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By:

Rahul Kulkarni

30 March 2025 at 3:32:54 pm

The Boundary Collapse

When kindness becomes micromanagement It started with a simple leave request.   “Hey, can I take Friday off? Need a personal day,” Meera messaged Rohit. Rohit replied instantly:   “Of course. All good. Just stay reachable if anything urgent comes up.”   He meant it as reassurance. But the team didn’t hear reassurance. They heard a rule.   By noon, two things had shifted inside The Workshop:   Meera felt guilty for even asking. Everyone else quietly updated their mental handbook: Leave is...

The Boundary Collapse

When kindness becomes micromanagement It started with a simple leave request.   “Hey, can I take Friday off? Need a personal day,” Meera messaged Rohit. Rohit replied instantly:   “Of course. All good. Just stay reachable if anything urgent comes up.”   He meant it as reassurance. But the team didn’t hear reassurance. They heard a rule.   By noon, two things had shifted inside The Workshop:   Meera felt guilty for even asking. Everyone else quietly updated their mental handbook: Leave is allowed… but not really. This is boundary collapse… when a leader’s good intentions unintentionally blur the limits that protect autonomy and rest. When care quietly turns into control Founders rarely intend to micromanage.   What looks like control from the outside often starts as care from the inside. “Let me help before something breaks.” “Let me stay involved so we don’t lose time.” “Loop me in… I don’t want you stressed.” Supportive tone.   Good intentions.   But one invisible truth defines workplace psychology: When power says “optional,” it never feels optional.
So when a client requested a revision, Rohit gently pinged:   “If you’re free, could you take a look?” Of course she logged in.   Of course she handled it.   And by Monday, the cultural shift was complete: Leave = location change, not a boundary.   A founder’s instinct had quietly become a system. Pattern 1: The Generous Micromanager Modern micromanagement rarely looks aggressive. It looks thoughtful :   “Let me refine this so you’re not stuck.” “I’ll review it quickly.”   “Share drafts so we stay aligned.”   Leaders believe they’re being helpful. Teams hear:   “You don’t fully trust me.” “I should check with you before finishing anything.”   “My decisions aren’t final.” Gentle micromanagement shrinks ownership faster than harsh micromanagement ever did because people can’t challenge kindness. Pattern 2: Cultural conditioning around availability In many Indian workplaces, “time off” has an unspoken footnote: Be reachable. Just in case. No one says it directly.   No one pushes back openly.   The expectation survives through habit: Leave… but monitor messages. Rest… but don’t disconnect. Recover… but stay alert. Contrast this with a global team we worked with: A designer wrote,   “I’ll be off Friday, but available if needed.” Her manager replied:   “If you’re working on your off-day, we mismanaged the workload… not the boundary.”   One conversation.   Two cultural philosophies.   Two completely different emotional outcomes.   Pattern 3: The override reflex Every founder has a version of this reflex.   Whenever Rohit sensed risk, real or imagined, he stepped in: Rewriting copy.   Adjusting a design.   Rescoping a task.   Reframing an email. Always fast.   Always polite.   Always “just helping.” But each override delivered one message:   “Your autonomy is conditional.” You own decisions…   until the founder feels uneasy.   You take initiative…   until instinct replaces delegation.   No confrontation.   No drama.   Just quiet erosion of confidence.   The family-business amplification Boundary collapse becomes extreme in family-managed companies.   We worked with one firm where four family members… founder, spouse, father, cousin… all had informal authority. Everyone cared.   Everyone meant well.   But for employees, decision-making became a maze: Strategy approved by the founder.   Aesthetics by the spouse.   Finance by the father. Tone by the cousin.   They didn’t need leadership.   They needed clarity.   Good intentions without boundaries create internal anarchy. The global contrast A European product team offered a striking counterexample.   There, the founder rarely intervened mid-stream… not because of distance, but because of design:   “If you own the decision, you own the consequences.” Decision rights were clear.   Escalation paths were explicit.   Authority didn’t shift with mood or urgency. No late-night edits.   No surprise rewrites.   No “quick checks.”   No emotional overrides. As one designer put it:   “If my boss wants to intervene, he has to call a decision review. That friction protects my autonomy.” The result:   Faster execution, higher ownership and zero emotional whiplash. Boundaries weren’t personal.   They were structural .   That difference changes everything. Why boundary collapse is so costly Its damage is not dramatic.   It’s cumulative.   People stop resting → you get presence, not energy.   People stop taking initiative → decisions freeze.   People stop trusting empowerment → autonomy becomes theatre.   People start anticipating the boss → performance becomes emotional labour.   People burn out silently → not from work, but from vigilance.   Boundary collapse doesn’t create chaos.   It creates hyper-alertness, the heaviest tax on any team. The real paradox Leaders think they’re being supportive. Teams experience supervision.   Leaders assume boundaries are obvious. Teams see boundaries as fluid. Leaders think autonomy is granted. Teams act as though autonomy can be revoked at any moment. This is the Boundary Collapse → a misunderstanding born not from intent, but from the invisible weight of power. Micromanagement today rarely looks like anger.   More often,   it looks like kindness without limits. (Rahul Kulkarni is Co-founder at PPS Consulting. He patterns the human mechanics of scaling where workplace behavior quietly shapes business outcomes. Views personal.)

Finally, the Benchwarmer’s Redemption

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Oh, joy of joys! In a cricketing universe where fast bowlers get bodyguards and batsmen get billion-dollar endorsements for breathing, we finally have a plot twist worthy of a Bollywood underdog flick. Kuldeep Yadav – that chinaman-spinning wizard who’s been collecting dust on India’s bench longer than a forgotten gym membership – has been unleashed. Not just any old spin, mind you, but a four-wicket demolition derby against the UAE in the Asia Cup opener on September 10, 2025. Who knew that after months of playing spectator to his own career, our boy could still turn a pitch into a graveyard? It’s almost enough to make you believe in karma. Or at least in the selectors’ occasional mercy.


Let’s rewind this tragicomedy for the uninitiated. Picture this: It’s 2017, and Kuldeep bursts onto the scene like a left-arm tornado in a saree shop. Hat-trick in his second ODI against Sri Lanka? Check. Dismantling Australia in Tests with googly grenades? Double check. The kid from Uttar Pradesh was the next big thing – or so we thought. Fast-forward through the haze of IPL auctions, where he’s bounced around like a ping-pong ball from Mumbai Indians (where he didn’t even play, because why waste a googly on the bench?) to Kolkata Knight Riders, and eventually to Delhi Capitals, where he finally got to terrorize batsmen for real. By 2024, he’s snagging 21 IPL wickets, helping India lift the T20 World Cup like it’s no big deal, and even sneaking into the Champions Trophy squad in 2025 for a victory lap. Hero status? Locked and loaded.


But ah, the cruel hand of Indian cricket selection. Enter the Axis of Evil: R Ashwin, the off-spin sage with more wisdom than Yoda; Ravindra Jadeja, the all-rounder unicorn who fields like a panther on espresso; and, let’s not forget, the eternal batting crisis that turns every spinner into a pinch-hitter. Kuldeep, with his deceptive wrong’uns and that flipper that sneaks up like a ninja fart, spent the summer of 2025 in England glued to the team hotel sofa. “Tough for me,” he admitted post-match, probably while practicing his autograph on unused scorecards. Tough? Darling, it was a full-on exile. While the team chased batting depth like it was the last slice of pizza at a party, Kuldeep was out there doing Yo-Yo tests and plotting world domination in the nets. Mental discipline? More like saintly patience. If restraint were an Olympic sport, he’d have gold, silver, and the participation trophy.


And yet, here we are, September 2025, Asia Cup kicking off, and suddenly – poof! – the benchwarmer gets the nod. Why now? Did the selectors draw straws? Lose a bet to the UAE skipper? Or finally realize that facing spin on subcontinental tracks is less fun than a root canal without anesthesia? Whatever the cosmic joke, Kuldeep didn’t just play; he pranced. Four for… well, whatever paltry total the UAE scraped to (57, if we’re being precise, because apparently, they mistook the pitch for a minefield). That wrong’un that kissed the pad on its way to Sanju Samson? Chef’s kiss. The UAE review that went poof because they were out of timeouts? Comedy gold. India chased it down faster than you can say “easy win,” but let’s be real – this was Kuldeep’s show. A four-fer in his first T20I since the 2024 World Cup final? It’s like watching a caged tiger finally get fed – raw, exhilarating, and a tad terrifying for the opposition.


Sarcasm aside (though, really, who needs it when reality writes better punchlines?), this is why we love cricket’s underbelly. In a sport obsessed with six-hitters who moonwalk after boundaries and pacers who grunt like they’re auditioning for a wrestling promo, Kuldeep reminds us that subtlety can be savage. His left-arm chinaman isn’t flashy like Warne’s theatrics – no theatrical appeals or staredowns here. It’s surgical: a flipper here, a googly there, turning batsmen into muppets who poke at shadows. After warming the bench through England’s green-top tedium, where seamers ruled and spinners prayed for rain, Kuldeep’s return feels like poetic justice. No more “batting depth” excuses – just pure, wristy wizardry on turning tracks where he was born to thrive.


Humor me for a second: Imagine the team WhatsApp group during those England sidelines. “Kuldeep, fancy a net session?” “Nah, mates, I’m busy perfecting my Netflix queue. Send pics if anyone gets a wicket.” Or the selectors’ huddle: “Ashwin’s injured? Jadeja’s batting? Quick, who was that spinner we buried in 2023?” Boom – resurrection. It’s hilariously human, this carousel of selection snubs, and Kuldeep’s grin post-match says it all: “I’ve waited this long; now watch me feast.”


So, hail to the chinaman king, finally off the naughty step. In an era where cricket’s become a batting blockbuster, Kuldeep’s comeback is the indie flick we didn’t know we needed – quirky, unexpected, and utterly devastating. May his bench days be a distant memory, replaced by hauls that leave opponents googly-eyed. India cricket, you chaotic beauty: occasionally, you get it right. And damn, does it feel good to cheer.


(The writer is a senior journalist based in Mumbai. Views personal.)

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