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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.)

Has IPL Become Indian Cricket’s Frankenstein’s Monster?

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Cricket’s once-untouchable bastion, Test cricket, finds itself in a precarious position today. For generations, Test cricket was considered the purest form of the game, revered by former greats for its ability to showcase the sport’s depth of character and skill. It was a format that demanded patience, mental fortitude and tireless commitment. With no limits on overs or innings, the game unfolded at its own pace, allowing for strategic nuance and raw skill to dominate. Now, Test cricket’s charm has begun to wane, eclipsed by a faster-paced era that prioritizes entertainment over tradition.


India’s recent whitewash by New Zealand starkly highlighted the decline of domestic cricket, once a breeding ground for world-class talent. In 1987, despite losing a six-match Test series to Pakistan, Sunil Gavaskar’s masterclass of a knock on an unplayable track in Bangalore exemplified the resilience forged in India’s competitive domestic cricketing system. Unlike today, that defeat did not leave Indian cricket fans wringing their hands in despair.


The roots of this decline can be traced back to the colonial origins of Test cricket itself. Structured by the British, its format is undeniably traditional, with two innings spread across five days. Yet, even after enduring these gruelling lengths, a result is not always guaranteed, leaving fans disillusioned by the unpredictability of its outcomes. This structural flaw, left unaddressed for decades, robbed the format of its appeal, particularly in India, where commercial and entertainment values reign supreme. With Test cricket’s appeal diminishing, the economic viability of the format also took a hit, leading to lower salaries for players and a steady decline in its stature.


Enter Kerry Packer in 1977. The Australian media mogul’s World Series Cricket - featuring the fast-paced, limited 50-over format - offered a fresh alternative. Packer lured top-tier cricketers from the West Indies, Australia, Pakistan, and South Africa with lucrative contracts, a move that sent shockwaves through the cricketing world. As star players defected, Test cricket saw an exodus of talent, leaving the format floundering in its wake. While the dust eventually settled and players returned to international cricket by the late 1970s, one thing had irrevocably changed: one-day cricket, with its promise of action-packed contests, had captured the imagination of fans and players alike.


By 2008, the introduction of the Indian Premier League (IPL) would serve as the final blow to Test cricket’s prominence. The IPL, a 20-over format, offered astronomical sums of money, not just for elite players but for relatively unknown talent too. In the blink of an eye, the focus of budding Indian cricketers shifted from the traditional grind of first-class cricket and Test matches to the glitzy, high-reward world of the IPL. The lure of financial success and the ease of shorter formats meant that players were less inclined to endure the rigor of Test cricket.


Even more alarming is that the appeal of Test cricket among Indian fans has similarly dwindled. Earlier, a match between two Test-playing nations would fill stadiums. Now, the IPL has redefined what it means to watch cricket. The fast-paced nature of the T20 format, along with its franchise-based model, has fostered a fan base that is less concerned with national pride and more captivated by the spectacle. Youngsters in India now view the IPL as the pinnacle of success.


This trend isn’t unique to India; in countries like the West Indies and South Africa, players are increasingly opting for the financial rewards of T20 leagues over national representation, with pride in the national jersey giving way to lucrative contracts.


With the T20 juggernaut now firmly entrenched, is Test cricket doomed to fade into irrelevance? Should cricket boards across the world consider reforming the format into a more result-oriented, limited-over style to attract both players and spectators?


The answer may lie in reconciling the tradition of Test cricket with the demands of the commercialized cricketing landscape. If purists fail to adapt, Test cricket risks becoming the sport’s forgotten relic. India’s IPL has verily transformed into cricket’s Frankenstein’s monster - an uncontrollable force that threatens to consume the very fabric of the game it helped redefine.


(The author is a retired banker and cricket expert)

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