The Quiet Art of Negotiation

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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The Timeless Language of Prayer

 

The Timeless Language of Prayer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So how do we live in this world? 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pause-  Reflect - Wonder.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Resilience, Gratitude, and the Journey Forward

 Resilience, Gratitude, and the Journey Forward

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Winter holidays in Allahabad

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Those were fun times. Simple times. Good times.

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

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

Camping

 Camping: The Luxury I Don’t Need

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

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

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

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

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

 No tents for me.