Best moments Professionally, when I made the switch from Lever to Tata, and personally, the day I got married
Toughest moment Grappling with the case of the missing million dollars at Lever
Mentors Bhau Phansalkar, Bipin Shah, and Ashok Ganguly
Sounding board Ashok Ganguly, Ishaat Hussain
Best advice I ever got You can solve problems by sharing with others, you don’t have to lead your life all alone
Best management lesson learnt Each time I got a great management lesson, I wrote a book! In essence, intuition + self awareness + obligation + empathy = Great leadership
Success means Shagirdi: if you have been able to influence those who have been part of your journey
Cherished memory Those years of rat race – getting promoted without hankering for it. Very few experience the joy of not having to fight for one’s promotion
Favorite songs ‘Main Zindagi Ka Saath Nibhata Chala Gaya’ from Hum Dono as it encapsulates how I traversed my journey and ‘Kahin Door Jab Din Dhal Jaaye’ from Anand as it brings back all the memories of a lifetime
***
Ancestry is a fascinating subject, which very few of us really know about. While Alex Haley traced his African American lineage back to 200 years, I traced my family roots back to 1823 — a good six generations back — to a small little village called Vilakuddi, in what was then known as Thanjavur district.
There was a small temple where my ancestor was the priest. Four generations down was my father, who had no desire to stay back — overcoming a mild polio affliction and his father’s protective instinct, he chose to migrate to a distant city, Calcutta.
With no great formal education, he struggled initially, but managed to find a job as a stenographer. He went on to become an accountant, before landing senior roles in companies. I find it fascinating how, over generations, the family completely changed its trajectory. The tradition in the family was to value scholarship of a certain kind, different from studying engineering or mathematics, and to live a modest life.
I was born when Lord Archibald Wavell was the first Viceroy of India, just before Mountbatten, and after World War ii. Calcutta was my hometown till 21 years. Being fluent both in Tamil and Bengali meant that people in Bengal felt I was a Tamilian masquerading as a Bengali and folks back in my village believing I was a Bengali masquerading as a Tamilian!
I studied at Jesuit-run St Xavier’s Collegiate School, managed by Belgian priests. And one of the things that really impressed me was their scholarship. They were at ease teaching Sanskrit and Hindi. The teacher who taught us religion was equally familiar with the Bible and the Bhagavad Gita.
Very early on, my dad instilled in me the importance of physical fitness. When I was eight, I started playing tennis and that’s how I met India’s first tennis maestro Dilip Bose. He was a tough task master and never allowed the kids to let their guard down, when we used to play at the Bengal Lawn Tennis Association. While he taught us the finer nuances of the game, he ensured that we stayed fit by making us scamper across the court.
His one advice, which then sounded a bit weird to me as a kid, was “the body is the only car you will have for life”. The importance of physical health has only grown over the years and I still continue to play tennis.
In school, I had to learn lots of languages. It was too complicated for me. We spoke Tamil at home. When I went to school we spoke English. When I went to the market I had to speak Bengali. And since Hindi was a national language, I had to learn Hindi. My mother insisted I should learn Sanskrit too, because that was the mother language. Later on, she thought it was a good idea for me to learn German too, in the hope that I could go to Germany to study. In all, I ended up studying six languages, though I can read Bengali better than I read Tamil. It’s just fascinating how place of birth and upbringing can shape an individual. It’s like in billiards, you hit one ball and it ends up moving a third and, eventually, the fourth ball is pocketed.
***
After completing my Physics Honours, I went to IIT Kharagpur to pursue engineering. Those days there was no campus recruitment. But something interesting happened to me, between my BSc Physics Honours and my BTech Honours at IIT. A Jesuit, who was my teacher and rector of the college, told me that he had been asked by a firm in Calcutta to recommend two bright students. “They will most certainly hire you. Do you want me to recommend you?” This was 1964.
Now, if you’re born and raised in Calcutta, there’s a place there called Fairlie Place. It was equivalent to Ballard Estate in Bombay and, if you got a job there, in those days, meant you had arrived in life — you got a princely salary of Rs 450 and got to live in Moira Street or Park Street. I was more than eager to take up the opportunity.
Surprisingly, I was put through several rounds of interviews, and was finally told to meet the managing director. It felt a bit over the top that an entry-level trainee was being interviewed by the top boss.
But, as it turned out, it was a fortuitous one. The managing director, Mr. Mohi Das, had a pleasant disposition and after a few rounds of questions, he leaned forward, saying, “I don’t intend to offend you, but does the family really need you to work? If they do, you have the job.” I was a bit taken aback, but replied, “No, my dad has never shown any signs that he is short of money. I just think it will be great to work with a wonderful company like yours.” His response was: “You have the job. But I want you to talk about this to your dad and mum, and tell us.”
Those days my parents were in Bombay, so I rang up my dad. He was furious: “Who the hell told you to go and look for a job, and then you are asked a question whether you need the job while I am still alive? Don’t embarrass me. If you want to study further do that, but I don’t want you to take up this job.” I went back rather sheepishly to Das and told him what had transpired. He said: “I think you did the right thing, because I finished my career with just a degree. But I feel when you are at the peak of your career you have to study a bit more.” That conversation influenced me to pursue engineering at IIT.
Call it what you will, but in life there comes a moment when a fairy or an angel or just a stroke of luck puts you on the right track. Had it not been for Mr. Das, I would have ended up working for a shipping company which eventually shut shop years later.
***
I was 21 when I graduated from IIT. Suggestions came in from friends to study management at IIM. After making some enquiries, I felt the whole thing sounded flaky and it would be better to land a job.
I was growing desperate because it wasn’t easy finding a job those days. But, luckily for me, one thing Bengal taught me that phaanki-baazi (idleness) can be a virtue at times. During one of those idle days, I remember it vividly, January 8, 1967, with four months left to graduate, The Statesman carried an ad from Hindustan Lever (HLL) which wanted to recruit engineers as computer-system analysts.
I had chosen computers as my final year elective. I sent a handwritten application, and wasn’t really expecting a call. But I did get a call to come to HLL’s office at Fairlie Place. Here was my chance at the good life again. But what I faced in Calcutta, after three years in Kharagpur, was the beginning of its decline. The Left Front had taken over and the unions were strong. At Lever’s office, unions were on the offensive with placards. “Down with the management, no introduction of computers.” And there I was being recruited to be a systems analyst. It is one thing to read about it in the newspaper but quite another to face it. It is terrifying.
My final interview, however, was in Bombay, and here came along another angel — an Englishman named Scott Burney. During the interview, as he kept chewing one end of a pencil, he said: “You want to be a computer engineer and that’s fine. But I think you may make a good marketer. Will you sell me this pencil?” He gave me the pencil that resembled a daatun. But then I made a pitch to him about the lead being very strong and the wood being very old wood and so on. At the end of the interview, he said: “I think you will make a good marketing guy. If you ever change your mind, knock on my door.” I thought to myself that there was no way I was going to be in sales or marketing after being an engineer.
A few months later, I joined as a computer engineer trainee and three weeks later was given a ticket to go to Nasik as a salesman for Surf and Dalda! I told my immediate superior that I don’t want to do sales and marketing but was told that I cannot write computer code or appreciate numbers if I didn’t understand the insides of the business. Everybody had to go through this training — work as a salesman, as a supervisor, as a godown keeper and so forth.
I had no choice but to set foot for the first time out of Bombay and into a small town called Nasik. I didn’t know a word of Marathi and here my job was to promote Surf. Those were the days of galvanised-tin buckets which left red rings on the floor of bathrooms! Since Surf was about putting the contents in a bucket and lathering, we inevitably had to promote buckets too.
I believe all the detergent makers back then — HLL, Swastik Oil Mills and Tata Oil Mills — should take the credit for the birth of the plastic industry in this country. There was a little company in Calcutta called Brite Brothers, which made plastic buckets, and HLL was a big buyer. Our sales pitch was: buy six packets of Surf and get a bucket free. The formula worked.
In marketing, selling a new idea is very different from extending a brand into new products. I realised that when I went to smaller towns such as Igatpuri and Pimpri Gaon, and little villages. The folks there wondered, “How can my banian be cleaned by just ducking it into water with froth on the top?” So, our task was to get somebody to take his shirt off and we’d wash his banian. We got some pretty dirty and smelly banians.
At IIT, I had become a little “famous” because I was the only chap who had a job four months before graduation with a salary of Rs 650. My mates thought I had made it big, and here I was washing other people’s innerwear! My biggest fear then was ‘what if any of my IIT mates see what I was doing?’ And, boy, it did happen!
To my horror, in a small town called Ojhar next to Deolali, I bumped into an IIT friend. He was surprised: “What are you doing here? What is the blue packet in your hand?” When I told him what I was doing, he was aghast: “Gopal, how can you do this? What happened to all that electronics and server mechanisms and computers?” I was squirming but tried to put a straight face and said: “Listen, in a job, you have to learn all the ropes. But please don’t tell anybody that you saw me here!”
It was most embarrassing but, I believe, in life everybody is a salesman. If you are a managing director or a country’s minister trying to sell an idea but you think it is below your dignity to market it, then you are missing the big picture.
Eight years into my job, I had become a regional sales manager. On a visit to Jalandhar, I had to work with one of my subordinates who was twice my age. Given my engineering background, I used to carry a little diary in my pocket to make detailed analysis of each sales call. After each call, I would measure time spent on greeting, on product presentation and on selling. I found that this gentleman, Mr. Sood, instead of spending time selling the product, was greeting people and exchanging niceties: “Oye pappey ki haal hai! What is the news of your grandchild? How was the wedding in the family?”
So, over lunch, I told him that my analysis showed that he was not doing a great job at selling the product. His response was: “So, what should I do?” I said that he needed to cut down the amount of time spent on niceties and focus more on the product. He replied, “Yeah, it’s a very good point and I never thought about it.” It puffed up my ego. Then he said: “In the afternoon, why don’t you do the calls and show me how to do it?”
I had three options. First, I could cite my seniority, and say, “What the hell! I am your boss. You are telling me to do your job!” Second, I could be submissive and agree. Third, show that I can do the job, if you are testing me. So, I ended up choosing the third.
That afternoon, from shop to shop, I made my presentation, 70% of which was on the product. But, the guys did not seem interested. As I was leaving for the day, Mr. Sood put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Listen, I am very happy with what you have done. As my boss you did not hesitate to do my work, though you sucked at it! I hope you realise that you must have the warmth of a relationship before you can sell your product. You couldn’t do that because you didn’t know a thing about your customer. I have attended weddings of customers, I know their children, I know their children’s children. I will do what you want me to do but I am not going to change what has worked for me for all these years.”
I came back pretty chastened.
Partly, I was very happy that I took the gauntlet and partly, that I had learnt a valuable lesson that one cannot fake relationships. The more you spend time on relationships the better it becomes. You can’t be a general if you are not willing to share the pain of a soldier. If you are not willing to do the menial work that you ask your subordinates to do, then you can never be a leader.
***
While my early days at HLL was all about learning, it also led to some great relationships that I still cherish. As a hostel-experienced, starving young man, I was 50 kg with a near 6-ft frame. I, however, had competition from Labdhi Bhandari. He had similar statistics, but was from IIM-A. Compared to other trainees, I was very young, just over 21 years of age, while Labdhi was yet to hit 19!
While I joined the computer department as an analyst, Labdhi joined the marketing department. In due course, he became the assistant brand manager for washing products. It was clear to all the recruits that Labdhi was exceptionally bright. While we were operational by temperament, Labdhi was cerebral.
Three years later, around the end of 1970, Labdhi was the first from our batch to be promoted to “Grade 2.” Labdhi got a cabin to himself as the head of market research in the Management Services Group, while we had to share a cabin with a colleague. Labdhi would get invited to certain meetings where we would be requested to “be available”. There was tension and jealousy, but in a collegial way.
To Labdhi’s credit, not once did he flaunt his new found status. It was merely an event, just the luck of a draw. But, unexpectedly, he had begun to sound discontented. “Who wants to spend a lifetime selling soaps and toiletry products,” he would ask. “Surely, we were destined to do better things?” “Like what?” “Like teaching and research!” I thought he was being pretentious. Why would anyone chuck a terrific job in a premier company?
But to our great surprise, he did quit to teach at his alma mater. He was the first to tell me: “We must enjoy what we do and do what we enjoy.”
***
Despite five years of strenuous effort by my colleagues and me, the management decided to shut the newly formed computer department down. With licence raj and price controls, it was proving to be an expensive affair. As luck would have it, I bumped into Burney. I told him I was looking for other opportunities. He said, “Do you remember my offer? If you change your mind, come and see me? You can have a career in this company, rather than look for a career in computers elsewhere.” I took up the offer. I learnt from him that, as a leader, you have to take an interest in people. You don’t have to do big things, just be authentic.
It’s here that I first met Bhau Phansalkar, HLL’s general sales manager and one of my first bosses. He had a very large view of life. Though he was number-focused, he knew where to draw the line by not going overboard. For instance, we were going to launch a soap brand in the ’70s and the brand team had made an AV in which war was declared on the competition. It was sort of a violent film with fighter planes, bazookas and explosions. The team was excited and so was the agency, which believed that it would pump up sales.
But Phansalkar said, “I don’t approve of this film. At the end of the day, you’re selling soap. It is destructive to use war as a theatre.” Then, his view seemed narrow-minded and petty. But, his authority prevailed. He then explained: “You may be religious, but don’t impose your religion on others. In the same way, you may follow the happenings from the World War ii, but don’t carry it so far as to sell a soap.” I learnt from him that you can be passionate about other things beyond work too.
***
Hindustan Lever was and continues to be a competitive place with a lot of competent people. Promotions were given, not at regular intervals, but based on performance. I have never had to ask for my next promotion. It was always a pleasant surprise when somebody called me and said, “Hey, we would like you to take up the next assignment.”
At one point, I was asked to head the exports department. I had a boss, Mr. Bipin Shah, who also turned out to be a fine mentor. I could write a book on the lessons he taught me. There were so many. He showed me simple ways of calculating whether a particular project or product was efficient or not, and if it was worth chasing. If I learnt intuitive commercial sense, it is because of him. If I have to list my HLL mentors, there was Bipin Shah, Bhau Phansalkar and then Ashok Ganguly, who was the-then HLL chairman.
Following a successful stint in exports, I was told to join the board by Mr. Ganguly in 1987. A delighted Labdhi came home to wish me. The old, petty jealousies of youth were gone. We had a great evening together. Unfortunately, on October 19, 1988, an early morning Bombay-Ahmedabad plane crashed. With that, India had lost a light, and I had lost a friend.
***
At 41-42, when you make it to the board, you feel you have made it. So, here I was, a bit chuffed and a bit bloated. One day, Mukesh (Micky) Pant, who used to work with me, called up to say that he suspected that the numbers weren’t adding up. I sent him to Dubai to get more details. He called me at 6 o’clock in the morning saying, “I think there’s a fraud. I can’t find a million dollars.”
Now I was in a dilemma. When you can’t find a million dollars, and I’m talking about 1987, you’re instinct is let’s find out more details before blowing the whistle. The second instinct was to go and say I’m in trouble; I need help. And the third was to pretend as if nothing had happened, and let the problem sort itself out.
I, however, went to Mr. Shah and told him, “It sounds a bit silly, but I can’t find a million dollars, and I don’t know what’s going on.” As usual, he gave me his elder brotherly advice: “Listen, these things happen. When you’re in a hole, it is better to seek help than to dig yourself deeper into it. You’ll try to investigate, rumours will start. Instead, just walk across the corridor to Mr. Ganguly, and tell him that you need help.”
Now, the image of a leader that we have created in management is a blue-eyed and self-sufficient person who is always in the know. And here I was, just appointed director, going to tell my chairman that I don’t know what tsunami has hit me.
But I did approach Mr. Ganguly who was initially taken aback. Within an hour, the head of legal, head of treasury and head of finance were all called into the room. Mr. Ganguly said, “We have a little emergency here. We have got to help Gopal.” It was probably a fraud, though we couldn’t conclusively prove it. But, in the days of FERA, a million dollars in foreign exchange could have caused a bad reputation. Voluntarily, HLL went to the RBI and the Finance Ministry, and told them that it was a genuine error of controls, which would be set right. Eventually, the matter was resolved.
But, that’s not the important thing. We grew up reading things such as “Lal Bahadur Shastri resigned as Railway Minister when there was an accident.” I was feeling very heroic and I offered to quit. But Ganguly told me, “When you create a mess, you sort out the mess. Stick around, because walking away for someone else to clear the mess is not a hero’s choice.”
It was a good lesson for me. I would say that the company spent a million dollars giving me the most expensive management lesson in the world. I learnt how to learn from trouble because it is an opportunity in disguise. Later on, when I went to Harvard, the course cost me relatively lesser, only $40,000! Though I stayed on at HLL, I was afraid that my career would suffer. But HLL posted me as the chairman of Unilever Arabia.
***
I knew a little bit about Saudi Arabia, but not much. When I landed in London, I went to the sixth floor of Unilever House and was told: “Welcome! The war has begun!” Because, that night, Iraqi troops had invaded Kuwait and war was declared. So the next three to four months were tense, personally.
I moved to Saudi Arabia, after eight months, with my family. Thankfully, by then the war was over. It was an era of post-war spending and a good time for doing business. Incidentally, it was when I took one of the most important decisions in my life. When I took over, Unilever Arabia was running a project called Witch Hunt and had already spent millions of dollars, over four years, on market research. It was done to take on P&G by creating a new product. However, I believed that the initiative was going nowhere. I was in a dilemma whether to continue a project that the past CEOs had persisted with or put forward my thoughts. I conveyed my reservations to the head office in London, and they saw merit in what I said. It gave me confidence as a leader and reinforced a learning that true professionalism is about taking a decision and not postponing it. However, there were trying personal circumstances that changed me as a person as well.
I had the habit of reading Sundara Kandam in Ramayana. You had to read it without a break. It usually took about 45 days to finish, reading one or two chapters every day. So, I had to carry the book with me. During a customs check at Riyadh, the security personnel pulled out the book which had a picture of Hanuman. “Who is this monkey? Is he a God? You can’t bring in your God!” They threw away my book. I was very touchy about these small things as religion was my private affair. Luckily, my wife was in Tirupati at that time and I told her to bring me another copy of the Ramayana, which she brought two days later. I had even managed to smuggle in a small idol of Krishna and, in the privacy of our room, we would perform our puja.
It was during this time that the Babri Masjid demolition happened. I still remember the date — December 6, 1992. It was terrifying as, three weeks later, I got an anonymous telephone call from a person, who spoke in Urdu, saying, “I’m calling from Riyadh. You have three children. I think you should leave the kingdom and go away quickly because harm is going to come to you.” I shot back, “Who are you? And why are you telling me all this?” He said, during a meeting in a mosque in Riyadh, a fatwa was issued that there are 10 non-Muslims who are earning lots of money in Saudi Arabia and sending it back to India to fund the demolition of mosques. “You happen to be named as one of them,” he said.
I rang up Unilever HQ and was advised to see the British Ambassador in Saudi Arabia. I also rang up Lever’s local partner, who said, “You should go and see the governor of Mecca.” I went to see the governor of Mecca, who then explained what had happened.
A bunch of militants had gone to a mosque to pray on a Friday and told the gathering there that all the Hindus in India are out breaking mosques, and Babri was only one such example. They told the crowd that the money was being channeled through us. In times like these, religion becomes a touchy subject. For the first and the only time in my life, I was a minority in another country.
I had always wondered why is there so much fuss about minorities in India? We are such an open society. And for the first time, I realised, merely because I’m a Hindu, merely because I’m earning some money, it is assumed that I’m breaking mosques. It is assumed that a person with a certain name or of a certain appearance is harmful to the country or its majority. It is extremely erroneous.
I went to see the British Ambassador and subsequently the Indian Ambassador. I said, “I’m not going to get shot on the streets of Jeddah. I have a partner, a local partner, and it could be disreputable for him to have my head smashed in the middle of the road.” You start imagining these things. And the governor of Mecca said, “Relax, nothing is going to happen. All I request is don’t drink.” To which I replied, “I don’t anyway. Since I’m in this country, I’ll follow the laws.” Secondly, he said, “Don’t chase other people’s wives.” I said, “I don’t do that anyway, in any country.” He said then I would be safe. So I stayed back.
But the governor, to assuage local sentiments, told me that my family and I would be under surveillance. For six months, my car was followed by a guy with a checked keffiyeh covering his face, like you see in the movies. Every time you looked behind, he was there. It’s was very uncomfortable since my daughters were 10-11 years old that time.
It was a big lesson on dealing with stereotypes. So, when I came back here, I started seeing the minority issue with empathy. You can do that only if you have been through it. When the 2002 riots broke out in Gujarat, my Muslim friends in Mumbai said they felt terrorised. I could relate to that. It changed my outlook on what is fair and equitable.
***
I returned to India to head Brooke Bond Lipton, and later went on to become the vice-chairman of HLL. If you’ve spent 31 years in a company, you want to keep climbing higher. To say that I didn’t want the top job would be less than honest. But, Keki Dadiseth became the chairman. Until then, I had never missed a promotion in my life.
But, in life, there are setbacks. And setbacks set you back as much as you let them. It doesn’t mean you’re a failure or that the other guy is better than you. So I decided that I’m not going to be waiting around for the next nine years. I wanted to keep growing and feared that waiting for a second chance, when I was already 51, was not a good idea. I explained my reasons to Unilever, and didn’t resign in a huff. I left after a good two years because it was also the time that Brooke Bond Lipton was being merged with Hindustan Lever.
I told the management I’ll stay till it’s all done and won’t even search for another alternative. After the merger was complete, I went to London where I was given a warm farewell. I hold very fond memories of Unilever and still attend their retired directors’ meetings. I’m very pleased to see that so many of my fellow companions have come up — Shivakumar, Suresh Narayanan, and Sanjiv Mehta. I can’t say I nannied all of them as they are all great leaders in their own right.
***
As my innings at HLL drew to a close, the head of a consulting company rang me up and said, “We have a client who is looking for people like you. I don’t know if you’re looking for a change. If you’re not, end of conversation. If you are, I can connect you.”
That’s how I ended up meeting Ratan Tata who wanted proven chief executives, and not specialists. I quite liked the diversity that I would be exposed to and became the first director to join the Tata Son’s board directly in 1998.
Tata group is a rare entity to have been around 150 years. It has produced some great leaders and I was humbled to sit at the same lunch table where the likes of Nani Palkhivala, Soonawala, JRD, and AD Shroff dined. The same room in Bombay House had seen the likes of Ghulam Muhammad, a director of Tatas who went on to become the first finance minister of Pakistan; John Mathai, again a director who became India’s Railway Minister. You had so much diversity, talent and people with widely differing opinions running the place together. In some sense, the group is truly a microcosm of India.
I came in with 31 years, from an Anglo-Saxon environment where everything was rule and process-based, with zero tolerance for ambiguity. In Tatas, just like in running a country, you had to leave space for ambiguity to play out. It took me couple of years to understand that. Ratan Tata, Soonawala and Jamshed Irani guided me during my tenure at Bombay House.
The conglomerate was reflective of the Indian ethos, which is that you have to take the circumstance into account. I remember at Levers a long-serving employee was fired because he had claimed first-class train fare from Madurai to Trichy but travelled a class lower. It was in 1962-63, the fare amount was Rs 8, but HLL sacked him stating that it doesn’t matter whether it is Rs 8 or Rs 800.
In Tatas, I came across a similar episode wherein an employee had inflated a medical expense statement by adding extra zeros. It came up during an audit but the management took a view that the woman employee concerned had done so because she was facing a financial crisis, was unmarried and had to take care of an ailing mother. The management stopped her increment for two years, but retained her. It is not about right or wrong, but what is right in the context of things.
I know that within Levers itself things have changed and that the company is adapting. Sometime in 1978-79, an expatriate was sent as a director to India. He arrived with a woman and checked into The Taj. Later, it was found that the woman was not his wife but spouse-in-waiting as he was in the midst of a divorce. The company took the view that this was against its principles. The person was put on a plane and sent back home stating that the company would incur expenses only if it was his wife. Nearly 25 years later, a chairman at Unilever, who could not divorce his wife because of religious reason, got a lady, who was his de-facto wife — not de jure — on a business visit. This time, the company paid for the hotel charges for the couple. So, in 20 years, the company had to embrace the changing times.
Tata is like a federation of states. There is a central subject and then there are concurrent state subjects. In Unilever or any MNC, there is only one ‘Brahma Mantra’. You have be good at chanting it or otherwise you are out.
Though a proven manager at Unilever, I was reminded of my Jalandhar experience. Therefore, I spent a lot of time at the Tatas trying to build relationships, rather than trying to prove myself. But working with Ratan Tata was a complete revelation.
***
Ratan Tata, in my view, is an exemplar of right-brain orientation. Certainly, his training as an architect must have helped. For example, 15-20 years earlier, solar and wind were not the buzzwords. But, because of his extensive travel, he always had a very great interest in technology. He was the first to talk about solar or converting agricultural waste into fuel to generate electricity.
He spoke about nanotechnology, which I, with my background, ought to have known. He asked why we weren’t looking at that as a possible solution. It all came to fruition when, during a visit to TCS’ Tata Research and Development Centre in Pune, he was shown a water filter developed with locally available materials, stones and mud. Developed as part of the company’s CSR activity, it removed 85% of the bacteria. I felt it was a damn good innovation, but Ratan Tata said but you can’t say, “I am giving you 15% pure bacteria.” “How can you commercialise this technology? You will have to remove 99.9% or whatever the world standards of EPA are.” That prompted the team to look at nanotechnology for a solution.
That is how ‘Swach’ was born.
Similarly, without judging the commercial success, Nano was an outcome of thinking differently: why can’t I make a car out of scooter parts? Though the car was not made out of them, it goes to show how Tata thought differently.
His humane side became evident after the terrorist attack at The Taj. When he went to the hospital to see the injured, the people in charge told him: “Sir, we are taking care of their medical needs, and we have also given scholarships to their children. Please tell us if you have any more suggestions.” He replied, “You guys have done a lot, thank you. But I am wondering what more we can do for them?”
Besides Tata, the other person that I hold in high esteem is Ishaat Hussain, who has been my sounding board. I first met him at an award event when I was the managing director of Brooke Bond and he was the finance director at Tata Steel. He struck me as a very warm and genial person. When I joined the Tatas, I saw in him a leader who could be firm and decisive without being harsh. He had the ability to disagree without coming across as disagreeable, which is a rare quality for a leader. He was always someone with whom I could express my ideas and views. One great piece of advice from him was “don’t jump into things where your help isn’t sought!”
***
Though I enjoyed my days at Tatas, I kept thinking “what’s next?” Not many of us prepare ourselves for retirement. The day comes and we don’t know what to do with ourselves. I was clear that, post-retirement, I won’t be sitting on multiple company boards and running around attending meetings.
I found my calling in writing, speaking and teaching. I believe a lot of managers with a rich and varied experience are doing a great disservice by taking all their learning to the grave. The Case of the Bonsai Manager was the first book I wrote. Now, I’m at the cusp of my eighth book, Crash — the lessons from the rise and exit of CEOs.
I believe management is a performance art. We all need to keep it alive.
Then, there was my father’s advice: “If you have any intention of pursuing something, do it while your brain is active.” My grandfather had handed over a lot of religious literature to my father to read but he had decided that he would do so only after retirement. He told me that, after calling it quits, every single time that he tried to read the book, he would fall asleep!
Hence, in life, we must know when to take the foot off the pedal. A fulfilling life is not just about professional glory but also one of personal emancipation.
