"𝗬𝗮𝗮𝗿, 𝗰𝗵𝘂𝘁𝘁𝗶 𝗸𝗮𝗯 𝗹𝗼𝗴𝗲!"

"𝗬𝗮𝗮𝗿, 𝗰𝗵𝘂𝘁𝘁𝗶 𝗸𝗮𝗯 𝗹𝗼𝗴𝗲!"

"When will you take some leaves?"

"Don’t you think you should take a break?"

"Will you really let your leaves lapse?"

"Don't check your emails or Teams when you're on leave! Koshish toh Karo!"

No, these questions and diktats did not come from my family. 

I’ve never been one to take leave unless it’s for an event, vacation, or family commitment—even when my health was 𝘥𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪 𝘥𝘢𝘭𝘪. The pandemic only reinforced this habit. But then came my latest boss. From mid-2024, he started encouraging everyone to take regular breaks to recharge. When I told him I usually let around 20 leaves lapse each year, he was genuinely intrigued.

From then on, during our catch-ups, he made it a point to nudge me about taking time off. He knew I’d readily update him on my work plans, but it was my leave plan that interested him more.

Eventually, in Q4 of last year, I gave in. I started taking a day off about once a week - 𝘢𝘪𝘸𝘦𝘩𝘪 - and even more often in December. What I experienced was pretty cool:

1. 𝗖𝗹𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗺𝘆 𝗽𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗴𝗮𝗱𝗴𝗲𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘃𝗲𝗵𝗶𝗰𝗹𝗲 𝗿𝗲𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝘀—weekday offs meant no long queues.

2. 𝗙𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗰𝗹𝗼𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝘄𝗼 𝗺𝗼𝗻𝗲𝘆-𝗱𝗿𝗮𝗶𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗽𝗼𝗹𝗶𝗰𝗶𝗲𝘀 I had been meaning to cancel for ages. Just parked myself at the insurer’s office for two hours until they gave in.

3. 𝗕𝗮𝗻𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗺𝗮𝘆 𝗯𝗲 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗲, 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗿𝗲𝗾𝘂𝗶𝗿𝗲 𝗮 𝗯𝗿𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗵 𝘃𝗶𝘀𝗶𝘁. Got those done too. 𝘓𝘶𝘯𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘪? 𝘒𝘰𝘪 𝘯𝘢𝘪, 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘳𝘶𝘬𝘵𝘢 𝘩𝘶𝘯.

4. 𝗦𝗽𝗲𝗻𝘁 𝘁𝗶𝗺𝗲 𝗯𝗿𝘂𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘂𝗽 𝗼𝗻 𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗹𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗰𝗸 𝗽𝗮𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗻𝘀 used in technical analysis of stocks. The Hanging Man and Hammer are my favorites.

5. 𝗣𝗶𝗰𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝘂𝗽 𝗮 𝗯𝗼𝗼𝗸... 𝘱𝘩𝘪𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘢𝘱𝘪𝘴 𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘩𝘦 𝘳𝘢𝘬𝘩 𝘥𝘪𝘺𝘢 and binge-watched Netflix shows instead.

Did plenty more on these 𝘢𝘪𝘸𝘦𝘩𝘪 leave days, and now I try to take them more often.

Try taking a leave - 𝘢𝘪𝘸𝘦𝘩𝘪 - if you haven't. 𝗖𝗮𝘀𝘂𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗰𝗮𝘀𝘂𝗮𝗹 leaves kabhi leke dekho. It could be worth it.

"Your daughter is hurt. Do you want to come and pick her up?"

"Your daughter is hurt. Do you want to come and pick her up?" asked the teacher —let’s call her Daya.

Now, if any parent were to receive such a call, the only possible response would be a panicked "Yes!". Thankfully, I was working from home that day and rushed to the school.

"Sir, shorts are not allowed in school," I recalled the guard saying once when I had gone to pick her up wearing them. Already in my car, I hoped he’d let me through today. As soon as I arrived, I asked, "Where is the nursing room?" The guard, probably realizing this wasn’t the right moment to comment on my attire, simply pointed me in.

"She looked a bit worried, but I examined her thoroughly. The injury wasn’t anything concerning, so I sent her back to class," said the nurse, Ms. Hathi.

I quickly made my way to her classroom. As soon as V (my daughter) saw me, tears started streaming down her face. My heart sank. Before I could say anything, she blurted out, "I am absolutely fine. I don’t want to miss class!"

She wasn’t crying because of pain but because she was being sent home. I checked in with her and then turned to Daya, requesting that she allow V to stay. Daya explained that she had already completed the paperwork to send V home, and as per protocol, she had to leave. I asked if she could approach a senior staff member to reconsider. The senior was in a meeting and likely dismissed her. Daya then gently counseled V and requested us to leave.

On the ground floor, I stopped V and asked, "Do you really want to attend school?" She nodded without hesitation. I knew she hates missing school. "Then let's go to the principal," I said. At that moment, she hesitated. "No, no, let’s go home. It’s okay," she said quickly. That "It’s okay" got to me. As a dad, I wasn’t okay with my daughter having an "It’s okay" experience—settling for something she clearly didn’t want.

We went back up to where principal's office was located. Outside, we were greeted by an EA—let’s call her Babitaji. "Sir, why do you wish to meet the principal?" she asked politely. I explained the situation and shared my perspective: protocols should be followed in spirit, not just in letter. If Hathi and I were both okay with V staying, there was no reason she shouldn’t be allowed back in class.

Now, the difference between good EAs and great EAs is that the great ones solve small problems before they reach their bosses. She quickly called Hathi to confirm the details, then called Daya. After listening to both, she instructed Daya to allow V to attend class. Daya soon arrived at the office, and a smiling V walked away with her. I thanked Babitaji for her timely help and left.

Rules and policies exist for a reason, but applying them with empathy makes all the difference. Sometimes, what’s ‘by the book’ isn’t what’s best for the situation. Great leadership—at any level—is about knowing when to adapt and Babitaji did just that!

The image? Well, that’s me after going through a rollercoaster of emotions that day!

"That game is a waste of money, V, trust me!" [Republished]

"That game is a waste of money, V, trust me!" I told my then 7-year-old daughter.

It was her 7th birthday, and we had taken her out for some fun and games at her favorite place, which was filled with electronic games.

"Alright, V, we’ve played a lot of games now. Let’s head out for dinner," I said after a while. 

They are never happy when they are told such things so I got the usual eye roll. "Papa, can I please play that one? I know I can win this time," she insisted, flashing one of those adorable expressions she knows works on me like a charm.

She was pointing at a claw machine—the one where you maneuver a dangling claw to pick up prizes. As a kid (and even as an adult), I’ve almost never won anything from those machines. Every time she had asked to play it before, I would tell her it was a waste of money because they rarely yield anything, but this time, the birthday girl was more persistent. I gave in, but with one condition: I would help her position the claw. (Funny, considering I’ve always failed at it. Bad decision, I know.)

She agreed, and I carefully positioned the claw over a pack of tickets. "Alright, press the button now," I instructed, confident in my ‘expert’ positioning. But before I could react, she swiftly adjusted the claw’s position herself and hit the button. I raised my hands in protest... but, miraculously, the claw picked up not one, not two, but three bundles of tickets!

After some victory cries, we rushed to the ticket eater machine. (For the uninitiated, the ticket eater counts the tickets, and at the end, you swipe a card to add the total to your balance. These tickets can be redeemed for prizes.) The counter showed 300+ tickets, and we were ecstatic! We ran to the rest of the family, proudly announcing our achievement.

I then quickly went to check the ticket balance on our card, and to my shock, the 300+ tickets weren’t showing up! That’s when it hit me—when we saw the figure of 300+ on the ticket eater, I was so excited to share the news that I completely forgot to swipe the card to credit the tickets!

I rushed back to the counter and saw two kids jumping with joy... They had just fed their tickets into the machine and had probably ended up adding our 300+ tickets to their card as well.

Learnings:

1. Just because you couldn’t do it doesn’t mean the juniors can’t either.

2. Don’t interfere too much, especially after point 1. They might just do it their way—and maybe even better.

3. Excitement is great, but it can cloud your judgment. If not managed well, it might lead to losing everything in the heat of the moment.

4. Sometimes, people benefit from others' mistakes without intending to. Lady Luck plays her games, and on such occasions, the best you can do is smile and accept it gracefully.

"What do we buy with the tickets?" she asked eagerly.

"Erm… let’s accumulate some more and get something more meaningful next time," I replied, placing an arm around her shoulder as we walked out...

"Agar tum mil jao, zamana…" she sang

"Agar tum mil jao, zamana…" she sang, her voice flowing softly over the bus speakers.

It was around 8 a.m. on a morning in 2006. My roommates and I had just boarded the company bus from Aundh (Pune) that would take us to our Infosys office in Hinjewadi.

"Did you read about that email from NRN (Narayana Murthy)? It says don’t stay in the office beyond 8 p.m.," one of the guys said, adjusting his blue-striped tie, which looked sharp against his white shirt. Mon to Thurs, we were required to wear a tie (except during the summer).

At the time, an email was making the rounds at Infy. It claimed that unmarried folks stayed late at the office just to surf the net and kill time. The mail advised against such practices and encouraged everyone to leave on time. Recently, I learned that the email was just a piece of someone’s creativity—NRN had never written it.

As the bus moved, my mind wandered back to my training days in Mysore. It was Dec 2005, and NRN had come to address thousands of us at the open-air amphitheater. "Please don't call me sir," he had politely requested when one of us stood up to ask a question. We were in awe of him—a man who had built Infy, an incredible organization that hired freshers like us and transformed us into polished professionals.

"Look, she just boarded the bus," I heard a guy say softly from the seat behind me, as two smartly dressed girls stepped onto the bus, breaking my train of thought and snapping me back to the present.

As I gazed out of the window, my thoughts drifted to an incident that had occurred a few days ago back home in Mumbai. I had a minor altercation with an elderly uncle in our society. Mom had been a silent witness to it. Later, she gently said, "Beta, as adults grow older, they start behaving like children again. It's a cycle. They get upset over small things and may say things that seem irrational. You need to let it go—just like you would if a child acted that way."

A few weeks ago, when newspapers, channels, and influencers all jumped on the NRN-bashing bandwagon, I couldn’t help but recall what my mom had said years ago. While I don’t agree with his recent opinion, as an ex-Infoscion, I knew it was important to look at the bigger picture and let the episode go. NRN is undeniably one of the greats, and though public figures are expected to be more cautious with their words, age inevitably leaves its mark on everyone. Sometimes, the elderly may say things that come across as irrational or unpopular, but such moments can often be dismissed for what they are—an occasional lapse due to age, nothing more.

"Tu hi meri shab hai…" began playing over the bus speakers. "Yaar, yeh Emraan Hashmi ke saare gaane kya gajab hote hain," remarked the guy sitting next to me. [Emraan Hashmi’s songs are amazing.] "Haan yaar, woh toh hai," I replied with a smile [Yeah buddy, that’s true.], as the distinctive green ‘gola’—the spaceship-shaped office building that housed my desk—came into view in the distance...

"𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐙𝐢𝐚'𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐫," [Republished]

"𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐙𝐢𝐚'𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐫," said my 6-year-old daughter, who was in Grade 1 at the time and experiencing her first-ever school assessment that week.

This was about four years ago during the pandemic when schools had shifted online. The school had introduced assessments to evaluate how well students were grasping the subjects. Students were required to stay on camera and unmuted throughout to ensure there was no prompting from parents or family members.

To be honest, I was more anxious than my daughter. I prepped her with pep talks, emphasizing the importance of giving her best effort and not dwelling too long on tricky questions. “It’s okay to move on,” I told her, “so you don’t jeopardize the next one.”

On the day of the assessment, I watched nervously as she tackled the subject I believed she was strong in. After submitting her answers, I reviewed them and was surprised she hadn’t done as well as I expected.

As I pointed out her mistakes, she looked at me and asked, “Why didn’t you help me even a little? I could hear other parents on the call prompting their kids.” Her question caught me off guard, but it was an important moment to explain the concept of integrity. I sat her down and helped her understand why assessments are about individual effort and why doing the right thing matters, even when others around us may not be following the same path. 

Everyone, regardless of age, needs a reminder of certain values from time to time—even when they already know them. Most importantly, there are moments when we feel tempted to intervene, perhaps believing it’s our right or even our duty to do so. However, it’s crucial to discern when intervention is necessary and when it’s best to step back.

There’s a profound line from the show The Crown, where Queen Mary tells Queen Elizabeth: “𝐓𝐨 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐣𝐨𝐛 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐥𝐥. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞. 𝐓𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐥, 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧.”  - the application of which is needed far too often in all our lives, more often than we realize.

"…arre Jimish, aaj half day?"

"…arre Jimish, aaj half day?" shouted a guy a couple of rows away as I picked up my bag from my desk. ["Jimish, half day today?"]

This was at one of my earlier employers. While many organizations became more progressive after the pandemic, this one was quite strict with in-and-out times back then. One had to swipe in by 10:00 am. If you swiped in after 10:00, the system would mark you as taking a half day.

With a little daughter waiting at home, I made it a priority to wrap up my work on time and leave by 6:30-7:00 if my tasks and hours were completed. However, some of my colleagues had a habit of working late, often staying until 9-10 pm. despite arriving before 10 am. It wasn’t always because they were being productive; it was because their bosses stayed late. And those bosses stayed late because their bosses did, leading to a culture where anyone could be summoned at any hour. Over the years, I worked with different bosses, but all of them knew I was particular about my schedule. If any work was still pending, I would complete it from home later that evening or over the weekend.

There was one particular guy who made it his mission to spend 11-12 hrs at work daily. If he noticed anyone leaving on time he would make loud remarks like, "Aaj half day?", "Kaam nahi hai aaj?" or "Ye dekho, ye toh ghar jaa raha hai."

While I didn't care about his opinions, I disliked the unwanted attention. One day, I wondered, "How does he know I'm leaving for the day?" It could be the sound of me packing, closing my drawers, or simply the sight of me walking out with my bag. So, I decided to change my routine. I left my laptop bag and tiffin in my car and walked into the office with just my laptop. Before and after lunch, I would go down to the car to retrieve and return my tiffin. When it was time to leave, I would simply walk out with my laptop. This way, no one, especially the loud guy, could tell if I was heading to a meeting or leaving for the day. Eventually, people caught on that when I walked out with my laptop late in the evening. However, without the sound or sight of me packing up, it was no longer obvious.

Eventually, I left that job, but I had grown fond of the routine. For many years now, I’ve continued to leave home with just my laptop (no bag) and tiffin bag in hand, walking into work carrying only my laptop. It keeps things minimal and simple. Essentials are stored in my office locker. This habit also ensures a short walk before and after lunch to pick up and drop off my tiffin. While I know that no one at my current employer would ever think like that loud guy, I’m sure some wonder about the story behind why I walk in with just my laptop. That’s why I decided to share this today.

I’m not suggesting everyone should adopt this habit—especially if you take public transport or ride a two-wheeler—but if you drive to work, give it a try someday. You might appreciate the minimalist approach too. It’s a literal load off your shoulders.

Akbar, Amar. Anthony

Akbar, Amar, Anthony.

I recently started a bit of planting—not much, just 3-4 pots on the kitchen window grill. One of the plants is cherry tomatoes. A couple of months ago, I sowed some seeds, and out came three cute plants. I named them Amar, Akbar, and Anthony.

Despite my obsessive observation and care, one morning I noticed that one of the stems was bent, probably broken. It was Akbar. I thought it would recover on its own, but a couple of days later, I saw the damage had worsened. I knew I had to do something—perhaps support it or tie it up to help it heal—but I decided to put off the task until the next day.

The next morning was heartbreaking. I found Akbar severed from the cut, lying lifeless on the soil. I realized my procrastination had cost Akbar its life. Overcome with guilt, I gently picked it up and placed it back in some freshly dug soil, clinging to a sliver of hope for a miracle.

In the next few days, Akbar's leaves still seemed to hold up well. After a couple more days, I noticed new leaves starting to appear, and I knew Akbar hadn’t given up yet. Although Akbar's growth slowed while Amar and Anthony continued at their usual pace, Akbar had to grow fresh roots to have any chance of survival—and it did well.

Eventually, I had to repot Amar and Anthony into a bigger pot so they could thrive, leaving Akbar behind in the small pot to develop further. Today, Akbar has grown tall enough to be moved to its own big pot. As the saying goes in Hindi, "Der Aaye, Durust Aaye" (better late than never).

A few days ago, I learned that the tomato stem has roots all along it. So, planting the stem deeper into the soil encourages more roots to develop. Now I realize that Akbar’s "miracle" actually has a scientific explanation!

While I’ve discovered that planting can be quite therapeutic, the hobby also brings with it a lot of learning and reinforcement. From this experience:

- Procrastination often comes at a high cost. It's even worse when our procrastination affects someone or something else.

- Sometimes, it's okay to be hopelessly hopeful and act in good faith. Miracles do happen.

- While timely support is crucial, it’s never too late to offer help, even if we feel it might be too late.

Though Amar and Anthony are taller than Akbar, I’m sure they are proud of their sibling for battling its way up. Over time, with continued care and support, I’m confident that Akbar will grow as tall as its siblings and, when the time comes, bear equally cute little tomatoes.

This post isn’t just about plants. Let’s support the "Akbars" we encounter, before it’s truly too late.

P.S.: The attached video is a collection of Instagram stories I posted throughout this experience.