And I'm feeling good

 Some mornings are a little more special than others . 

My self made tea tastes great .

My  energy levels may not be peaking but they are sufficient to get me  through to the weekend.

 Mentally,  I am  in a fairly good spot- not upbeat and singing from the rooftops but  good! 

 Professionaly , when I look back at a week, I have completed most of my  tasks and achieved what I had  set out to. 

My cat has condescendingly shown a little more affection than she normally does. She snuggled near my toes for about 30 minutes and for her and me , that's a lot. 

And I feel thankful and grateful within. 

It's probably the thought of the weekend round the corner too that's adding to the wellbeing.  

As a school boy , I waited for the weekend with its fun, games and high jinks ( not a common term I know).

I would breeze through my homework as quickly as possible, rush through the assigned chores, have a ' cat's lick' ( another uncommon term to confuse you ) , swallow down breakfast without a fuss and be out to play.

Cricket on the avenue road, marbles near by in anyone's garden, seven tiles, ' gulli danda' , caroms, ludo, snakes and ladders and other games. 

Often I would hear a war cry ' Michael' and rush back in irritation. It would be to run or cycle to the ' baniya ' to get something or the other. 

Back to the friends as quickly as possible. Luch would be golloped down( check the meaning) . I was always reminded ' have you washed your hands' !

Then more play. 

While adults had a snooze , we played, we cycled , we stole Guavas, mangoes and plums from neighbour's gardens and had a great time. 

As dusk fell, everyone made their way home . There was no TV - there was no phone. But there was so much to do and we were never bored.

Despite everything kids have today we often hear about kids being bored, depressed, angry, fed up with life, even suicidal. 

I guess it's a sad reflection of the times. 

So many of us just had the basics while growing up but we were happy.

A reflection on Leadership and Education

 A Reflection on Leadership, Innovation, and the Power of Simplicity

These famous words are attributed to Winston Churchill— “You can always count on people to do the right thing… after they’ve tried everything else.”

After many years in education and leadership—especially here in the UAE—I find that rings more true than ever. We live in a time of rapid change, where ideas, trends, and technologies spread faster than ever before. A school in Singapore introduces a mindfulness app, Finland drops homework, a company in Silicon Valley rethinks classrooms—and suddenly, everyone’s watching, adapting, and reacting.

Today, innovation isn’t optional—it’s essential. AI, digital tools, and new ways of thinking are reshaping how we live and learn. As educators and leaders, we must engage with these changes. The world is moving, and we must move with it.

But even as we embrace innovation, it’s worth reminding ourselves: education is about more than just tools and trends.

It’s about people.

It’s about relationships, clarity, consistency, and culture. And sometimes, in our eagerness to push forward, we risk losing sight of the basics that make schools work—simple communication, shared values, and a focus on what really matters for our pupils and staff.

I’ve seen schools thrive not because they chased every new idea, but because they knew what to hold on to. They used innovation wisely, grounded in their own context. They understood that too many layers, policies, and systems can lead to confusion—where no one is quite sure what the priorities are anymore.

We must also resist the temptation of change for the sake of change. That doesn't mean settling into complacency—because even when something is working brilliantly, if it becomes too predictable, it may appear stale. Pupils must be engaged, not just taught. We must get them thinking, speaking, questioning, challenging, and innovating. Education must remain dynamic—to a point. Not chaotic, not directionless—but alive, evolving, and responsive to the needs of our young people and the world they’re stepping into.

So perhaps the mantra, at times, should be: Get back to basics.

Not as a rejection of progress, but as a way to stay balanced. The best leaders, I believe, are those who know when to push forward—and when to pause. Who understand that doing fewer things well often brings more lasting impact than doing everything at once.

Eventually, we all find what works. But if we reflect more, and react less, maybe we can get there sooner—together, and with greater purpose.

As one wise educator once said:

Sensible education is not about choosing between tradition and innovation—it’s about knowing when to honour each.

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?