Eugene Ellis, the firebrand

Eugene Ellis, as some of you will remember, was the first Indian to smash through the bank’s glass ceiling and openly challenge the system. Here are my memories of that great, fearless firebrand.

5 min read2 days ago

Itall started in the mid‑seventies in Dubai, when men had sideburns, offices had ashtrays, and banks still behaved as if the British Empire had only stepped out for a cigarette.

I take the liberty of writing about Eugene Ellis as I saw him then, through the eyes of a very junior, very clueless youngster. When I joined, Eugene was nowhere in sight. He existed only as a rumour: “He’s from Bombay, you know… in London… being processed.” Processed by whom? By the high priests of the bank, of course.

As far as I understood it, Eugene had come from Mumbai (Bombay to all of us then) and had been sent to London to be sorted as a covenanted officer. When he finally returned, he mentioned, quite casually, that he was twenty‑six. I remember thinking, “That’s old.” From that one thought, you can estimate both my age and my grasp of age in general.

You may wonder what this mysterious six‑month disappearance was all about. In those days, if you were to be appointed an officer — equal to the British officer class — you had to be a COVENANTED officer. Being born a Catholic, the word “covenanted” for me lived firmly in the Old Testament. I associated it with Moses on a mountain, Abraham under the stars, and stone tablets. I half‑expected Eugene to return with two slabs of granite and ten new banking commandments.

When he did arrive, he turned out to be disarmingly human. Friendly, in fact. He spoke English, sprinkled with a few heroic Hindi words, all delivered in what I thought of as a slightly Anglo‑Saxon accent. He looked like the convent‑educated type. His father, however, was something else entirely.

In St Mary’s Church, his father was known as Pope Ellis. Not Father. Not Brother. Pope. In our circle, he was the chief acolyte, more powerful than the actual Italian Franciscan clergy. It was as if he had been appointed to keep the Catholic flock in order. If you wanted something done in church, you didn’t ask Rome, you asked Pope Ellis. Eugene, however, was the stark opposite of his father. I am not sure he went to church at all. He was, if anything, the family firebrand.

Eugene was married to Maria, who worked at Union Bank of the Middle East. They already had a little boy, and another child would arrive a year or so later. I remember him telling me the name — very Anglo, definitely not Indian — but as I write this, it’s gone from my head, like many other things from the seventies. All I remember is that it was spelt differently — typical of Eugene, always a little different from everyone else.

On his return to Dubai, Eugene became the dealer. The bank was in its glory days — only six years after the UAE (then still widely called the Trucial States) had parted ways with the British. The entire hierarchy of the bank was British, all neatly seconded from the UK. The manager, the accountant, a string of officers. They had villas, cars, maids, houseboys, gardeners, and all expenses paid. In the office, the Poms even had their own toilet. Asians were given a separate one. Apartheid by plumbing.

Eugene, the firebrand, was the first to crack that particular glass ceiling — Asian, Indian, and definitely non‑British.

That elevation did not come without fireworks. As the first Indian officer to really challenge the system, he was the perfect soldier to cut through what felt like enemy lines. He would get into heated arguments with the accountant, doors firmly closed. My cabin was next door. I couldn’t hear the words, but I had a front‑row view of the facial expressions. It was like watching a silent movie called “British Empire vs Bombay Boy”.

Soon after these clashes, Eugene would stride into my cabin, close the door, and let off steam. The room was virtually sound‑proof, which was just as well. That’s where I first learned words like “wanker”. Until then, I didn’t know what it meant, but I guessed from the emphasis that it wasn’t a compliment.

Another unforgettable thing about Eugene was his smoking. Back in those days, you could smoke inside offices and nobody blinked. His brand was Benson & Hedges. He always seemed to have a cigarette in his hand or hanging from his lips, like an extra piece of punctuation.

From time to time, he would announce boldly that he was going to quit and that Maria could support the family. It was a stirring speech, delivered many times. He never actually followed through. The bank, like Benson & Hedges, is harder to give up than you think.

But you can’t keep a good man down forever. Things began to change, slowly but surely. In the mid-eighties, along came Farouk Bengali, a Pakistani, as manager, and Peshi Nat, an Indian.. As the bank grew more accommodating to Asians, Eugene rose through the ranks and became Treasurer. He remained the same firebrand, and I remained his friend.

Around late eighties, Eugene finally did what he’d been threatening to do: he quit the bank in Dubai and moved to Sydney. By then, I too had become a covenanted officer — though, unlike Eugene, I wasn’t sent to do six months of penance in London. I simply signed an eight‑page legal contract. One clause I remember clearly: I had to give the bank six months’ notice if I ever wanted to leave. Apparently, my covenant was more paperwork than pilgrimage.

A year or so later, I met Eugene again in Sydney. He took me out to lunch at a posh down town restaurant. He was now Head of Corporate Banking there. Standard Chartered Australia was bigger than the UAE operation, with some 800 staff. I fell in love with Australia almost immediately and wanted to migrate. Eugene encouraged me with the enthusiasm of a man who had already escaped. One evening, he arrived in his car to pick up my wife and me for dinner at his home, where Maria had prepared a beautiful meal.

I went back to Dubai and Eugene tried to get the Australian office to arrange a transfer for me. But such things are rarely meant for ordinary specimens like me. I was not considered a valuable species.

So I did the only dramatic thing my eight‑page covenant allowed: I resigned. I handed in my letter in February, giving the bank six months’ notice, to take effect from August. If nothing else, Eugene had taught me that sometimes you don’t wait for the bank to redraw the lines.

You just step over them.