(The forthcoming book: From the Principal’s Desk – A Journey of Lessons)
Dr Arun Prakash
There’s something about history that fascinates me—not just the wars and the kings, but the little moments that reveal what a person is truly made of. One such moment, small yet powerful, took place in the grand court of Bijapur, where a young boy, barely in his teens, stood before a Sultan who held the power of an empire in his hands.
This boy was Shivaji Bhonsle—the future warrior king. But at that moment, he was simply the son of a nobleman, the child of Shahaji Bhonsle, a trusted general in the Sultan’s army.
Shahaji was one of the most respected military commanders in Bijapur. He had fought wars, expanded territories, and earned the Sultan’s trust. Naturally, when his young son was old enough, he was brought to court—to witness the workings of power, to learn courtly etiquette, and to understand diplomacy.
Except something happened that day—something that would later be remembered as one of the first glimpses of the leader Shivaji would become.
The Day Shivaji Didn’t Bow
The hall was magnificent. Persian carpets, chandeliers sparkling with the glow of a hundred lamps, courtiers draped in the finest silk. The air was heavy with the scent of rosewater and authority.
This was the heart of the Adil Shahi Sultanate, where no one spoke out of turn, where every step was measured, and where discipline meant obedience.
And part of that discipline was a simple but non-negotiable rule—when entering the court, one had to bow. Not just a slight nod—a full prostration, forehead to the ground, hands stretched forward, a gesture of absolute submission.
Shivaji walked forward, aware of a hundred watchful eyes. He reached the steps of the throne, where the Sultan sat in silence.
And then, instead of falling to the floor in submission, Shivaji did something no one expected.
He simply folded his hands in a polite Namaskar.
The Court Erupts
For a moment, there was dead silence. Then, the whispers began.
“What is he doing?”
“Has he lost his mind?”
“He is insulting the Sultan!”
Courtiers exchanged nervous glances. Some were furious. Others looked toward the Sultan, waiting for punishment.
But Shivaji stood firm. Not arrogant. Not afraid. Just… calm.
The Sultan’s eyes narrowed. His voice, deep and measured, echoed through the court.
“Why do you not bow before me, Shivaji?”
And here’s where Shivaji proved why he was different.
Without hesitation, he replied:
“I have saluted you in the same way I salute my father.”
When Intent Matters More Than Rules
The murmurs stopped. The court fell into stunned silence.
The Sultan did not speak for a long moment. He could have punished Shivaji—after all, the rule was clear. Discipline meant following the rules exactly as they were set.
But then, slowly, the Sultan smiled.
He leaned back and nodded thoughtfully. Because he understood something his courtiers did not.
Shivaji had not broken discipline—he had honoured it.
He had shown respect in its truest sense. He had given the Sultan the highest honor possible, not by blindly following a rule, but by thinking, by understanding, and by acting with wisdom.
And that, my friends, is where most of us go wrong—when we confuse discipline with punishment.
Fear Does Not Create Discipline—It Creates Silence
You see, discipline is about learning. It is about understanding why something is right and choosing to follow it.
Punishment, on the other hand, is just forcing someone to obey out of fear. And when you force obedience, you don’t raise thinkers—you raise followers.
I have seen this happen in schools, homes, and society. A child makes a mistake, and instead of helping him understand it, we punish him.
We scold, we shout, we humiliate. And we think we have taught him a lesson.
But the only lesson he has learned is “I should not get caught next time.”
A child who lies does not stop lying because he was beaten. He only learns to lie better.
A student who is slapped for failing a test does not suddenly become smarter. He only becomes afraid of exams.
Punishment makes children silent. But silence is not the same as learning.
The Right Way to Discipline
If you want a child to truly learn, you have to replace punishment with real discipline.
I had a student once—let’s call him Rohit. Bright boy, but talkative. Always distracted, always disrupting class. His teachers were fed up.
One day, after he was caught chatting again, a teacher sent him out of the classroom. He stood outside for an hour. The next day, the same thing happened. And the next.
When I heard about this, I decided to step in. I called him to my office and asked, “Why do you talk so much in class?”
At first, he just shrugged. “I don’t know, sir.”
But when I pressed him further, he admitted, “I finish my work early, and then I get bored.”
Ah. Now, you see, this was not a discipline issue. This was a boredom issue.
So instead of punishing him, I suggested a new approach.
“Since you finish early, from tomorrow, you will help weaker students in class. Your job is to be a teaching assistant.”
And just like that, the problem was solved. He became more focused, more engaged, and his confidence grew.
If I had just punished him, he would have learned nothing. But because I disciplined him, he learned responsibility.
Are We Raising Leaders or Silent Followers?
The story of Shivaji and the Sultan is not just a historical anecdote. It is a lesson for every parent and teacher today.
Are we raising children who simply follow orders out of fear? Or are we raising leaders who understand why rules exist and follow them because they choose to?
Discipline is not about making children afraid of consequences. It is about teaching them to take responsibility for their actions.
So the next time a child makes a mistake, pause before punishing.
Ask why it happened.
Explain why the rule matters.
Guide them to correct it with understanding.
Because the world does not need more people who follow orders without question.
It needs more individuals who think for themselves, who understand, and who choose discipline not out of fear, but out of wisdom. And that, my friends, is the real lesson.
Next: Strategies for Positive Reinforcement
