Economy class

 Economy Class: Survival of the Fittest at 30,000 Feet

Air travel is a curious mix of anticipation, hope, and barely-contained anxiety. You check in, clear immigration, grab your duty-free goodies, and finally settle into your seat, whispering the same prayer: PLEASE GOD, let the seat next to me be empty—but if it isn’t, let it be someone friendly, tidy, and considerate.

Don’t judge me—just a little wish.

This was a short, three-hour flight in economy.

As I entered, a smiling air hostess welcomed me, and I caught a glimpse of the pilot, silently hoping for a smooth ride. She pointed me to my seat as passengers filed past: a gentleman juggling three carry-ons like a circus act, a tourist snapping selfies at every overhead locker, and a teen with headphones so loud they could wake the dead. I felt a trifle suffocated as the AC was yet to take effect, and the doors were about to close. The seat beside me appeared empty, and I breathed a brief sigh of relief.

But no—a family of three arrived, shattering any hopes of a quiet journey. A burly, scruffy husband with a beard and a T-shirt boldly proclaiming “TRY ME” strode in, followed by a wife who was quite the looker and smartly turned out in contrast to him (and I wondered what she saw in him) and their two-year-old boy. Mischievous would be putting it mildly—the child was more than a handful and certainly hungry. The wife scolded the child, the husband scolded the wife, and together they were a combustible couple. The cosmos, it seemed, was decidedly against me.

Once settled, the mother juggled bags, the father hoisted the stroller overhead, and the child fidgeted endlessly. I shrank into my aisle seat, watching the commotion teeter dangerously close to my laptop and duty-free goodies. The engines hummed, announcements echoed, passengers shifted—and then came the safety demonstration. The air hostesses moved with a mix of precision and awkwardness; their rehearsed gestures were endearing, and it always made me smile.

Economy class was truly a living, breathing organism, full of motion, noise, and human idiosyncrasies.

Throughout the flight, they kept crossing over to go to the washroom, take care of the child, or summon the air hostess for freebies—turning my aisle seat into a revolving door. I always take the aisle; claustrophobic, I need the tiny illusion of escape.

Meal time arrived with its usual theatrics: plastic trays balanced precariously, elbows jostling, and passengers trying to navigate food in thirty inches of space. The husband and wife both attempted to feed the child at the same time, resulting in a comical tug-of-war with a spoon. The boy, clearly unimpressed, grabbed at their trays, flung a morsel of chicken into the aisle, and then squealed triumphantly, launching into a full-throated wail, a sound so fearless and loud it seemed to challenge the very limits of altitude.

And then came the sneezing. The husband, wearing a mask, sneezed twice—and it was like an avalanche crashing through the cabin. Memories of COVID haunted me, but I could see he was otherwise fine. I tried to maintain composure, sipping my drink and silently thanking the universe that my laptop and duty-free treasures were still intact.

I reminded myself things could have been worse. Train travel in India—the jostling crowds, vendors climbing over my seat, luggage chaos, the smell of chai and spices, passengers perched everywhere—made economy class feel almost civilized: cramped, chaotic, mildly irritating, but manageable.

And yet, amid all this, there was something wonderfully human about it—a small community suspended in the sky, pretending to be comfortable, bound by turbulence, bad coffee, and reluctant tolerance.

Economy class isn’t just air travel. It’s humanity—compressed, tested, and still somehow enduring.

When life isn't fair

 

When Life Isn’t Fair: Lessons in Patience and Perseverance

We were raised on a beautiful story — but have you ever paused to consider what that story truly promised?

We were told that the world is fair, that people are kind, and that if we worked hard and played by the rules, life would reward us in equal measure. It was comforting to believe that goodness guarantees success — that effort is always noticed, that honesty always wins. We carried that story in our hearts for decades , expecting life to mirror it, only to discover that reality is often more complex.

Life does not always follow the story we were told. The field is rarely level, quiet efforts may go unnoticed, and good intentions do not always bring immediate recognition and that is frustrating .

Like many, I have faced setbacks. I was overlooked for promotions as a young man and sometimes ignored when convenient.

I didn’t have a fairy Godmother, a Godfather  pulling strings, nor any inheritance to fall back on— I started from scratch. Yet over time, steady effort, perseverance, a commitment to growth, continuous learning, and the encouragement of those around me have shown their worth. Recognition often comes late — better late than never — and in that waiting, we learn patience, resilience, and quiet strength. Through consistent effort and dedication, I have been fortunate to reach the pinnacle of my profession and to be rewarded in ways beyond what I could have ever imagined.

We cannot control how others act or how events unfold. What we can control is our own response. Stand firm when the winds shift, and maintain balance when the path is uneven. Life is not a sprint; it is a marathon — over different terrain, with hills, valleys, and unexpected turns. True strength is not about status; it is the ability to stay composed, gracious, and hopeful, even when circumstances are challenging.

Every challenge is a chance to grow. Hard work and integrity build character, even when rewards are delayed, and that character is its own reward.

Even in a world that can disappoint, we can find grounding in gratitude — for the people who stand by us, for small victories often overlooked, for the simple wonder of a new day. Gratitude restores perspective and gives us the strength to move forward with grace and purpose.

The story we were told as children was oh so beautiful — that goodness would always be rewarded. Life offers a subtler truth: more often than not we cannot always choose what happens, but we can choose how we meet it. And in that choice lies our strength, our grace, and our peace.

And so we rise — sometimes slowly, sometimes nervously and unsurely — not because life is fair, but because giving up is never an option for most of us . We have to succeed in order to live . We rise because there is still work to do, people who believe in us, and dreams that deserve another try. Every small step, every honest effort, counts for more than we know.

And in that steady rising, we find something far greater than success — we find our strength, our peace, and our purpose.

 

The wandering Geography of the Soul

 

The Wandering Geography of the Soul

“You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one.” — John Lennon

Do you dream — and truly remember what drifts through your mind when sleep takes you? Or do they vanish like morning mist, leaving only fragments — a colour, a sound, a fleeting feeling that seems both familiar and strange? Are they painted in vivid detail, whispered in shadow, or glimpsed in that twilight between memory and imagination? I dream often — vague, strange dreams that sometimes feel more real than waking life.

I have often found myself atop tall buildings, ledges, and hills — frozen, unsure how to descend, only to awaken in a cold sweat. I have spoken to strangers whose faces seemed half-remembered, boarded trains to nameless destinations, wandered through markets alive with colour, and soared above trees that glitter in morning light. In an hour, I have known terror and wonder, met those long departed, attended unseen meetings, and done the impossible — and it all felt real.

Sometimes, I find myself in Allahabad — wandering St. Joseph’s or The Boys’ High School, hearing bells and laughter, or strolling through Civil Lines, passing shops alive with colour and chatter. I pause, breathing in the smells and sounds, waiting to meet something lost but not forgotten. Often, these dreams bring people who have passed, their faces luminous, their presence quiet but unmistakable. The streets, the shops, the quiet stir of early morning — they pull me back. And in the same breath, they push me forward into another world.

From there, I drift to Pune. Bishop’s School rises before me, sunlight catching the windows as boys dart across the field. Even in serious moments, dreams wander into humour. I remember teaching Shakespeare, glancing at the boys — a few quietly daydreaming, one replaying a recent crush, another composing an ode to newfound love. I smiled. Even the Bard would have been amused.

Dreams are mysterious. I even have a book on dream interpretation, though it feels mostly generic. Still, the allure remains — trying to decode these nightly wanderings, knowing that the real meaning may lie only in the feeling of the dream itself.

Then, as if the world tilts, I am in Dubai — a city of glass and gold, humming with restless energy. I walk through school halls where the desert wind hums against tall windows. Familiar faces greet me — some from here, some from elsewhere. Allahabad merges with Sharjah, Pune with Dubai. Borders dissolve. Time folds. Memory and imagination entwine.

Through it all, there is movement — a quiet current carrying me from one life to another. Sometimes, I remember every detail: the sunlight on a classroom window, the laughter of a child, the scent of guavas by the river. Other times, the journey vanishes, leaving only a trace — a feeling, a sound, a whisper. Then, a song or a scent returns the dream — alive and complete.

There are dreams within dreams — layers folding inward — until I rise, uncertain of what is real. And then it occurs to me: all this wandering, these impossible journeys, these encounters, unfold in that secret realm where reason sleeps.

Perhaps dreams are the soul’s quiet pilgrimage — a nightly unbinding from the body, a silent voyage through time and memory, before returning in that single, sacred instant of morning. Dreams are not merely escapism; they are the soul’s subtle way of exploring, experimenting, and sometimes manifesting the worlds we long for.

And in that fragile moment between sleep and day, I linger — feeling the echo of all I have lived and loved, all I have feared and imagined. Perhaps both worlds are true, entwined like threads of the same tapestry. Perhaps each night, we do not merely dream — we remember, we wander, we live again, and glimpse, if only for a moment, the boundless possibilities of being 

The quiet power of respect

 

The Quiet Power of Respect: Leadership in Everyday Life

"Consideration for others is earned, not demanded."

Growing up in Allahabad, I learned early that genuine regard for others comes from actions, not status. My mother treated everyone — the postman, vegetable seller, neighbours, and the Ayah, milkman, dhobi, and rickshaw man — with the same warmth and dignity. Valuing others’ worth was a principle she lived daily, shaping both personal behaviour and the wider fabric of society.

Years later, in the UAE, her lessons came alive. I went to complete paperwork in an office late one evening. A local gentleman — the manager — stayed back to assist me. Polished yet genuine, patient yet unassuming, he calmly explained every detail. When it was done, he simply said, “I’m glad I could help.” That small gesture revealed a vital truth: empathy and courtesy are at the heart of character.

Leadership depends on treating people with dignity. Leaders who acknowledge the ideas, time, and individuality of every team member foster environments where people feel valued and motivated to excel. The most admired leaders invite dialogue, listen more than they speak, and see disagreement as an opportunity to learn.

"Give everyone a voice and act with empathy."

Civility matters in everyday life. In meetings, on calls, in queues, while driving, at the supermarket, or at home, patience and courtesy are essential. Cutting in line, speaking over colleagues, or dismissing opinions may seem small, but these actions erode trust. Granting others a voice, approaching them with understanding, and avoiding arrogance are simple ways to practice consideration. Even small acts, like being punctual and not keeping others waiting, demonstrate genuine regard for others.

Yet basic civility is increasingly overlooked. Society revolves around “I, me, and myself,” with entitlement replacing empathy. Road rage, supermarket impatience, shouting over colleagues, or assuming you are always “right” are all too common. Disregard for others is visible even among world leaders, broadcast for all to see. Sarcasm, caustic remarks, and shutting others down are becoming the norm. If those in power behave this way, what example are we setting for future generations?

"Good examples at home and school nurture empathy and responsibility."

Children guided to treat siblings, elders, and helpers with courtesy develop integrity and self-discipline. Balancing confidence with civility nurtures adults capable of humility, leadership, and genuine connection. Parents and educators must insist on decency — firm guidance, coupled with care, is not harsh; it is essential.

"Empathy costs nothing, yet its absence can unravel relationships."

Character is not measured by power or position. It is reflected in the dignity, empathy, and fairness we extend — at work, at home, and in daily life. Small, consistent acts of kindness strengthen relationships, build communities, and shape the leaders of tomorrow. They are the quiet force that can restore civility, humility, and humanity in a world increasingly focused on self.

"Leadership is shown by the dignity you give, not power you hold."

Racing Through Life

 

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Racing Through Life, Missing the Moments

I often find myself reflecting on whether we—adults and children alike—truly have the chance to enjoy life amidst schedules, screens, and endless deadlines. Life is not a 100-metre dash, and not everyone was born to shatter records or hoard accolades. While ambition and achievement matter, our obsession with success risks sprinting past the very life we are meant to inhabit.

A slow weekend morning feels almost subversive: tea steaming gently in a cup, newspapers scattered across the garden table, dew shimmering on the grass, and my cat stretching languidly in the sun, yawning with an air of complete entitlement. Today, I felt an irresistible urge to play my guitar—and I did—allowing the familiar, vibrant chords to resonate through the quiet and remind me that I still have the touch. As the music lingered, I thought of George Harrison’s words with The Beatles: "Here comes the sun, and I say, it’s all right," and I leaned back, letting time expand, unhurried, for once.

Life wasn’t always this frantic. Back then, time moved at a gentler pace: growing up in Allahabad, afternoons drifted at the speed of a ceiling fan—deliberate, measured, generous. Later, as a young teacher in Pune, evenings stretched into billiards games, idle chatter, and long-playing Beatles records, which we listened to from start to finish, without shuffle, skipping, or algorithms dictating the next track. Life contained pauses, silences, and the spaces between the notes, a luxury almost unimaginable today.

Now, everyone is perpetually in motion, rushing from one back-to-back meeting to the next, swallowing fast food in a single gulp, inhaling, devouring, wolfing it down like a competitive sport, while creases are etched across brows and bags swell beneath eyes that seldom see sunlight—all courtesy of our modern holy trinity: laptop, TV, phone. Pills are popped to offset ever-depleted energy, and umpteen cups of caffeinated drinks keep vitality dripping like IVs in hospitals. Even words are shortened to acronyms and emoji—but what are we doing with the time saved? Ask around: almost everyone is perpetually exhausted, stress has become a byword, and if you’re successful, you’re stressed. Something doesn’t click, and I don’t think I’m wrong.

Driving has ceased to be travel; it has become a high-stakes endurance event, horns blaring like war drums, airports transformed into conveyor belts of fatigue, and trains and planes hurtling along while passengers hurtle through inboxes, social media, and urgent group chats. The world itself has become a maelstrom of motion, frenzy, and minor panic; at this rate, I am left pondering the future—will our children one day commute via teleportation pods while simultaneously attending five meetings in zero gravity?

And, as if to taunt us, scientists say the Earth is literally spinning faster on its axis than before, shaving milliseconds off our days, perhaps explaining our obsession with “instant”: instant coffee, instant noodles, instant downloads, instant messaging, instant everything—except, ironically, instant serenity.

And while I sit—the old man I am—and ruminate, there are those already partly exhausted, partly disillusioned, who have accomplished! (Yes, joke intended.) Somewhere along the way, life became a checklist, and we forgot that joy cannot be ticked off.

Perfection has other dimensions. It is not only quantified by achievements, grades, or Instagram-worthy lives; it resides in laughter that leaves your ribs aching, lying back to watch cloud-animals drift across the sky, or listening to a child invent a game that makes perfect sense to them—these are the trophies that endure.

Don’t mistake me: I am not suggesting we abandon effort, discipline, or ambition—these are essential to growth and achievement. But as an educator, I see too often that ceaseless activity and a relentless chase for perfection do not equal learning, fulfillment, or true success. Excellence is measured not only by accomplishments, but by balance, presence, and the ability to savor life along the way.

Perhaps time hasn’t actually shortened; it is our relationship with it that has changed. Once, we lived life like an LP record: patient, deliberate, each song flowing seamlessly into the next. Now we live on shuffle, always clicking “next,” never hearing the tune through.

Here’s the truth: nobody remembers the “greatest person alive,” mainly because there never was one; what endures are the moments we gave, the time we shared, the laughter we sparked, the stillness we allowed ourselves to inhabit.

So stop sprinting. Step back. Slow down, and let life be measured not by checklists, screens, or accolades but by presence, by the ordinary joys we too often overlook; for if we do not recalibrate, we risk raising a generation that knows only frenzy, never pause, never the music between the notes, and then, one day, we may look around and realize that in our race for perfection, we have forgotten how to live

Reflections of a Shakespeare Amateur

 “Learning my lines, cracking my joints, and still stealing a laugh or two.”

Reflections of a Shakespearean Amateur: Still Learning, Still Laughing

It was 5 a.m., my early-morning cuppa in hand, pondering life, the universe, and the curious case of vanishing socks — profound questions, all of them. Outside, the world was still asleep, giving me a rare audience of one: me, my thoughts, and the slightly judgmental cat silently assessing my wisdom. Two timid tabbies mewed meekly outside, politely pleading for their morning snack, reminding me that even at 5 a.m., life has its small but persistent demands.

I’ve reached that wonderful age Shakespeare so memorably described in As You Like It as “the lean and slippered pantaloon, with spectacles on nose and pouch on side.” The Bard knew exactly what he was talking about — a stage of life rich in experience, occasionally creaky in the joints, and gloriously free of pretense. Just in case you’re wondering, yes — I’m still alert, decisive, and fully in command of my faculties. Muscles occasionally twinge, joints click and pop, but I take it in stride — proof that years add character, not limitations, and that even the most stubborn knees can occasionally offer a soliloquy of their own. I must admit, I’m a bit of a brat — I even Googled my name the other day and was pleasantly surprised at what I found! Apparently, I’m a teeny-weeny bit known, which I decided to enjoy without taking it too seriously.

Home is where life’s lessons hit hardest and funniest — and I’m happily outnumbered by the women in my life. Wife, daughters, granddaughters, even the cats — all demanding my attention in the best possible way. My two granddaughters think I’m hilarious — which, frankly, is the fan club I’ve always wanted. They laugh at my jokes with such conviction that I sometimes suspect they’d give me a standing ovation just for sneezing in rhythm. Between them and the rest of the household, I’ve learned humility, patience, and the art of surviving polite but relentless interrogation.

At work, the scene is much the same: teachers, principals, leadership teams — a dynamic, predominantly female environment that keeps me engaged, alert, and constantly learning. Leading six of the UAE’s largest schools sharpens the mind like nothing else, and the teaching profession has a unique way of keeping you young, no matter how many candles are on your cake. I laugh, I make others laugh, and I enjoy it — with clarity, intelligence, and perspective.

I’ve earned my applause, and it’s still very much there on a regular basis — but I take it with a smile, not as a measure of my worth. Over the years, I’ve commanded stages, delivered keynotes and TED Talks, and led leadership training sessions in many settings. I am passionate about writing for newspapers and my blog, and while I’m no social-media influencer, my presence online keeps me connected, curious, and fully engaged.

Running into former pupils worldwide, seeing their respect, intelligence, and achievements, reminds me that I must have done something of worth in the classroom over the years — and it fills me with genuine pride.

I’ve been in the spotlight in many forms — as a musician, a headmaster in Pune, a school principal, and now as the leader of six of the UAE’s largest schools. I still work hard, I still dress sharp, and I still laugh loud — often at myself. Life is enjoyable because I choose it to be; I believe it’s worth living, and that belief shapes the way I show up every day. I enjoy surprising people — including myself — and I’m grateful for the mix of work, family, humour, and reflection that keeps me fully engaged.

The younger me chased the world’s applause; the older me just wants to keep learning, laughing, and making the most of every curious, joyful, unpredictable twist life throws my way!

Please stop confusing us dear ladies

 Dear Ladies, Stop Confusing Us Gentlemen…We’re Trying!

From shoes to colours, sizes to cushions—how men survive the chaos.

Before I begin, let me say this: I love and admire the women in my life—my wife, my daughters, and all the incredible women around me. This is written in affectionate humour, celebrating your style, flair, and unmatched attention to detail. We were never in the picture because we can never match up ! 

Ladies, do you really have to make shoes, clothes, and colours so impossibly complicated—while laughing at us poor men?

Shoes, for instance. Men have three types: black, brown, and a pair or two of sneakers. Simple. Straightforward. Women? One might say, “I need nude kitten heels with a block heel, slingback strap, and faux suede.” To men, that sounds less like shoes and more like a puzzle.

Stilettos, wedges, platforms, kitten heels, pumps, peep-toes,  loafers, ballerinas, espadrilles, Mary Janes, gladiators, clogs, ankle boots, thigh-high boots, cowboy boots, combat boots, sneakers, trainers, mules, slides, flip-flops, sandals,  ballet flats, oxford shoes, moccasins, brogues, Chelsea boots, over-the-knee boots, court shoes, T-strap heels, chunky heels, wedge sneakers, wedges… if it can be worn—or fallen off—there’s a name for it.

And just when you think you’ve caught up, a new style appears. Like an invention no one saw coming.

Clothes are no easier. Men have shirts, trousers, shorts, a few suits, T-shirts, track pants—in boring colours like blue, grey, black, or white. Done. They hardly try clothes; maybe shoes if they’re in the mood. Women? Encyclopedia Britannica.

Blouses, camisoles, tunics, halter-necks, crop tops, tube tops, wrap tops, cardigans, shrugs, ponchos, capes.

Skirts: A-line, pencil, skater, mini, midi, maxi, pleated, tiered.

Trousers: leggings, jeggings, treggings, palazzos, chinos, capris.

Dresses: wrap, shift, sheath, bodycon, gown, sundress.

Outerwear: trench coat, duster, pea coat.

It’s a fashion dictionary… and a vocabulary test all at once.

Sizes add another layer of complexity. Men? Ask for medium, large, 40, or 42—try it, done. Women? Irrespective of build, they always go for the smaller size. Twist, squeeze, hold your breath—and proudly declare, “See? Size 8!” Meanwhile, the zip is begging for mercy.

Makeup and skincare are another universe. Men? Aftershave, deodorant, out the door in five seconds.

Women? Morning and night, it’s a ritual: foundation, concealer, powder, blush, highlighter, mascara, eyeliner, eyebrow pencil, lipstick, lip balm, setting spray… plus night creams, serums, masks, toners, moisturizers, exfoliators.

Mud face masks are particularly terrifying. They can transform a perfectly normal human into a creature from a horror film. Apply, wait, rinse, repeat. Like running a small chemistry lab on the face.

Soaps tell their own story. Men? One bar, one type, works for everything.

Women? Exfoliating, moisturizing, whitening, brightening, scented, unscented, glycerin, herbal, charcoal, honey, rose… each with a purpose, each with a shelf of its own.

Colours are the ultimate battlefield. Men: blue, grey, white, black—occasional pinstripes if feeling adventurous.

Women: teal, turquoise, aquamarine, sapphire, blush, rose, fuchsia, salmon, magenta, flamingo, champagne, ivory, cream, oyster, beige, nude, emerald, mint, sage, moss, olive… and the ever-tricky seafoam mist. Men call it green. Women know better.

And my daughters? Both are precise about design, colours, and room arrangements—every detail must be just so. Watching them organize their spaces is like observing tiny decorators at work: stylish, uncompromising, effortlessly beautiful. It’s easy to see where they get it from.

Everyday life becomes a comedy show. Decorating a room feels like a diplomatic mission. Asked, “Ivory or oyster?” Men nod, “Yes.”

Shown two cushions: “Which matches better?” Both beige, of course. But apparently, one is mushroom—and that is a matter of national importance. Other couples argue over shoes. Some over colours. Men? One cushion, done. Women? Teal or turquoise? The debate is endless.

Yet for all the quirks, obsessions, and rituals, life would be unimaginably boring without women. Their style, their colour, their sparkle, their humour—these make the world vibrant and unpredictable.

We love women—for their strength, charm, humour, and the way they make life infinitely richer every single day.

Men—are we stupid or just really, really dumb? Probably both.

But without women, we’d be wandering around clueless, wearing mismatched socks, and calling beige “grey.” And somehow, we still love it.