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By:

Rashmi Kulkarni

23 March 2025 at 2:58:52 pm

Loss Aversion Is Why Your Good Idea Fails

Your upgrade is their loss until you prove otherwise. Last week, Rahul wrote about a simple truth: you’re not inheriting a business, you’re inheriting an equilibrium. This week, I want to talk about the most common reason that equilibrium fights back even when your idea is genuinely sensible. Here it is, in plain language: People don’t oppose improvement. They oppose loss disguised as improvement. When you step into a legacy MSME, most things are still manual, informal, relationship-driven....

Loss Aversion Is Why Your Good Idea Fails

Your upgrade is their loss until you prove otherwise. Last week, Rahul wrote about a simple truth: you’re not inheriting a business, you’re inheriting an equilibrium. This week, I want to talk about the most common reason that equilibrium fights back even when your idea is genuinely sensible. Here it is, in plain language: People don’t oppose improvement. They oppose loss disguised as improvement. When you step into a legacy MSME, most things are still manual, informal, relationship-driven. People have built their own ways of keeping work moving. It’s not perfect, but it’s familiar. When you introduce a new system, a new rule, a new “professional way,” you may be adding order but you’re also removing something  they were using to survive. And humans react more strongly to removals than additions. Behavioral economists Daniel Kahneman and Amos Tversky called this loss aversion where we feel losses more sharply than we feel gains. That’s why your promised “future benefit” struggles to compete with someone’s immediate fear. Which seat are you stepping into? Inherited seat:  People assume you’ll change things quickly to “prove yourself”. They brace for loss even before you speak. Hired seat:  People watch for hidden agendas: “New boss means new rules, new blame.” They protect themselves. Promoted seat:  Your peers worry the old friendship is now replaced by authority. They fear loss of comfort and access. Different seats, same emotion underneath: don’t take away what keeps me safe. Weighing Scale Think of an old kirana shop. The weighing scale may not be fancy, but it’s trusted. The shopkeeper has used it for years. Customers have seen it. Everyone has settled into that comfort. Now imagine someone walks in and says, “We’re upgrading your weighing scale. This is digital. More accurate. More modern.” Sounds good, right? But what does the shopkeeper hear ? “My customers might think the old scale was wrong.” (loss of trust) “I won’t be able to adjust for small realities.” (loss of flexibility) “If the digital scale shows something different, I’ll be accused.” (loss of safety) “This was my shop. Now someone else is deciding.” (loss of control) So even if the new scale is better, the shopkeeper will resist or accept it politely and quietly return to the old one when nobody is watching. That is exactly what happens in companies. Modernisation Pitch Most leaders pitch change like this: “We’ll become world-class.” “We’ll digitize.” “We’ll improve visibility.” “We’ll build a process-driven culture.” But for the listener, these are not benefits. These are threats, because they translate into losses: Visibility can mean exposure . Process can mean loss of discretion . Digitization can mean loss of speed  (at least initially). “Professional” can mean loss of status  for the old guard. So the person across the table is not debating your logic. They’re calculating their losses. Practical Way Watch what happens when you propose something simple like daily reporting. You say: “It’s just 10 minutes. Basic discipline.” They hear: “Daily reporting means daily scrutiny.” “If numbers dip, I will be questioned.” “If I show the truth, it will create conflict.” “If I don’t show the truth, I’ll be accused later.” In their mind, the safest response is: nod, agree, delay. Then you label them “resistant.” But they’re not resisting change. They’re resisting loss . Leader’s Job If you want adoption in an MSME, don’t sell modernization as “upgrade”. Sell it as protection . Instead of: “We need an ERP.” Try: “We need to stop money leakage and order confusion.” Instead of: “We need systems.” Try: “We need fewer customer escalations and less rework.” Instead of: “We need transparency.” Try: “We need fewer surprises at month-end.” This is not manipulation. This is translation. You’re speaking the language the system understands: risk, leakage, blame, customer loss, cash loss, fatigue. Field Test: Rewrite your pitch in loss-prevention language Pick one change you’re pushing this month. Now write two versions: Version A (your current pitch): What you normally say: upgrade, modern, efficiency, best practices. Version B (loss prevention pitch): Use this template: What are we losing today?  (money, time, customers, reputation, peace) Where is the leakage happening?  (handoffs, approvals, rework, vendor delays) What small protection will this change create? (fewer disputes, faster closure, less follow-up) What will not change?  (no layoffs, no humiliation, no sudden policing) What proof will we show in 2 weeks?  (one metric, one visible win) Now do one more important step: For your top 3 stakeholders, write the one loss they think they will face  if your change happens. Don’t argue with it. Just name it. Because once you name the fear, you can design around it. The close If you remember only one thing from this week, remember this: A “good idea” is not enough in a legacy MSME. People need to feel safe adopting it. You don’t have to dilute your standards. You just have to stop selling change like a TED talk and start selling it like a protection plan. Next week, we’ll deal with another invisible force that keeps companies stuck even when they agree with you: the status quo isn’t a baseline. It’s a competitor. (The writer is CEO of PPS Consulting, can be reached at rashmi@ppsconsulting.biz )

The Wall Who Gave Cricket Its Quiet Strength

One of the most technically perfect batsman the world cricket has produced, Rahul Sharad Dravid was born on January 11, 1973, and as he celebrates his 53rd birthday on Sunday, Indian cricket pauses to honour a man whose career embodied the spirit of the gentleman’s game. In an era defined by flamboyance, noise and instant gratification, Dravid stood apart—calm, composed and unyielding. Aptly nicknamed “The Wall,” he was not merely a cricketer but a moral compass for the sport.


A man who justified why cricket is called a gentleman’s game, Rahul Dravid was—and remains—a true gentleman.


Dravid’s greatness cannot be measured only by numbers, though they are formidable: over 13,000 Test runs, 10,000-plus ODI runs, centuries across continents, and a reputation as one of the finest slip fielders the game has seen. What truly defined him was how those runs were scored—often under pressure, frequently in adversity, and almost always in service of the team rather than personal milestones.


While others chased glory, Dravid chased responsibility.


He was the batsman you turned to when the top order collapsed, when conditions were hostile, or when the opposition sensed blood. Whether it was grinding out centuries in Rawalpindi, facing lethal pace attacks in Johannesburg, or holding one end together on crumbling subcontinental pitches, Dravid built his innings brick by brick. He did not dominate bowlers with swagger; he defeated them with patience, discipline and mental fortitude.


Dravid’s batting was a lesson in restraint. There was no unnecessary aggression, no theatrical celebration—just quiet acknowledgment and a return to the crease. In a cricketing culture increasingly driven by entertainment, he reminded the world that defence, technique and temperament were virtues worth celebrating.


Yet, reducing Dravid to a defensive batsman does him grave injustice. When the situation demanded, he could accelerate with precision and purpose. His ODI strike rotation, his ability to bat through innings, and his adaptability across formats showcased a cricketer far more complete than the stereotype suggested.


Leadership, too, came naturally to him—though never loudly. As India’s captain during a transitional phase, Dravid led with integrity. He encouraged youngsters, backed talent through failure, and upheld discipline without intimidation. The famous 2004 Adelaide Test win and the resurgence of Indian cricket abroad during that period bore his understated imprint.


Perhaps Dravid’s finest legacy emerged after retirement. As a mentor, coach and administrator, he chose the harder path—working with India’s Under-19 and ‘A’ teams rather than chasing high-profile roles. The results are evident today. A generation of Indian cricketers—technically sound, mentally resilient and ethically grounded—carry Dravid’s influence in their approach.


As head coach of the Indian men’s team, he once again put process before hype. Wins mattered, but preparation, humility and collective growth mattered more. In victory or defeat, Dravid’s post-match demeanour mirrored his playing days—measured, respectful and honest.


In a sporting world increasingly vulnerable to controversy, ego and excess, Rahul Dravid’s career stands as a counterpoint. He proved that greatness does not require noise, that success need not come at the cost of values, and that respect is earned through consistency of character.


At 53, Rahul Dravid remains what he always was—a wall not just of technique, but of principles. Cricket is richer for having witnessed him, and generations to come will continue to learn from the quiet strength of a man who truly justified why cricket is called the gentleman’s game.

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