From Telex Tape to Thirteen Resignations
From Telex Tape to Thirteen Resignations
Every long career, I suspect, begins with something very small: a misplaced form, a kind word, a chance interview, or just the accident of where your name falls in the alphabet.
This piece grew out of a story “competition” among former Standard Chartered colleagues — a gentle nudge from friends to put our memories into words. I ended up going first, not because I was braver or more organised, but because my name begins with “D.” Sometimes life really is that arbitrary. I accepted my place near the top of the list with quiet satisfaction.
What follows is not a complete autobiography. It’s simply the main bends in the road, as I remember them now.
Alphabetical Advantage
I must begin, quite unfairly, by admitting that I was the first to share my story — not out of courage or brilliance, but because my name begins with the letter “D.” Life often arranges itself in these odd hierarchies. You learn to accept the advantages you’re given, even when they are purely alphabetical. I have taken my place near the front of the queue with quiet amusement.
Since this is a gathering of no fewer than 128 souls, I should probably introduce myself — though I have never been famous for keeping things short.
I am single. Or, more accurately, I have been separated for about sixteen years. Life doesn’t like leaving spaces empty. It rearranges. There have been two relationships since then — two companionable interludes. Those belong to another story, told on a slower evening. For now, it is enough to say they happened.
Some years ago, a clinical assessment told me I sit somewhere on the autism spectrum — Level 1. I accepted it with a kind of quiet amusement. It explained some things, softened others. I’ve come to believe we are all marked in some way — each with a small private peculiarity. It is through these uneven edges that we stay human, not by sameness but by difference.
I have four children and six grandchildren. Life, being fond of add‑ons, has also given me two step‑grandchildren. Eight in all. A full house, if not always a disciplined one.
My working life — especially the Standard Chartered years — takes some telling. I ask for your patience.
Leaving School, Finding Code
I was not an academic success. I left school after Grade 10, quite sure that more study was not for me. At sixteen, thanks to a mix of youthful confidence and a helpful letter from the Catholic hierarchy back in Sri Lanka, I got into a private university and wanted to be an accountant. It was a mistake. I was too young, too unsure. By eighteen, I slipped away quietly.
My father had a better sense of direction. He put me into a telecommunications school run by Cable and Wireless. That became the foundation for everything that followed.
A year after graduating, I landed in Dubai and joined the InterContinental Hotel as a telex operator. I wore a suit and tie. At that age, that felt like success. The work was easy. I was the youngest in the front office. But I had an advantage: I could read Baudot‑Murray code. It made me efficient. It also made me, in a small way, a problem.
My colleagues had learned on the job. I arrived with formal training, speed, and the clumsy confidence of youth. They were polite, but distant. In time, I realised my future lay elsewhere.
I still remember those evenings fondly, when the shift was over and friendships were simpler. The Goan (Indian) and Lankan lads I worked with then have remained my friends for life.
Within months, I began looking for something else.
Crossing the Creek
It came in the form of Chartered Bank — an English institution, run mostly by Englishmen, with a certain orderliness about it. I applied and was called in. Barry Northrop, the accountant and number two in the hierarchy, interviewed me. It was only my second interview ever. By some good fortune, he offered me the job on the spot.
The salary was AED 2510 a month. I was on AED 750. Feeling brave, I asked for AED 3000. Barry, amused, promised a raise after probation. I accepted.
Getting there was not as simple.
In those days, you didn’t just leave a job in Dubai. Contracts held you tightly. My passport was with the hotel. Breaking the contract meant risking deportation and a six‑month ban.
I decided to risk it.
For one month, I worked both jobs — eight hours at the bank, eight at the hotel. I crossed the creek by abra, slept very little, and lived mostly on determination. I lost a kilogram (I was 48 kgs and now down to 47kgs) but earned more money in that month than I had ever seen. It was a turning point.
In the end, Barry stepped in. The bank’s commercial manager drove me in a polished Mercedes‑Benz to Galadari’s office, the hotel owner. He spoke firmly in Arabic. My passport was handed back. With it came a sense of independence that has stayed with me.
That is how my life at the bank began.
Telex, Current Accounts, and Early Computers
I was a telex operator and took pride in it. There were only a few Sri Lankans then, though more arrived later. My knowledge of Baudot helped tighten communications across almost eighty locations. In my first month, I saved the bank a sizeable amount on telecom costs. A small win, but I remember it.
I also knew I wouldn’t stay there forever. I asked for a transfer and moved into Current Accounts.
One day, while I was sorting cheques, Adrian Turnbull tapped my shoulder. “Anyone can do what you are doing,” he said. “We have something better for you.” It was a casual remark. It changed everything. I moved into the early days of computerisation — word processing, PAS (which became BBS), and then PCs.
The bank was changing. Without noticing, I was changing with it.
Promotions followed: Assistant Officer, then Covenanted Officer. Teams grew. By 1990, I was managing around thirty people. Many have done well. One became an ambassador. I like to think those early years helped, in some small way.
Australia, Airports, and Seven Roles
And then, in my usual fashion, I changed direction.
With three children and what most would call a promising career, I left for Australia. No grand plan. Just a sense that it was time.
Within a month, I had signed a contract to build a house. Within three months, I was back with Standard Chartered — this time in Australia. The canvas was larger. I travelled across Asia — Japan, Korea, the Philippines, Vietnam, Hong Kong, Singapore, Kuala Lumpur, China — trying to balance airports and family life with a kind of restless energy.
In 1998, I left again.
There were years at AMP, helping build internet banking for several countries, and then roles at Westpac, National Australia Bank, and Commonwealth Bank. At one point, I had held seven roles at Westpac — thankfully not at the same time. Even now, that number makes me smile.
Government Work and a “Stanchart Baby”
In 2019, just when I was thinking of slowing down, life put another offer on the table. The New South Wales government wanted me to work on “customer experience” — which, in plain English, meant listening to people and trying to make things easier for them. It was different from what I’d done before, but curiosity tugged again. I said yes.
At home, life was forming its own patterns.
My eldest daughter married the son of a former colleague, Stewart Keuneman. Their little boy is what I call, with a private smile, a “Stanchart baby.” She is now an angel investor and philanthropist, raising him with Wendell, a venture capitalist who works in seed funding for startups. My second is a senior business partner in People and Culture; her partner is a construction manager, putting up real buildings for real businesses. My third is a Business Development Manager at Westpac Bank, his partner another BDM at St George Bank. The youngest works in marketing at a university; her partner is a graphic artist by day and a cattle farmer when the fields need him.
Thirteen Resignations and a Small School
I am still working, though I keep telling myself this will be the last year. I plan to quit — properly. When I counted recently, I realised I have left organisations thirteen times. In our group, I hope I come second to Raj in that particular statistic. First place, I suspect, is his.
In my quieter hours, when the phone falls silent, I spend time with young people — First Nation interns, transgender youth — trying to find their way through a complicated world. I try to listen more than I talk. I also help run our small family charity, working on climate change and girls’ education. Those things will matter long after my project plans are forgotten.
Not long ago, my daughter and her partner, Wendell Keuneman, son of Stewart of Stanchart fame, built a small school in central Sri Lanka for seventy‑five marginalised girls, in honour of the housemaid who once looked after my children in Dubai. She will be the chief guest at the opening. It feels like a circle drawn slowly and gently closed. Another happy moment, earlier on, was hearing that an orphaned boy I once helped had become a partner at PWC in Dubai. No headlines, just a quiet victory.
Roads That Bend Back
Looking back, the journey still surprises me. I was a restless boy who left school too soon, moving across countries and jobs without a clear plan. I drifted through continents, banks, government, FMCG, and energy, often guided more by instinct than certainty. I took risks in ignorance and hope, made mistakes that hurt, yet later turned into stories. Through it all, there was luck — quiet, unearned, and arriving just when it was needed.
If I was the first to tell this story, it was only because of the letter “D.” I have stayed to tell it because, when I sit still and listen to my own memories, the journey feels — quietly and stubbornly — worth writing down.
Many of you will remember names like Barry Northrop, Adrian Turnbull, Paul Rivers, David Gardiner, Barclay Butler, Eugene Ellis, Frederick Ferdinands, Ken Gibson, Mike Hyde, Tom Dunton, David Manson, Vishnu Mohan and Charles Gregory. For a long time, they were just colleagues, attached to certain rooms and titles. Over the years, they began to look more like old milestones on a familiar road — appearing again in other branches, other countries, other chapters.
I met them in various Standard Chartered offices long after Dubai. Small proof that, in banking as in life, roads bend back on themselves, and the people you think you’ve left behind are often just waiting a little further o
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