40 years i teaching

 “Education is the most powerful weapon which you can use to change the world.” 

― Nelson Mandela 

So today makes it 40 years in the Education field .

 I started way back in the year  1979 at the Boys High school, Allahabad which was my home town . It was also the school I studied in and passed out from . The starting salary was 475/-  rupees a month - Yes you are reading that right ! After my first salary I felt rich !

Began as a Grade 7 English / Class teacher . 

Moved from Allahabad to Pune in 1981 - I always consider this life changing and the best decision of my life . It meant sacrifices and a different type of struggle but I managed . Joined Bishops  as a Grade 5 teacher in 1981 - English, History , and Class teacher . Salary 525/- rupees a month . I felt richer !

Then was moved to teach grade 6 - then 8 – and then all the way up.

What followed was House Master , Dormitory in charge , Boarding House In charge and finally Headmaster .  Was Headmaster for 13 years .  It was an enriching , eye opening , learning experience . 

Was all set to take over as Principal at Bishops  when Mr Roberts was set to retire.

Then the powers that be ( read Chairman of the board of Governors & a few others  )  - after interviewing me and shortlisting me for the post,  finally woke to the realization that I was only half an Anglo Indian , from my mother’s side and a Catholic .

So he calls me to break the news that Bishops  was an Anglo Indian / Anglican school  and I was not eligible for the post despite being suitable . Amen . 

Definitely a joke in poor taste after 20 years at Bishops . I was angry and very hurt . 

Difficult to digest at the time and pretty shattered . I felt that my life had come crumbling down . 

Once again , when one door was slammed in my face another opened in the form of Dubai and GEMS education - then the Varkey Group.

Two rounds of interviews , including one with our Chairman and Founder Mr Sunny Varkey ( a gentleman I still hold in awe )  and I decided it was time to accept the offer to join as Headmaster of Modern High - Now Gems Modern Academy , Dubai . 

Once again a life changing decision to leave Pune, where I was very comfortable and travel to an unknown destination .

5 years as Headmaster of Modern- an Outstanding  school-  and I was transferred – “without an interview” to Head The Millennium school in Dubai . I guess my work and dedication  had spoken for itself . I also had a lot to learn and I made sure I did so diligently . 

Was with Millennium for 12 glorious  years as Executive Principal and CEO  . The school did very well and is now one of the leading schools in the UAE . 

It was then time to move again - this time as Vice president , Education with GEMS .

An amazing company indeed .

40 years is a long time in this profession  -  I have enjoyed the journey immensely .

Over the years I have had a few mentors - Mr B W Roberts ( Principal- Bishops, Pune ) being the  best - I learnt so much under his tutelage – a lot of which  has come in useful over the years . Then there was Mr  Derrick Beamon who was also a great leader and a brilliant teacher of English at Bishops  . 

I have had  and continue to work with great colleagues and friends and Almighty God has blessed me and my family . We have so much to be thankful for . 

There is no better profession than teaching . I will say that over and over again . 

Thank you to all who have helped me , stood by me , tolerated me , befriended me , guided me and been there for me over the years. I am humbled by your kindness , warmth and love . 

A VERY SPECIAL SHOUT OUT TO ALL MY OLD BOYS ( AND GIRLS)  AT THE BOYS HIGH SCHOOL , ALLAHABAD, THE BISHOPS SCHOOL PUNE , MODERN HIGH , DUBAI AND THE MILLENNIUM SCHOOL , DUBAI .

OF COURSE – BISHOPS HAS TO TAKE PRECEDENCE – I SPENT 20 YEARS THERE . CHEERS TO ALL BISHOPITES . IT IS GREAT TO BE IN TOUCH ON SOCIAL MEDIA AND TO MEET YOU  IN PUNE  & ALL OVER THE WORLD WHEN I TRAVEL . 

Thank you all and God bless .

ARE WE ALL BOXED IN

 Some time ago, I had written a short piece on how we seem to be living in a rectangular world. The thought came back to me recently—and like most things in life, I felt the need to revisit it, rework it, and reflect a little more deeply.

Philosophically, that’s life, isn’t it? We do… then redo… and sometimes redo again, until something inside us quietly says, “Yes, that feels right now.”

So here's a rewritten version , with a touch more perspective.

---

I’ve just realised—we really do live in a rectangular world.

In my office, nearly everything is rectangular. The desk, laptop, screen, mobile phone, paper tray, files, drawers, whiteboard—even the biscuit tin, which despite being alarmingly empty, sits proudly in its four-cornered glory. The only rebels are a flower pot (which I water more out of guilt than hope) and the clock—round, quiet, and silently ticking away like a philosopher who has seen too much.

At home, the story continues. The TV, fridge, bed, bookshelves, remote control… all simple conformists. Even the humble coffee tray, which shows the faintest ambition of being oval, has been firmly corrected by the laws of manufacturing.

Rectangles, I suppose, are just easy to produce. They’re efficient. They stack well, store neatly, and behave. You can measure and control them. They don’t ask too many questions. But if you notice nature… well, nature doesn’t much fancy rectangles.

You’ll never see a square hill, a rectangular river, or a tree that fits into a box. Clouds float along with no regard for symmetry, puddles form whatever shape they like and no mountain has ever asked for architectural approval.

Even cameras—with their circular lenses—produce rectangular photos. And not a single part of the human body is rectangular. Not even our personalities, though we spend a great deal of our adult lives trying to force ourselves into neat little frames to “fit in.”

In education, it’s much the same. We create tidy boxes: timetables, lesson plans, grade sheets, report cards , seating charts. Then we try to fit gloriously unpredictable, creative, emotional, sensitive young minds into them and we pat each other on the back for doing so . It rarely goes to plan. And thank goodness for that.

Adults aren’t much better—we spend years sanding down our edges to slot neatly into job roles, social groups, family expectations. Some become so used to it, they forget they ever had curves, quirks, or rough edges. Until life reminds them.

Maybe that’s the philosophical angle here. The rectangle is our symbol of control, of order, of neatness. But the real stuff—growth, change, love, grief, anger ,creativity—happens in the curves, the loops, the chaotic swirls.

So yes, this is a repost of sorts. But also a re-thought, a re-shaped idea—proof that not all rectangles are final, and not all stories are best told once.

Today, while you sit at your rectangular desk, typing away on a rectangular keyboard, glance out of your rectangular window.

The sky doesn’t care for straight lines does it ? - and maybe, deep down, neither do we.

On having difficult conversations

 ON HAVING DIFFICULT CONVERSATIONS 

 I've worked in schools for over 40 years—more than 30 of those in leadership—and I’ve had the privilege of learning from some of the best. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that giving feedback is not easy. I struggled with it in the early years—avoided the conversation, softened the message too much, or left it too late. But over time, I’ve come to see it as one of the most important parts of leadership. And I’ve grown to take a quiet pride in doing it well.

I’ve had to hold many difficult conversations—often with people I see every single day. That’s what makes it challenging. How do you tell someone they’re underperforming, being nasty ,not contributing enough, or creating friction in the team—especially when you genuinely like them?

In schools, the stakes are even higher. Our work affects many lives. When we let problems linger, students pay the price. Morale dips. Culture suffers. But when done right, a difficult conversation can clear the air, rebuild trust, and help people grow. It's a win win situation for all 

I’ve found that it’s better to have the conversation and get it over and done with , than let it fester. Otherwise, it plays on your mind. I’ve given tough feedback—even the “final” kind—to people I deeply valued. They took it reasonably well, and we’re still in touch today. That, to me, is the hallmark of a well-handled conversation. 

You address the issue—not the person. And once it’s done, you move on. I’ve even had tea with the same colleague afterwards, chatting about everything else under the sun.

It really comes down to who you are and how you’re perceived. Are you someone known to maintain high standards? Do you practice what you preach? People will accept feedback from someone they respect—especially when they know it’s coming from a place of care and fairness, not ego, irritation or anger .

Body language plays a key role too. I’ve seen feedback given with grimaces, dramatic sighs, hands on hips, or condescending tones—and, unsurprisingly, it didn’t go well. Equally, I’ve seen perfectly reasonable feedback rejected because it came from someone who wasn’t trusted or respected. It cuts both ways.

Be clear. Be kind. Be direct. If someone’s showing up late, say so. If they’re always seen checking their messages on their phones, or if they are disengaged in meetings, address it. Don’t delay and dance around the issue—it only makes it harder. People aren’t mind readers.

I once had to tell a colleague—someone I genuinely liked—that their attitude at work was affecting the team. I was honest and firm, but respectful. To their credit, they took it well. A few weeks later, the change was obvious—and appreciated.

Another time, I addressed a younger leader's lack of engagement in team meetings. She wasn’t adding value and was visibly disinterested. I framed it around professionalism, not personality. Once she understood the impact, she made the effort to improve.

Here are some essentials to improve how we give feedback:

Focus on common goals: Emphasize shared objectives, such as working better as a team & improving student outcomes.

Be precise: Use clear, concrete examples rather than vague judgments. Avoid jargon 

Mind your non-verbal cues: Your tone and body language speak as loudly as your words.

Close with action: Always agree on specific next steps to ensure progress.

Follow up : Check in from time to time till you are sure that your expectations are being met 

Is giving feedback a science or an art? Probably a little of both. The science explains how the brain responds to perceived threat or clarity. The art lies in the timing, tone, and knowing when to stop talking.

Let’s not sugar-coat it—appraisals and feedback meetings can be stressful for both parties, but handled with honesty and empathy, they build stronger teams, not weaker ones.

In the end, difficult conversations are part of leadership—and life and they are unavoidable . What matters is how you have them… and how you carry yourself after. 

A little honesty, a little kindness… and maybe a strong cup of tea.

#Leadership #FeedbackCulture #DifficultConversations #SchoolLeadership #TeacherDevelopment #ProfessionalGrowth #EffectiveCommunication #EducationLeadership

Why teaching has always been my calling

 Over the years, I have led countless sessions on leadership—something I am truly passionate about. Recently, I asked a simple question: Did you always want to become a teacher? If not, what did you want to become?

It reminded me of that old saying: “Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach.” I’ve never believed that. Teaching isn’t a fallback—it’s a calling. For me, aside from some whimsical moments in youth when I thought of becoming a priest (perhaps drawn to the calm and the robe!) or dreaming of being the lead singer and rhythm guitarist in a band, teaching quietly stayed with me.

I began at my old school—The Boys High School, Allahabad—teaching English and History to grades 5 through 8. I loved teaching English—the stories, the poems, the magic of language. History was harder to bring alive, so my heart truly belonged to English and the literature we shared.

In 1981, I moved to The Bishop's School, Pune, where I spent the next twenty years until 2001. Initially teaching both English and History, soon English became my sole focus. Teaching literature—whether the joys of a story or the complexity of Shakespeare’s plays—was a delight. The classroom buzzed with laughter, questions, and discovery.

At Bishop’s, boys were clever. Those days, without Google or ChatGPT, my main reference was Encyclopedia Britannica. When stuck, I consulted the master of English himself—Mr. Beaman ( Senior teacher and Boarding Suptd) . Looking back, I surely erred sometimes, but I did what I knew best. I remember telling curious boys, “Let me check, I’m not too sure,” when they tried to catch a young master out. It was all part of the lively dance between teacher and pupil.

Early on, I took private tuition sessions before school, sitting on benches outside my accommodation. Between five and eight boys gathered—always talkative and quick to offer chores to escape studying. Many have become doctors, business leaders, politicians—hardworking, simple, and down to earth.

I played a lot of badminton, volleyball, and table tennis with the boys—the competition was intense and every point fiercely contested.

Boys being boys, they tried their tricks—bunking classes, inventing excuses to visit the infirmary, sneaking peeks during exams. I was firm, sometimes too firm. The punishments I handed out are not something I’m proud of today, and I always apologise when I reflect on them. But I was only doing what I had learned as a schoolboy.

Teaching is a two-way street. Pupils influence us as much as we influence them. The joy extends beyond lessons—games, duties, co-curricular activities, parental engagement, welcoming new pupils, and saying goodbye to board exam finishers. Each part is a thread in the rich tapestry of school life.

Boarding life at Bishop’s was special. Living on campus with 240 boarders and 100 staff felt like one big family. Everyone helped each other—sometimes a little too much! The school became a ghost town during holidays—quiet compared to the usual buzz.

A small fond memory is the old billiards table in the staff room, where teachers sneaked quick games after hours. It was more than a game—it was camaraderie and relaxation amid a busy day.

After Bishop’s, I taught at The Modern High School, Dubai, teaching English to boys and girls. Teaching girls was different—their responses, learning styles, and subtlety were refreshing. Though brief before moving fully into leadership, those years remain close to my heart.

There is no greater joy than being in a classroom, feeding off the energy of young minds. Education is about connection, empathy, and the human spirit. No robot or AI can replace a good teacher. The kindness, encouragement, and understanding a teacher offers—no machine can replicate.

Will teachers ever be replaced? No. And I hope not. Teaching is the heart of education—the spark lighting every learner’s journey.

If I had to do it all over again, would I choose teaching? Without hesitation, yes.

My teachers

 My Teachers in Allahabad in the 60's and 70's. I am sure many of you would remember at least some of them. 

There were many who taught me—but some left an indelible mark, for reasons hard to explain yet impossible to forget. These weren’t just lessons on blackboards; they were acts of quiet kindness, stern guidance, and generous gifts of time—given freely, without expectation.

It all began in Allahabad—a city steeped in history, culture, and learning. Known as the city of confluence, Allahabad produced luminaries in politics, literature, and the arts. My first school was St. Joseph’s—a vibrant and prestigious institution, widely regarded as one of the finest in the city. The imposing gothic structure of All Saints’ Cathedral stood nearby, adding grandeur to our daily lives.

If memory serves me right, the magic of teaching first revealed itself to me in Class 3 through Mrs. Daniels. She was a gentle soul—sweet and ladylike. Her rickshaw—one of those upright, rattly ones—passed our home on 3rd Avenue, as the puller lived near the railway quarters. She offered me a ride; each morning, the rickshaw stopped at my house before collecting her. She paid the fare; I got a free ride. It was a quiet kindness, no fuss, no announcements. She chatted animatedly during the ride, while I was half-asleep or lost in thought. That simple ride made me feel seen, included, and safe.

In Class 4 came quite the contrast: Mrs. Pen-Anthony, our formidable Math teacher with piercing grey eyes and a strict presence. I was poor at Math, which didn’t help my nerves. But instead of giving up on me, she offered free after-school tutoring. For three months, I stayed back, struggling with sums while she watched over me, sometimes giving my desk a thwack with her umbrella out of exasperation. Her intentions were kind—she wanted me to succeed.

Math continued to challenge me, but angels kept arriving in disguise. One was Mrs. Mona Shepherd, who lived just across the road. Every evening, I’d head over for tuition under her gentle, watchful eye. Her garden had a large plum tree, and I often joined other boys in trying to bring down the ripest fruit. She had a daughter—very pretty, I thought—but I only admired her from afar.

Then came Trevor Bunting—a senior teacher well known in town and our family circles. If anyone could make a child understand Math, it was him. He tutored me briefly in Grade 6, always calm and patient. With him, I began to see the logic behind numbers. His kindness and consistency helped build my confidence.

In Grade 7, I studied under Joseph Shanker—Joe to most. He was energetic, engaging, and brilliant with numbers. A group of us showed up at his house at 6 a.m. during summer break—yes, 6 a.m.! He made Math come alive with real-world examples and relentless encouragement. Under his care, I genuinely improved.

Another teacher I remember fondly—though he never tutored me—was Mr. Carl D’Cruz. Most of us feared him. He was stern, controlled, and never raised his voice. Yet beneath that exterior was a man who quietly looked out for his students. He often called me to the blackboard—not to catch me out, but to solve a problem he knew I could handle. He corrected my careless mistakes gently but firmly and taught me that discipline and kindness could coexist. He made me believe in myself.

Here lies the golden thread running through all of this: every one of these teachers gave their time freely. No one spoke of payment. They taught not for profit, but because they believed—in us, in learning, in the noble craft of teaching.

When I shifted to Boys’ High School (BHS) in Grade 8, I left my Math struggles behind—but my learning journey deepened in other ways. At BHS, three teachers shaped my path profoundly: Tony McLeod, Winston Gardner, and Ian Scott.

English had always been a strength, so they never tutored me outside class. But they opened entire worlds of thought, language, and expression.

Winston Gardner, in particular, started me on my path into leadership and public speaking. One day, he called me aside and said, “I want you to captain the debate team.” I had no clue what I was doing—and, unsurprisingly, botched my first debate. But he didn’t give up on me, and I didn’t give up on myself. That opportunity lit a spark that became a lifelong love of public speaking and leadership—all because one teacher believed I could stand up and speak.

Tony McLeod and Ian Scott were masters of their craft. Their lessons were never just about grammar or Shakespeare; they were about clarity, emotion, and thought. They made me fall in love with the English language—so much so that I would eventually make it my profession. Their passion was infectious, and their belief in me gave me the confidence to write, speak, and teach.

And how can I forget Miss Sybil Caston. I went to her for Math and Geography in grade 11. She was tiny but tough and what a great teacher. There were some pretty girls as her neighbours so she kept a close eye on me.!

Looking back, I trace the roots of my life’s work to those classrooms and those teachers .

What united all these teachers was not just intelligence or skill—it was empathy. A quiet, steadfast belief in education’s power. They didn’t just teach subjects; they shaped lives. They gave time, effort, and trust—and asked for nothing in return.

Teaching remains one of the noblest professions in the world. It creates all other professions. And when done with heart, empathy, and love—it transforms.

John M. Zamen 

Marvin Bunting 

Sanjaya Kala 

Darren Dcruze 

Aubrey Mcgowan 

Sandra Sheridan 

Iona Lee 

Valentine Massey 

Alan Seymour 

Michael Mackrodt 

Sandra Dacosta 

Aninda Chatterji 

AvaShanker Ganguly 

Boys' High School 

SJC Old Boys' Association-OBA 

Syed Qaisar Mehdi

Ash Burn

Friends

 Friends, Friendship & All That Fun

As a young boy growing up in Allahabad, friendships just happened. You didn’t have to think too much about it. If a boy lived down the road and liked to kick a ball, have a game of ‘ gully cricket’ , or play hide and seek till late in the evening   , he became your friend. Simple as that. No formalities, no conditions, just an easy, natural bond that grew over games, shared food, silly fights, and plenty of laughter.

I grew up in a charming little railway colony in Allahabad—my hometown, my heartland. Almost all the boys (and a brave few girls) were friends. We didn’t call it “hanging out” back then, but that’s exactly what we did. We played whenever time permitted. Weekends and holidays were less about family and more about friends.

We ate and drank in each other’s houses like we owned the place. And in a way, we did. Every adult was an uncle or aunty, and we walked in and out of all houses. You could be scolded by any grown-up on the avenue, and you didn’t go home in tears or launch into a “how dare you” protest. That was just how it worked—and honestly, it worked well. If some adults saw you up to mischief, you could be sure there would be a complaint!

Then came school. Friendships got a little more selective. I knew all my classmates, sure—but only had about three or four close friends. At St. Joseph’s, we cycled to school together almost every day. We played marbles, four corners, and a peculiar game called “Steps” with a tennis ball. I doubt anyone has heard of it recently and no one plays it for sure.

At the Boys’ High School, it was more of the same. Again, just three close friends. We ate lunch under a sprawling neem tree at the corner of the field, usually swapping tiffin. I remember their lunches tasting far better than mine—and I suspect they thought the same. That’s the beauty of friendship. Your friend’s humble sandwich suddenly becomes gourmet cuisine. We bunked school and got punished together. And when all the football and tennis balls had been taken away as a punishment by the prefects, we played football with a stone!

Outside school, there were colony friends and my bandmates—I played drums, rhythm guitar, and sang in a band—and these were bonds built through music, shared jokes, and hours of rehearsals that, if I may say so myself, were always perfectly in tune. We had rhythm, we had friendship.

Then came work. My first job was at Geep Flashlight Industries. Again—three close friends. A magical number. They were a decade older, but that didn’t matter. Every morning, they would cycle past my house, yell out my name, and I’d hop on and join them. We’d ride to work chatting about everything and nothing, laughing at the same stories again and again and cribbing about the boss.

Over the years, I’ve had wonderful colleagues I’ve grown fond of—but I’ve always kept work and friendship on separate tracks. A personal choice.

Even today, I have a few close friends. Just a few. But they are gold. We keep in touch, meet when we can—and for the past ten years or so, we’ve taken a group photo every year. A silly, symbolic threesome shot—now quite the joke among our wives.

With close friends, you don’t have to pretend. You can be your silly, sarcastic, vulnerable, ridiculous self. You talk nonsense, laugh at terrible jokes, and share absurd stories from long ago that no one else would understand—or find remotely funny. But your friends? They get it - They always do.

Friendship matters - Deeply - Because life—with all its seriousness, responsibilities, and deadline needs balance. And friends are that balance. They remind you of who you were and celebrate who you’ve become. They laugh with you, poke fun at your thinning hair and paunch, and still think you're the same wild one from the youthful days.

So yes—cherish your friends, stay in touch -  Make time. - Take the silly photo. Swap the tiffin. Share the stories. Laugh at the same old jokes and don’t ever let those childhood ways die out completely.

As I always say, the world may have moved on, but good friendships are timeless.

A lottery win

 I’ve Been Receiving Signs Lately That I’m Going to Win the Lottery

No, I’m not going to share what the signs are—at least not yet. Let’s just say the universe has been whispering, and I’ve been listening carefully. Some might call it wishful thinking; I prefer to call it quiet hope.

When I win (and yes, I’m confident it’s coming), I won’t make a fuss. No big social media posts, no flashing cheques. Only my immediate family will know—and even then, only the essentials. No need to invite the circus of curious distant relatives with sudden business ideas.

I’ve spent many of my daily walks planning this next chapter. You thought I was just getting exercise? I’ve been in serious conversations with myself—thinking, dreaming, deciding. The plan is set. All that remains is the win itself .

There won’t be flashy cars or globe-trotting adventures. That’s just not me. But you might notice subtle changes: perhaps a diamond stud in one ear, or a ponytail. Maybe some soft linen clothes, the kind that catch the breeze just right—somewhere between poet and retired band manager.

Maybe I’ll enjoy long walks, slow brunches, and conversations with people who really listen. I might even get a little fitter—both in body and mind. More stretching, more thinking, and less rushing.

Good company and close friends will still be my greatest treasures—sharing laughs, stories, and comfortable silences.

You’ll still find me writing. Always writing. After all, education has been my life—from teaching days in Allahabad, to years at Bishop’s in Pune, and now here in Dubai. I’ve shared laughter, debates, and discoveries with countless students and colleagues. Money can buy many things, but not the joy of a classroom smile or a shared story.

I won’t change completely. I’ll still meet childhood friends from Allahabad, sit with them over drinks, and tease each other like old times. Some things are too precious to be touched by wealth.

There will be small comforts: a quiet reading nook with a view, maybe a couple of Beatles vinyl records. Time to read, write, and play music without checking the clock. Time to sit quietly with a glass of fine cognac or wine, no agenda, just peace. Not a Tuscan villa, but a modest balcony, a cozy chair, and my cat Chanel curled up nearby, with a gentle breeze that asks no questions.

“We are such stuff as dreams are made on...”

—And quietly, without fuss or fanfare, I’ll let the dream unfold.