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Tuesday, 12 May 2026

25 years with GEMS

 25 Years with GEMS Education — A Journey of Gratitude

On the 1st of May 2026, I complete 25 years with GEMS Education—a journey that has been deeply meaningful to me, both personally and professionally.
When I first arrived in the United Arab Emirates, it was with a simple plan to stay for a few years and then return home. I did not imagine that life would unfold here in such a lasting and fulfilling way. Over time, the UAE became home in every sense. It is a country defined by vision, safety, openness, and respect for people from all walks of life. It creates opportunity, embraces diversity, and allows people to grow and contribute with dignity. I remain sincerely grateful for all it has given me.
My journey within GEMS has brought many opportunities to learn and serve. I began as Headmaster at Dubai Modern Academy, then spent 14 very special years as Principal of The Millennium School Dubai. Over the years, I have also served as Vice President – Education, Senior Vice President, and now Executive Vice President.
Along the way, I have been involved in opening and developing schools, supporting recruitment, representing GEMS at teacher training colleges in India, speaking at forums, and leading leadership development programmes. I currently oversee six large schools within the Our Own Cluster, supporting over 30,000 students along with hundreds of dedicated teachers and staff.
I have never really seen these as positions, but rather as trust placed in me—to serve with sincerity, consistency, and care.
If I reflect on these years, what has stayed with me is a simple belief: stay committed, stay consistent, and always approach work with honesty and respect for people. I have tried to remain grounded, keep things simple, be decisive when needed, and focus on getting things done well—while helping others do the same.
In school leadership, I have always believed our first responsibility is to serve students well and earn the trust of parents, who place immense faith in us. Their partnership and feedback remain central to everything we do.
Working in education is a privilege. Being around children is a daily reminder of hope, possibility, and the importance of nurturing every young life with care.
I have been fortunate to work with many colleagues—teachers, leaders, and support staff—whose dedication and kindness have shaped this journey. Whatever I may have contributed has always been part of a collective effort, and I remain deeply grateful for the relationships and friendships built over the years.
I would also like to acknowledge our Founder and Chairman, Mr Sunny Varkey, an exceptional leader whose humanitarian vision and philanthropy have shaped GEMS with deep purpose; Mr Dino Varkey, Chief Executive Officer, whose calm and focused leadership brings clarity and stability; and Mr Jay Varkey, Deputy Chief Executive Officer, whose energy, humility, and warmth continue to inspire those around him. I would also like to express my sincere appreciation to Mrs. Shirley Varkey, whose quiet strength and grace have been a steady presence in the GEMS journey. I also fondly remember Madam Varkey, whose warmth, simplicity, and kindness left a lasting impression on all who knew her.
I am also grateful to MS Lisa Crausby - OBE – Group Chief Education Officer , and the Senior Leadership team at GEMS for their guidance, trust, and steady support over the years.
As I complete 25 years, I do so with a heart full of gratitude—for the journey, the people, the learning, and the trust placed in me.
I remain thankful to be part of this story and continue to find deep meaning in the work we do every day in education.
I thank almighty God for his blessings.
Thank you, GEMS. Thank you, UAE.
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Carbon paper

 Carbon Paper

How many remember carbon paper?
That thin blue-black sheet that quietly sat in drawers and then blackened everything it touched. Fingers first. Then face. Then, somehow, your white school shirt.
And one sheet lasted forever. Folded, crumpled, flattened, reused. Again and again. It became faint, tired, half-dead—but still in service. Nobody threw carbon paper away.
We used it for tracing too. One careful drawing, steady hand… and then one small slip. A long black drag mark across the page. Finished. Start again.
Then came typing class. Paper in, carbon in between, keys hit hard. Out came two copies—one clear, one ghostly—and both with fingerprints stamped on them for free.
And yes, some bright sparks in school discovered another use—copying signatures. Teacher’s signature. Parent’s signature. Even the Principal’s grand flourish on report cards. For a few hours, they felt very clever.
Then a teacher looked closely and said,
“Interesting signature. Why is your thumbprint next to it?”
End of story.
Children today have copy-paste.
We had carbon paper—
copy, smudge, stain, and occasional scandal.
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We don't fix things anymore

 WE DON'T FIX THINGS ANYMORE

From repair culture to replace culture—how time, status and convenience reshaped what we discard
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Growing up in Allahabad, a quiet North Indian city on the banks of the Ganges, broken things rarely stayed broken in our minds. They were simply waiting—unfinished, not over. A torn school bag, a punctured tyre, a silent radio—none of it felt like an ending. Only a delay in repair.
There was an unspoken rule: if it could be fixed, it would be fixed.
Wastage was frowned upon almost instinctively. “Why buy new if it can be repaired?” was common sense, not advice.
Shoes went to the cobbler until they were barely the same pair. Bicycle tires carried layers of puncture repairs like memory. School bags survived years of use with stitching, patches and reinforcement that made them stronger with time. Furniture wobbled for decades, held together by nails, gum, tacks and refusal to discard.
Repair was practical, not polished. Gum, cello tape, nails, hammer, needle and thread—whatever was available became the toolkit of survival. Broken handles were tied back. Loose joints tightened. Cracked buckets were given “one more chance” that often lasted years.
Every neighbourhood had its repair men—the cobbler, tailor, cycle repair man, carpenter, electrician, mechanic. Small shops filled with grease, spare parts and quiet confidence that most things could be fixed.
Every home had a toolbox, and young boys and men were expected to be reasonably adept at repair—taps, switches, pipes, hen coops, hedges, gates… you name it. Fixing things was part of growing up, not an optional skill.
The radio repair shops were the most fascinating. Radios lay open like mechanical puzzles—coils, valves, wires, tiny components exposed like secrets. Yet with patience and a soldering iron, silence would become sound again. A flicker, a crackle—and music returned as if nothing had ever gone wrong.
Gramophones and record players were treated with equal care. Needles were replaced, turntables adjusted, static patiently removed. Nothing was discarded while it still had a second life.
This habit extended into homes without instruction. Sewing machines were permanent fixtures—heavy, reliable, always ready. Sewing kits held threads, needles, buttons, hooks and safety pins in old tins. Clothes were mended without fuss. Socks were darned, seams stitched, tears closed as routine. A missing button was incidental, not waste.
Books too were preserved, not replaced. School textbooks were stitched when they fell apart. Torn pages were pasted with gum. Brown paper covers were renewed repeatedly. Even notebooks were reinforced, because wasting pages was unthinkable.
The principle was simple: use carefully, repair quickly, discard rarely.
That world has quietly slipped away—and with it, a fundamental shift in how we relate to objects.
Time has become the decisive factor. It is often quicker and more convenient to buy new than to wait days for a repair. What once demanded patience is now replaced at the drop of a hat. Repair, in many cases, feels inconvenient and out of step with modern life.
There is also a social dimension. Objects are no longer only used; they are seen. Phones, cars and everyday items signal taste, status and position. To replace is to appear updated and relevant. Keeping up has become an unspoken paradigm shift in behaviour rather than a conscious choice.
Modern life adds further pressure—more guests, more expectations, more visibility. Homes are more exposed, lifestyles more compared. What once stayed private is now constantly on display. In such a setting, repair can feel like falling behind rather than being resourceful.
And waste has followed naturally. Food is bought in excess, stored in abundance, and discarded in equal measure. Refrigerators are full beyond need. Cupboards overflow. Consumption has drifted from necessity into habit—often wasteful without intent.
The shift is subtle but unmistakable—from repair as instinct to replacement as reflex.
And somewhere in that shift, something quieter has gone missing: not just thrift, but respect—for things, for effort, and for the simple dignity of making something last.
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What We Learnt at School—and What We Needed to Know

 


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What We Learnt at School—and What We Needed to Know
Having spent most of my working life in education, I should begin with a disclaimer: this is a light-hearted reflection, written with respect, gratitude, and a dash of cheek. For all the good schooling gave us, there are moments when one wonders whether so much time needed to be spent on logarithms, rhombuses, and the reproductive habits of flowers.
I spent a good part of my school years learning trigonometry, logarithms, and the properties of a rhombus—knowledge that, hand on heart, has not once been used in everyday life. Not once in a supermarket aisle have I thought, “Now is the moment for sine and cosine.” Nor have I ever been rescued in conversation by a four-sided figure with equal sides.
There was also the business of quadratic equations, compass-drawn circles, chemical equations, and stalactites and stalagmites—useful perhaps if one is ever stranded in a cave with a ruler, a chemistry set, and an exam paper.
Then came the classics: two trains leaving different stations at different speeds, calculating when they meet—or the length of a platform that could have been measured in a minute with a tape and some common sense. I always wondered why trains were involved at all, and why they always seemed to be travelling at what can only be described as emergency velocity.
Much of school life involved memorising capitals, rivers, mountain ranges, flower parts, and enough of the periodic table to sound confident for forty-five minutes in an exam hall—before much of it quietly faded soon after.
There were also the rituals: books wrapped in brown paper, headings underlined in red, margins drawn with precision, pencils sharpened to a point, and the belief that neat handwriting reflected character. Learning often meant repetition, and repetition was presented as understanding.
Yet many of the things that matter most in life were barely touched.
How money works. How to speak so people listen. How to listen properly. How to handle failure. How to disagree without conflict. How to build relationships. How to think in a noisy world. How to manage stress, sleep, food, and health. How to bend without breaking when life throws a googly.
These lessons were learned elsewhere—through experience, mistakes, and people who stepped in when it mattered most.
Thankfully, that picture is changing fast.
Schools are moving away from the old factory model: rows of silent children, all taught the same thing, expected to memorise and reproduce it, and then move on. In its place is a more connected and practical approach to learning.
There is now greater emphasis on understanding over memorising, skills over repetition, curiosity over compliance, and application over recall. Learning is being drawn closer to the real world students will enter.
Communication, collaboration, creativity, resilience, problem-solving, digital awareness, wellbeing, and ethical thinking are no longer optional extras. They are central to education.
Knowledge still matters. But in a world where information is instantly available, discernment matters more. The real skill is knowing what to trust, what to question, and how to think clearly.
That, ultimately, is what education should aim for—not simply to fill minds, but to shape them to think, adapt, and grow.
And while I remain quietly grateful that I can still recognise a rhombus at fifty paces, I’m glad the next generation may leave school better prepared for life—not merely for exams, but for the far messier business of living it.
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