The Pause

 Where are you coming from? Where are you right now? And where do you want to go?

Three deceptively simple questions. And not the kind we ask during a job interview or while writing a personal statement—but the kind we should ask ourselves, deliberately and often. This is why 'THE PAUSE'  matters.

We live in an age of relentless motion and noise . The average person now spends over 6 hours a day on digital devices, often juggling multiple tasks at once. Teen anxiety rates have surged by 20% in the last decade, and burnout isn’t just a corporate phenomenon anymore—it’s showing up in classrooms, staff rooms, and even playgrounds. Everyone is trying to keep up—with deadlines, expectations, grades, bills, appearances, and the ever-shifting benchmark of “success.”

We usually wake up to alarms , check our phones before our feet hit the ground, hurry the children, hurry to school or work, run through meetings and classes, gulp down coffee, swallow meals, tick off lists—and somewhere in all of that, wonder if we’ve actually lived the day or just survived it.

Even rest feels performative now. Some look at it as time lost or wasted! We scroll endlessly, comparing our lives to curated highlight reels of others. Why aren’t we travelling the world and seeing places ? Why does everyone else seem so accomplished, so happy, so fit , so ahead? Why are we being left behind .

But the truth is—most of us have done far better than we give ourselves credit for. We’ve faced umpteen challenges. We've grown. We’ve overcome illness, loss, personal struggles, setbacks. We’ve shown up, day after day. And if we paused long enough, we might actually see that. The sad truth is - we don't !

I remember sitting in a school auditorium once, at the end of a long and exhausting week. The Annual prize day was round the corner, and we had just finished a rehearsal. The bell had rung, most people had left, and I just sat there, alone for a few minutes. No phone. No rush. Just silence - and I pondered my work and my life . That tiny moment of stillness brought surprising clarity. It’s often in those brief pauses—between classes, between meetings, between life’s big chapters—that the most important thoughts find their way in. For me they still do - I belong to the 5 am club, like many of you, - that's when I get most of my inspiration .

And that’s why taking a pause matters.

Not to escape, but to reconnect - to reflect- to be grateful - to take stock - to see the journey for what it is—not a race, but a series of moments, of choices, of small wins and quiet growth.

So, to everyone reading this: Make space for that very much needed 'PAUSE'

Not just once in a while, but as a regular habit. Step away from the chatter and the incessant noise. Reflect on your journey.

Ask yourself— Where have I come from? Where am I now? Where do I want to go next?

And perhaps more importantly— What truly matters to me now?

Because in the end, it’s not always about how far you go… It’s about knowing why you're going there at all.

The Button box

 The Button Box

There was an old button box at home when I was a boy, a tin that once held chocolates but had long since been repurposed for a more practical, if less glamorous, role. It was about eight inches by six, a bit dented at the corners, and the design on the lid was faded with age – I can’t recall if it once showed a festive scene or perhaps a swirl of flowers. In those days, tins like these had lives long after their original contents were devoured. They became repositories for bits and bobs, a silent witness to a household’s steady rhythm.

Inside this tin lay hundreds of buttons, a true kaleidoscope of shapes and hues. Black and brown seemed to dominate – the practical shades of men’s jackets and trousers – but there were flashes of brighter colours too, a deep maroon here, a sea green there, and the occasional ivory-white disc that must have once fastened the stiff cuff of a starched shirt. There were cloth buttons, round and tightly bound, the kind that might have adorned a smart winter coat; smooth, polished wooden buttons, perhaps cut from some hardy tree long ago; cool metal ones, with a faint patina of rust around the edges; and the more common plastic varieties, lighter, shinier, and far more willing to roll off the bed if you weren’t careful.

On hot, lazy summer afternoons in Allahabad, when the household settled into the stillness of an afternoon siesta, I would tip the contents of this box onto the large antique four-poster bed, its high, carved headboard standing sentinel as I played. I’d sit cross-legged, feeling the faint tickle of the bedspread under my legs, and lose myself in the tumbling, clinking flood of buttons. I arranged them in long, winding trains, then in neat, disciplined rows like armies on parade. Sometimes they became imaginary cities with little round homes and wide, open streets, the larger buttons serving as town squares. At other times, they took the shape of spirals and whorls, carefully laid out patterns that had no purpose beyond my quiet amusement.

I have often wondered where all those buttons came from. I can recall my aunt, seated by the window with her sewing basket, snipping buttons from old, worn-out clothes before consigning them to the rag bin. Perhaps that’s how this collection began – the careful salvaging of still-useful parts from garments past their prime, a small act of thrift in a more frugal era. Clothes back then had a different life cycle – they frayed, tore, and gradually wore out, and their buttons often outlived their threads, popping off unexpectedly and rolling into corners like tiny, round fugitives.

Do people still keep button boxes, I wonder? Today, shirts and coats come with spare buttons neatly sewn onto a hidden seam or tossed into a tiny plastic bag, which inevitably disappears just when needed. It’s a practical approach, but it lacks the romance, the slow accumulation of odd shapes and mismatched colours, each with a hint of mystery about the garment it once held together.

There is something reassuring about the idea of a button box, a small, clinking archive of the past, and perhaps that is why it lingers so clearly in my memory. It was a treasure chest of sorts, a child’s hoard of forgotten pieces, each one a tiny fragment of a life once lived and loved.

Musical nostalgia vs Modern mayhem

 Musical Nostalgia and Modern Mayhem

As a home-taught musician who grew up on the glorious sounds of the 60s, 70s, and 80s, I can’t help but feel that the quality of music has, by and large, taken a bit of a nosedive. I know, every generation has its sound, but bear with me. When I say ‘quality,’ I’m talking about those melodies that linger in the mind, those lyrics that stir the heart, and those rhythms that move the soul.

Some of my fondest memories are of playing in bands in Allahabad – grand dances at the Thornhill Club, the Fort, and the Army clubs, where the music pulsed through every wooden floorboard, echoing in the high ceilings. And then, of course, the big Christmas dances at Clarks Varanasi, where couples swayed to Elvis, Tom Jones, and rock ‘n’ roll pioneers.

Sing-along parties were a staple too – someone would grab a guitar, and before long, everyone would join in, singing classics like "Sweet Caroline", "Imagine", or "Hotel California". These songs still bring a room together today. Notice, they don’t sing rap or the heavily produced humbug of today’s music – these songs just aren’t singable.

Think about the legendary voices of those decades. Johnny Cash with his baritone, or the storytelling mastery of Kris Kristofferson. These are classics that endure because they speak to real life, heartbreak, and hard-won wisdom.

Then came the rock gods – The Rolling Stones, Led Zeppelin, The Beatles, Queen. Take Led Zeppelin’s "Stairway to Heaven" – a rite of passage for aspiring guitarists. Or Queen’s "Bohemian Rhapsody" – a six-minute operatic masterpiece.

Fast forward to today, and what do we get? Bands with names that sound like something you’d find in a hipster café – "Tame Impala", "Glass Animals", "Lemon Demon", and "Gorillaz". Or rappers with monikers like "Lil Uzi Vert" and "6ix9ine". What happened to names that at least sounded like musicians?

And then there’s the lyrics – the heart and soul of a song. Contrast these two lines:

"Imagine there’s no heaven, it’s easy if you try…" – John Lennon.

Versus…

"I got hot sauce in my bag, swag." – Beyoncé.

Or this one:

"We all live in a yellow submarine, yellow submarine." – The Beatles.

Now compare that to:

"Gucci gang, Gucci gang, Gucci gang..." – Lil Pump. Sing that 28 times !

Today we have a world where music is dominated by synthesizers and auto-tuned vocals. What used to be raw, organic music has been replaced with polished, artificial perfection. Even a mediocre singer can be auto tuned into sounding like a superstar. It’s become so easy that backing tracks are used to fill in what should be real live music.

So, here’s to the greats – the legends who gave us timeless music, powerful lyrics, and unforgettable melodies. May their songs forever echo in our hearts, even as we scroll past the latest inexplicably named viral sensation.

After all, as Bob Dylan once said, "The times, they are a-Changin’" – though I’m not sure he quite meant this.

Teach your children to pray

 Teach Your Children to Pray

Teach your children not to wait until they’re lost,

When life feels heavy, or they count the cost.

Not when their hearts are aching, filled with fear,

Or when the world seems cold and far from near.

In this busy journey, where all are in a race,

When everyone is busy, caught in time’s embrace,

Prayers often are the remedy they need—

They bring soft calm, and quiet hearts to lead.

Don’t wait for sickness, job loss, or despair,

For empty rooms, or moments hard to bear.

God is here now, in every simple day,

In laughter, love, and light that guides their way.

When morning breaks and sunlight warms their face,

When joy and peace are felt in every place,

That’s when to pray, to thank, to speak, to share—

No need for perfect words, just beautiful hearts laid bare.

And when they ask, remind them God knows best,

He hears their needs, and answers and often tests

Sometimes He gives what they have hoped and prayed,

And other times, He blesses in a way

That’s even better than what they could see,

A gift, a plan, a future meant to be.

So teach them not to wait until they’re tired,

Not to save their prayers for days uninspired.

Talk to God now, when joy is in their heart,

For He is near, and never far apart.

He listens, guides, and holds them through each storm,

With love that shapes and keeps their hearts so warm.

In every prayer, both quiet and sincere,

He answers, blesses, and draws them near.

Just smile and say WHAT

 Just smile and say ‘WHAT’!

I was listening to this interview with Mick Jagger last evening —someone asked him how he compared himself and the ‘Rolling Stones to the Beatles’. Now most people would have taken the bait, right? Not Mick. He just said, “They do what they want to do, and we do what we want to do—and that’s it. I don’t compare. We enjoy our music, and I guess they enjoy theirs” End of story. True rocker style answer for sure!

Except, of course, it wasn’t. The interviewer, itching for a headline, pressed on: “But who do you think is better at doing what they want to do?” And Mick, in all his glorious rock-star fashion, just looked at him and said: “What?” That “what” said it all—bemused, uninterested, maybe even a trifle annoyed.

And honestly, I get it. I’ve had it up to here with this obsession the world has with comparing everything—everyone—all the time. Why must there always be a competition? Why is every action, every milestone, every breath measured against someone else’s?

And it starts early. Painfully early. I’ve seen young parents- lovely people—locked in a subtle war over whose toddler walked first, talked first, sat on the potty first, rode a bicycle sooner, or got into some prestigious toddler yoga class. I mean, really? We’re benchmarking babies now. “Oh, my son’s doing phonics at 18 months.” “My daughter recites the periodic table backwards.” Congratulations!

Then they start school and things get worse. “What reading level is your child on?” “Which after-school program is she attending?” “Have you enrolled them in chess, ballet, robotics, advanced coding, and mindfulness?” “Is she on the ‘gifted and talented’ list yet?” And if your child is just… you know… being a child? Exploring, laughing, drawing blue dinosaurs with three heads and two tails- Then you’re clearly not doing enough, and you’re an awful parent.

Parenting today is strange and very different to when I grew up.  Today everyone’s child is in football, piano, and advanced math—at seven. One mum sighs, “She’s bored in class… already doing fractions for fun at home.” Right. Meanwhile, we all nod politely and quietly freak out that our kid still likes crayons and empty boxes to bang on.

It’s exhausting. Not just for the kids—but for all of us.

And we carry this utter nonsense into adulthood, don’t we? We compare houses, jobs, holidays, waistlines, watches, and of course, whose child is performing better in school, football, speech class, or ideally all three—preferably simultaneously. We cloak it all in polite language— “just curious” or “just proud”—but we all know what’s going on.

Even in the working world, this disease of comparison continues. Companies don’t just focus on their mission anymore.” No one seems to ask: ‘what do we want to do?”

Somewhere along the way, we lost the plot. We forgot that it’s okay—more than okay, in fact—to just do your own thing and do it well - To not be in a race - To not stare sideways all the time, constantly checking where others are.

Think about this - Why is it so hard to enjoy what we do, how we do it, without needing to “beat” someone else at it all the time. Frankly, I find it utterly nauseating. And more than that, I find it sad. We’ve robbed ourselves of the joy of simply doing something for its own sake, whether that’s parenting, painting, playing a guitar, or building a business.

So maybe, just maybe, we should all take a leaf out of Mick Jagger’s book. Let them do what they want to do. You do what you want to do. And do the best you can.

And if someone insists on asking, “But who’s better at it?”—just smile and say:

What?

The Bishop’s day scholars. Revised

 More Snippets – A Salute to the Day Scholars of Bishops, Pune

(After my earlier reflections on the boarders, I was promptly flooded with messages—some affectionate, others aggrieved, all quite persistent! One bold day scholar even threatened to travel to Dubai, family in tow, if I didn’t pay homage to his tribe. Well, my dear day scholar gentleman, this one’s for you. Cheers!)

Let me begin with a heartfelt apology. Dear Sirs—so many of you I remember, though not all by name. Age and memory are in a complex relationship now—not quite dementia, I assure you, but certainly a soft blur at the edges! Still, so many of your faces, voices, and mischiefs remain vivid in my mind.

I joined The Bishop’s School, Pune, in 1981 as Class Teacher of 5A. I was young, new to the rhythm of this remarkable school, and quickly discovered that in every class, there were always a few bright sparks who quietly ran the show. These were the day scholars—11-year-olds with startling maturity—who took charge of the attendance register, managed the monthly tallies, cleaned the blackboard, maintained classroom decorum, and even helped compile marksheets and report cards. Their efficiency often put adults to shame.

While the boarders, in all their rugged glory, ruled the sports fields with sweat and spirit, it was usually the day scholars who reigned supreme in the classroom. On the morning of the dreaded mark-reading, the boarders would shuffle into school, anxious and sleep-deprived, while the day scholars strode in, confident and cheerful, knowing they had little to fear.

I cannot mention the day scholars without recalling Khushru Minocherhomji, who returned to school as a football coach and gave back so much to the game and the boys. His presence uplifted the teams, and his passion was infectious.

In my many years overseeing Debating, Dramatics, and Elocution, I was astounded by the sheer talent the school housed—and much of it came from the day scholars. That said, let me also honour one unforgettable boarder who shone in the arts: Ken Ghosh—now a celebrated film director, producer, and scriptwriter. Even back then, his flair was evident.

The talent pool led me to form the Literary Club, selecting just 25 boys after a rigorous screening. Unsurprisingly, this elite group too was dominated by day scholars. Names flood my mind: Vidur Malhotra, Gopal Patwardhan, Nazir Tyrewala, Joydeep and Srideep Ganguly, Riyaz Bharucha, Youhan Doctor, Sajjid Chinoy, Zubin Patel, Vijay Menon, Umeed Kothawala, Krupal Shah, and the late Kurush Aga—each one a gem. With their brilliance, Bishops consistently triumphed at inter-school events. The Literary Club, held on Friday evenings, was pure joy—brimming with word games, wit, and laughter. That era felt golden.

It was Gopal Patwardhan and I who envisioned and launched the Patwardhan Debating Trophy, which, I’m told, continues to this day—still run by the Patwardhan family, and still regularly claimed by Bishops.

I could name many more day scholars who added so much to the life of the school—but then, this article would become a book! Still, two names spring readily to mind: Mark Choudhari and Govind Kanhere—very clever boys who consistently topped their respective classes.

Then came the Socials with St. Helena’s—our charming sister school. For many boys, it was the highlight of the year. Day scholars turned up in their smart new clothes, often looking positively swanky compared to the slightly more creased and frayed boarders. Some taught boarders how to dance, others learned themselves—awkwardly, clumsily, wonderfully. After the event, the day scholars lingered, hanging about with their boarder friends, chatting animatedly about which girls they fancied and who might’ve smiled at whom. I’ve heard whispers that a few of those innocent teenage crushes blossomed into proper romances, and even marriage. Who knows?

Now here's a detail that boarders will fondly—and perhaps hungrily—recall: day scholars almost always had more pocket money. They were, in many ways, the benevolent bankers of the school. Generous to a fault, many of them routinely treated their boarder friends to delights such as ‘India Ice Cream’—a culinary legend in its own right—Manji’s samosas, and all sorts of mysterious yet delicious fare from the school canteen, run with military efficiency by Terence Donahue, and occasionally assisted by Rudy Fox and the ever-reliable Mr. Torne. Whether it was a sticky kulfi, a packet of potato wafers, or a sweet bun that had clearly seen better days, everything tasted better when shared. And many boarders will agree—those treats weren't just snacks; they were acts of friendship, kindness, and quiet camaraderie.

Some of the boys’ parents were doctors at the nearby Command Hospital. Thanks to them, a number of us staff received free and generous medical care—consultations, medicines, even procedures. Dr. Deepankar Ganguly, father to two fine boys at Bishops, was one such benefactor.

Several families owned prominent businesses: The Serum Institute, Thermax, Weikfield, Eagle Flasks, and Sudarshan Chemicals. But what struck me most was their humility—parents treated faculty with warmth and respect, and the boys themselves blended into the school community like any other, never seeking special status.

Getting to school, though, was a theatre in itself. Some cycled in. Some were ferried by car, others by rickshaw—fifteen boys squeezed into a single auto, bags dangling, elbows out, laughter bubbling. Army and Air Force buses dropped off clusters of uniformed lads. And then came the monsoons—torrential, unpredictable. I remember days when school was cancelled abruptly. Yet, without messages, emails, or fuss, the day scholars simply turned around, drenched to the skin, and found their way home. No complaints. No drama. Just resilience.

One story stands out like a lightning flash.

It was Founders Day, and the PE Display was scheduled for 2 p.m. The skies were ominous—thick black clouds, rumbling thunder, newspaper warnings of precipitation. We advised caution. Mr. Roberts, our indomitable Principal, scoffed. “It will not rain,” he declared. That word cancel did not exist in his dictionary.

At 1:45 p.m., the stadium was a vision—flags fluttering, children in full whites, tiny tots in paper costumes ready for their drills, bands assembled, captains at attention. At 2:00 p.m. sharp, the command was given: “School! By the left, Quick March!”

Right then, the skies split open. The downpour was biblical. In minutes, the field was a giant puddle. Boys ran helter-skelter. Tiny ones cried as their crepe costumes disintegrated. Parents tried desperately to find their children amid chaos. Teachers became traffic marshals, counsellors, lifeguards. Umbrellas turned inside out, colours ran down cheeks, paper hats drooped. Yet, somehow, all the day scholars got home safely. And the next day? Not a single complaint. That, my friends, was the spirit of Bishops.

The school was a microcosm of India—boys of every religion, caste, and background. And what harmony we saw! Take Founders Week, which began with a solemn service at St. Mary’s Church next door. For over a century, the church stood proud—but the annual cleaning? That was Bishops' domain. Day scholars volunteered in droves—scrubbing pews, polishing brass, sweeping floors. Hindu, Muslim, Christian—it didn’t matter. It was their church, their school, their moment of pride.

Then came SUPW (Socially Useful Productive Work)—a cornerstone of the ICSE curriculum. Pulling down old sheds, clearing thorny fields, repairing furniture, cooking meals. Most day scholars chose to cook—and what feasts they created! Dishes laid out with tablecloths, cutlery, even garnishes. The boarders waited like hawks, swooping in the second the marks were awarded—often leaving the young chefs hungry but proud.

I left Bishops in 2001, but the bond has never broken. Whenever I visit Pune, I am met with open arms by old boys—now men with families, responsibilities, and memories. We laugh, we reminisce, we become boys again. Facebook and social media have made staying connected easier, but truth be told, the ties were never really severed.

Bishop’s  wasn’t just a school. It was, and remains, a living, breathing family.

Play up, Bishops. Never let your colours fall.

A letter to mum

 A Letter to Mum

"Those we love don't go away; they walk beside us every day."

I miss you, Mum — more than words can say.

Every single day, you’re in my thoughts and prayers.

When I dream of you, somehow, good things seem to follow. Maybe it’s true what they say — that where you are now, it’s a place of peace, light, and endless love. I hope it’s just as beautiful as we imagine: no pain, no sadness — only joy, and the quiet happiness you always deserved.

I find myself going back often to the early days, when life was simple but full.

The rickshaw rides to school — you bustling around, making sure I was ready: my uniform neat, my shoes polished, my books packed. You would remind me, "Do your homework well," "Have a bath and look clean and tidy," "Don’t be late."

Simple words, but packed with care and belief.

You taught me by your example — to be kind, to mind my words, to respect others.

"Speak no bad words," you said, and you lived it.

Character, you showed me, was far more important than anything else.

Helping with the housework was never an option; it was simply what we did. You believed in hard work and dignity — whether it was sweeping floors, folding laundry, or running small errands. I learned early that no task was beneath us, and no effort was ever wasted.

You worked so hard, Mum.

Sometimes taking up two jobs at once — managing the house, providing for me.

Not too much, never wasteful — but always enough, always just right.

Now I see what a sacrifice that truly was — and how silently you bore it all.

And then the day came when I left home to work in Pune.

Those long-distance phone calls feel so vivid even now — your voice, anxious and loving, cutting through the static.

"Can you hear me?" you would say again and again, until finally we could talk properly.

Each call was a reminder that no matter the distance, you were always with me.

Your visits to Pune, and later to Dubai, were gifts.

You brought the spirit of home with you — the familiar cooking, your laughter, your gentle chiding.

You stepped into my world with such grace, and I could see the pride in your eyes.

You were there at my wedding — radiant, proud, happy for me.

And when my daughters were born, you adored them.

You loved spending time with them — telling them stories, singing to them, gently fussing over their clothes and hair just like you once did for me.

They loved you just as deeply — their Nana, their safe place, their bundle of hugs and laughter.

I still see you with them — holding them close, laughing with them, teaching them little lessons in your soft, patient way.

Those memories are treasures now — precious, irreplaceable.

I remember the last time you left — sitting in a wheelchair at the airport, smiling and waving bravely, even though we both felt the weight of that goodbye.

Then came the fall, the hip injury, and the slow decline that no love or care could stop.

The end came too soon, and too hard.

You were irreplaceable — and you always will be.

But even now, you are with me.

In every act of kindness, in every effort to do better, in every quiet prayer whispered at the end of a long day — you are there.

You gave me a foundation built not on material things, but on love, values, strength, and humility.

I live by it every day.

And through me — and through your granddaughters — your spirit lives on.

You are, and always will be, right here with us.

With all my love, always,

Your son

Michael