked like a slow-motion, strange, exotic dance troupe. It must have been quite a sight for those passing by! They looked Japanese somehow — and the bowing confirmed it. Unless they were just overzealous Chinese, Koreans, or Vietnamese. I’m not good at this, but it didn’t matter — they were polite and friendly.

I’d never seen them before, and I thought it was a strange place to get lost. I racked my brains — there are innumerable exits around the lake. The best one, I decided, was across the lake. But what landmark could I give?

“See that big tree? Go there and turn left,” I imagined saying. But what if they asked about a neem tree? Google Translate? No clue. Should I just make it up? Or take them in my car and drive them there?

I probably have a face that says, Let me help you. Maybe I look like a dignified gent who knows things — roads, directions, areas. Maybe I appear confident, though I’m far from it.

It happens often. Lost-looking people come straight to me, ignoring everyone else. I’m a magnet for confusion. Some people attract luck or love; I attract lost souls. I’ve sent people off in the wrong direction more than once, comforted by the fact that we’d never meet again.

Eventually, I asked a young man passing by to help. He did so with typical Gen Z bravado. I somehow felt he was overconfident — maybe he sent them the wrong way. Then again, I could be wrong. There is a villa nearby that has been vacant; I just hope Murphy’s law isn’t in play, and that they are not the new tenants — we saw someone shifting last evening.

As I continued my walk, I reflected on the absurdity, the small kindnesses, and the unpredictability of life. Sometimes we are lost, sometimes we are guides — often at the same time. We stumble, misstep, bow awkwardly, and yet life moves forward. Perhaps that is its quiet beauty: in the confusion and chaos, we find moments of connection, humor, and human kindness.

 And as I walked beside the calm, green lake, I realized that life, like my evening stroll, is a journey best taken one careful, imperfect step at a time.

When Birthday parties were simple

 

When Birthdays Were Simple: From Say Cheese to Selfie Please

A humorous look at childhood parties, family traditions, and how celebrations have changed in the UAE.

Childhood Parties: Simple, Small, and Full of Surprises

Remember your childhood birthday parties—the thrill of guests, the cake, the games, the laughter? Now imagine a simpler time—my birthdays as a child—small, homely affairs, full of surprises that seem quaint today. (Yes, I’m that old!)

Parties were held at home, with about fifteen friends and an adult nearby. They started at 4 pm on a Saturday, no matter the actual birthday. Friends arrived neatly dressed, on time, carrying gifts wrapped in shiny kite paper. Out came the box camera—“Say cheese!”

And the gifts! A “compendium of games” was a staple—Chinese Checkers, Ludo, Snakes and Ladders, and Chess, all in one box. Then there were cricket bats, tennis balls, badminton rackets, shirts, socks, and vests. I hated the clothes gifts—three white vests! Who on earth wanted that for a birthday? I remember, as a child, throwing them on the bed in a temper, calling the giver a fool. I was promptly chided. I probably wore one to school the next day.

The best gift I ever received was a carrom board. I played for years and became quite a champion. Once, my grandfather bought me an air gun. I came home thrilled—until my mother saw it. She nearly fainted. The gun was confiscated and “kept safely” until I was older. I never saw it again.

Games were the highlight—musical chairs, I Spy, Seven Tiles, Kings, and the khoi bag. For those unfamiliar, it was a paper bag stuffed with puffed rice, confetti, whistles, coins, and toys, tied to a fan or ceiling hook. When it burst, there was a wild scramble. I crawled on all fours, trying not to pick up anything, frustrated as friends collected it all.

The cake was usually baked at home. There were sandwiches, chips, patties, and plenty of orange squash—no ice for me, thanks to tonsillitis. By eight o’clock, the party was over. Everyone went home happy, and so did I.

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Birthday Parties for My Daughters

Fast forward a generation: when my daughters arrived, birthday parties had a very different rhythm. They joined in the planning, chose the themes, and insisted on printed invitations—about thirty guests. The cake came from a bakery, often shaped like a doll or castle. There were balloons, lights, and music from cassettes chosen days in advance. Adults sat indoors chatting while the children played on the terrace. There were return gifts, and the evening ended with dinner for close friends.

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Modern UAE Parties: Glamour, Gadgets, and Selfies

Today, in the UAE, parties have gone to another level. There are parties on dhows, in fancy resorts, or themed venues. Planning starts weeks in advance. Venues and DJs are booked. Stretch limos may arrive. Parents are often not invited. Clothes swing to extremes—either scruffy casual or head-to-toe designer labels.

Fast food and fizzy drinks flow freely. Cake is optional. Music is loud, tuneless, and impossible to dance to traditionally, yet the kids sway, spin, and perform acrobatics while glued to their phones—snapping, uploading, and livestreaming every moment.

Phones dominate every party. Candles barely blown out before every smile is snapped, filtered, and uploaded—duck faces, peace signs, sparkles… all in a race for likes. And what’s with pushing a person’s face into the cake? We didn’t do such things—it would have been unimaginable!

Gifts today are mostly PlayStations, electronics, or cash. Anything else would be met with polite horror. The munch—the endless snacks and treats—costs a small fortune.

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A Message to Parents

I don’t want to play spoil-sport—parties must be fun! But all this glamour comes at a price. Children often feel pressured to “compete” with friends, and parents aren’t immune. They don’t want to disappoint their kids, and the credit card bill is probably through the roof! Some children even feel left out or depressed if their party doesn’t measure up.

As parents, it’s worth pausing. Celebrations are meant to be joyful, not stressful. Focus on love, laughter, and togetherness. The gifts, the venue, the tech—they’re just icing on the cake.

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Looking Ahead

The contrast is striking: from small home parties with board games, homemade cakes, and family warmth, to orchestrated, high-tech, adult-free events. Yet the joy of being celebrated, the excitement of friends and gifts, and the laughter remain timeless.

Ten years from now? Fully virtual? Underwater? In augmented reality universes? I wouldn’t be surprised. But one thing, I hope, never changes: the sheer joy of being celebrated, surrounded by laughter and love.

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