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...

min read

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.)

The Great Blame Game

Waleed Hussain
Jun 8
3 min read

What a tragic spectacle we’ve witnessed in Bengaluru, where a joyous celebration of Royal Challengers Bengaluru’s (RCB) first-ever IPL triumph in 18 years turned into a tragic stampede that claimed 11 lives and injured dozens more. The M. Chinnaswamy Stadium, once a hallowed ground for cricket fans, became the stage for chaos, heartbreak, and—predictably—a masterclass in political finger-pointing. As the dust settles and the city mourns, our esteemed leaders have rolled up their sleeves, not to help, but to hurl police officials, RCB management, and anyone else within arm’s reach under the nearest double-decker bus. It’s a tragicomedy of accountability avoidance, and the script is as old as the hills.

Let’s set the scene. On June 4, 2025, Bengaluru was buzzing with euphoria. RCB, the perennial underdog, had finally clinched the IPL trophy, and the city was ready to party like it was 2008. The Karnataka government, ever eager to bask in reflected glory, planned a grand felicitation at Vidhana Soudha, followed by a victory parade to Chinnaswamy Stadium. RCB, not to be outdone, hyped the event on social media, promising a parade and free passes on a “first come, first served” basis. Fans, naturally, descended in droves—estimates range from 50,000 to a jaw-dropping 200,000. The stadium, with a capacity of 35,000, was about as prepared for this onslaught as a paper boat in a tsunami.

But here’s where it gets interesting. The Bengaluru police, bless their overworked souls, reportedly warned the powers-that-be about the risks of holding such a massive event on short notice. They begged for more time, more personnel, maybe even a Sunday slot to plan properly. Permission for the parade? Denied, they said, citing security concerns. Yet, somehow, the show went on. The government feted the team at Vidhana Soudha, RCB posted parade details at 3:14 p.m., and fans, misled by mixed messages, swarmed the stadium gates. By 4 p.m., tragedy struck. Gate 3 partially opened, and a frenzied crowd—some with tickets, many without—surged forward, triggering a deadly crush. Eleven lives, including a 13-year-old girl and a 19-year-old engineering student, were snuffed out in the chaos.

Now, you’d think a tragedy of this magnitude would prompt soul-searching, unity, and a collective resolve to prevent future disasters. But this is Bengaluru, where the only thing faster than the traffic is the speed at which politicians dodge blame. Enter Chief Minister Siddaramaiah, stage left, with a performance worthy of a soap opera. Within 24 hours, he suspended Bengaluru Police Commissioner B. Dayananda and other senior officers, citing “negligence and irresponsibility.” Never mind that the police were stretched thin, managing both the Vidhana Soudha event and the stadium crowds with inadequate resources. Never mind that they’d sounded the alarm bells. No, the police were the perfect scapegoats—faceless, voiceless, and oh-so-easy to sacrifice.

Not content with throwing the cops under the bus, Siddaramaiah turned his sights on RCB and the Karnataka State Cricket Association (KSCA). He ordered the arrest of RCB official Nikhil Sosale—described as Virat Kohli’s “friend,” because apparently that’s a crime now—along with three others from the event management company. An FIR was filed, accusing RCB of announcing the parade without permission. The Karnataka High Court, not to be left out of the drama, began hearings, with the Bengaluru Urban Deputy Commissioner issuing notices to RCB, KSCA, and the police commissioner. It’s a veritable blame buffet, and everyone’s grabbing a plate.

But let’s not let the politicians hog all the sarcasm. RCB deserves a round of applause for their Oscar-worthy statement, expressing “deep anguish” and pledging `10 lakh to victims’ families. How generous, considering their social media posts fueled the frenzy, promising a parade that never materialized and free passes that turned into a deadly lottery. The BCCI, true to form, washed its hands of the mess, with IPL Chairman Arun Dhumal claiming they had “no knowledge” of the celebrations. Right, because the IPL’s governing body is just a bystander when its franchise throws a city into chaos.

And what of the fans, the real victims here? They came to celebrate their heroes—Virat Kohli, Rajat Patidar, and the gang—only to be crushed by poor planning and bureaucratic bumbling. Eyewitnesses described scenes of horror: fans climbing gates, police resorting to lathi charges, ambulances stuck in traffic. A 14-year-old girl, a pani puri vendor’s son, a new tech firm employee—all gone, their dreams trampled in the stampede. Yet, even as bodies were carried to hospitals, the felicitation inside the stadium continued, with “We Are the Champions” blaring. Talk about tone-deaf.

The irony is that this tragedy was entirely preventable. If the government had heeded police warnings, if RCB hadn’t whipped up a frenzy, if someone—anyone—had coordinated properly, those 11 lives might still be here.

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

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