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.

The crash and the critics

 The Crash and the critics.

The recent and deeply unfortunate Air India crash has—right on cue—brought out the worms from the woodwork. Or, more accurately, the self-declared aeronautical engineers, cockpit veterans, aviation historians, and political theorists who have never so much as opened an aircraft manual, let alone flown a plane.

From their well-cushioned armchairs and with a phone in hand, these social media messiahs have already “solved” the crash. In their warped little minds, they know precisely what went wrong. They’ve figured it all out before the black box has even cooled.

The pilot erred, the runway was too short, the engineers were incompetent, the aircraft was ancient, Air India is doomed, Boeing is cursed, the airport authority is sleeping, the DGCA is clueless, the BJP is to blame, Congress didn’t plan the airport properly, and birds—yes, even birds—were probably in on the conspiracy.

As of this moment, Jawaharlal Nehru has not yet been blamed. But give it a day or two.

This, unfortunately, is what we’ve come to expect from the Twitterati and Facebook philosophers—an avalanche of conjecture drenched in ignorance and indignation. For them, every disaster is a chance to showcase their brilliance and seek their five seconds of digital fame. They type furiously, hashtags in place, opinions loaded, logic left behind.

But here’s the thing: catastrophic events like plane crashes are complex. They're investigated thoroughly by real experts—trained aviation analysts, accident investigators, pilots with thousands of hours of flying experience—not WhatsApp university graduates. Jumping to conclusions helps no one. Least of all the grieving families, the airline staff, and the real professionals trying to understand what went wrong to ensure it doesn’t happen again.

The problem is that the human brain—especially when overheated by emotion, caffeine, and conspiracy theories—tends to spiral. It fills the silence with noise. But that noise is not knowledge. It’s clutter. And it’s deeply disrespectful.

Here’s a thought: can we, for once, hit pause on our keyboards, breathe, and wait for the truth? Can we show restraint, compassion, and basic intelligence? Can we not weaponize a tragedy for likes, shares, and retweets?

Air travel, statistically, remains the safest mode of transport. You are far more likely to meet your end on a badly driven SUV on a highway than on a jetliner. But no one writes an angry thread blaming a tyre manufacturer when a bus tips over.

So let’s hold back the blame game, stop this morbid guessing contest, and instead offer something far more valuable: silence, empathy, and a prayer. A prayer for the souls who lost their lives. A prayer for their families. And a prayer that our humanity will, at some point, rise above the toxic clutter of half-baked commentary.

Let the professionals do their job. And let the rest of us do what we should—wait, listen, learn, and pray .

A lost art

 The Lost Art of Letters: A Stamp from the Past

While clearing out some old papers recently, I came across a bundle of greeting cards—birthdays, anniversaries, Christmas, Easter, get well soons, congratulations... all from my mother, who passed away some years ago.

She loved sending cards and writing letters.

Never just signed them—she wrote. A few lines about her life, questions about ours. Reading them brought back a flood of memories, and yes, a few tears. But mostly, it was that warm, fuzzy feeling. The kind that makes you pause and smile.

In today’s world of instant everything, who has time to write a letter, let alone post one? We’re all racing somewhere, with no time to stop and smell the roses—let alone try the road less taken or lie in bed doing absolutely nothing.

I grew up in the age of postcards, inlands, aerograms, and good old envelopes with stamps you actually licked (yes, we licked them—gross, but true). The joy of putting pen to paper is something this generation might never truly understand. It wasn’t fast, but it was real.

Now we’ve got WhatsApp, Messenger, and more acronyms than I can keep up with. Just yesterday, a former pupil messaged me from Canada. In one chat I learned: YMMD (You made my day), FACK (Fully acknowledge), IMHO (In my humble opinion), and TIA (Thanks in advance). Polite, yes. Personal? Not quite.

We've traded handwritten letters, pen pals, and even love letters for likes, LOLs, and disappearing messages. But no emoji will ever match the impact of a handwritten note that says, “I’m thinking of you.”

Letters and cards are timeless. They say, you matter. That someone took the time to sit, write, seal, stamp, and send. That’s not just communication—that’s connection.

Maybe it's time we brought that back. Write a card. Lick a stamp (if you're brave). Post a letter. You might just make someone’s day—no abbreviation required.

Where has the postman gone

 

Where Has the Postman Gone?

Growing up in quaint old Allahabad—back when ceiling fans groaned and neighborhood gossip travelled faster than any telegram—the postman was an essential thread in the fabric of our daily life.

Dressed in his crisp khaki uniform, jhola (satchel) slung over one shoulder, and pedaling his bicycle with the practiced ease of a man who knew every by-lane and gate, the postman was more than a government employee—he was almost family. Everyone knew their postman by name, and he knew your entire family tree by memory.

He brought news from relatives, birthday and anniversary cards, inland letters filled with hand-written updates, and—around Christmas—a veritable avalanche of greeting cards. Five or ten would sometimes arrive on a single day. We’d line them up proudly on the mantelpiece. And come Christmas, we always remembered the postman with a plate of cookies and a bit of baksheesh, which he accepted with a shy nod and a grateful smile. It was his due, and he’d earned it.

And then there was the money order man—not always the same as the postman, mind you—who was another significant figure in the cast of everyday characters. He carried cash wrapped in a simple slip of paper that resembled a large postcard. There was a little space where the sender could write a few affectionate words: "For sweets and crackers – Happy Diwali!" or "Happy Birthday – buy something fun!"

We'd wait eagerly as he counted out the crisp notes from his pouch. A five- or ten-rupee note was quite the windfall in those days—a small fortune to a school-going child! The formality of signing up to receive the money made it feel even more official and exciting. And just like the telegram man and the postman, he too knew which houses held chatty aunties, which kids would run up the lane at the sight of him, and which homes handed over a glass of water or a fruit before he left.

And who could forget the telegram man—usually appearing after dusk, when shadows lengthened and households grew wary. His arrival was almost cinematic, and certainly ominous. Telegrams rarely brought  good news. In fact, his knock at the door was often followed by someone whispering, "Oh no… who’s died?" His was the duty no one envied.

For a few years in school, results were sent home by post. Those were nerve-racking days! If you’d done well, you strutted to the gate and took the envelope with pride. If not, you lay in wait like a secret agent, ready to intercept your own doom. Many of us perfected the art of waylaying the postman to “retrieve” our report card before it fell into parental hands.

And then, of course, there were the love letters. Ah, the innocent thrill of romance conducted via pen and post. Teenagers would pour their hearts onto scented paper, perhaps add a lipstick kiss or two, seal it with trembling fingers and await a reply with hope and dread in equal measure. The joy of receiving one—hearts drawn in red ink, maybe even the word “forever” in swirly cursive—was incomparable. No emoji, however animated, can ever hope to match that.

But times have changed.

Quietly, without fanfare, India Post discontinued its 135-year-old money order service—a legacy that began in 1880, delivering funds across India from over 155,000 post offices. Like the telegram before it, it slipped away into history, overtaken by instant digital transfers and blinking phone notifications.

Today, everything is instantaneous. Letters have been replaced by emails, cards by e-greetings, and handwritten words by emojis. The only things that arrive by post now are bank statements, utility bills, or the occasional defiant wedding invitation.

Still, perhaps in faraway villages, where time moves slower and memories last longer, the postman pedals on—his bicycle bell echoing faintly down dusty roads, his khaki uniform still neat, his jhola still heavy with meaning.

For those of us who grew up with envelopes, stamps, and ink-smudged fingers, he lives on—in memory, in sepia-toned photos, and in stories that begin with “Remember when…”

Where has the postman gone?

Maybe nowhere at all. Maybe he’s just waiting—between folded pages and forgotten letters—for someone to remember him like I did this morning .