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.