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.)

Underdogs to Overlords

Rajeev Puri
Jun 26
3 min read

Kapil Dev’s audacious triumph at Lord’s in 1983 transformed India from an afterthought into the game’s undisputed superpower.

On June 25, 1983, cricket’s global power balance shifted irreversibly. That day, a team not taken seriously by pundits or bookies toppled the indomitable West Indies at Lord’s, lifting the Prudential World Cup for the first time. The men who achieved it - Kapil Dev’s ‘devils’ - did more than just win a trophy. They rewired the sporting psyche of a nation, inspiring a transformation whose reverberations continue to echo through the game’s corridors of power.

As a cricketer and a devoted reader of the game’s literature, the first autobiography I ever read remains etched in memory: Chappelli, by the abrasive and articulate Ian Chappell. Beyond the swagger and flair that mirrored his playing style, what jarred me even as a boy was his thinly veiled disdain for India. Recounting his 1969 tour under Bill Lawry, Chappell mocked the facilities, the infrastructure and the socialist morass he perceived in Indian society. That he was tipped to become captain perhaps explains why he tolerated what he saw as a ‘torture tour’ to a country then considered irrelevant to world cricket.

Fast forward four decades. In 2024, the Board of Control for Cricket in India (BCCI) boasted a net worth of Rs. 20,686 crore - more than 30 times that of Cricket Australia. The once-dismissed periphery is now the epicentre. The International Cricket Council (ICC), once the fiefdom of the SENA countries (South Africa, England, New Zealand, Australia), now often appears beholden to India. Former Pakistan Cricket Board chairman Najam Sethi bluntly declared that the ICC is now “subservient” to Indian interests.

This revolution did not begin at Lord’s, but at Tunbridge Wells a week earlier. On June 18, India - rank outsiders - faced Zimbabwe in a must-win game. Their prior World Cup performances had been forgettable, with just one win (against East Africa) across the 1975 and 1979 editions. The match against Zimbabwe began disastrously: 17 for 5, teetering on the brink of elimination. Kapil Dev then played an innings that rewrote India’s cricketing destiny, hammering an unbeaten 175 off 138 balls, laced with six towering sixes and sixteen authoritative fours. Sunil Gavaskar later called it the greatest one-day innings he had ever seen, with some shots clearing not just the boundary, but the stadium itself.

That innings instilled belief. India defeated a formidable England side in the semi-final, setting up a daunting final against Clive Lloyd’s West Indies, chasing its third consecutive title. The odds were 66 to 1 against India. Batting first, India managed a modest 183. With legends like Vivian Richards, Gordon Greenidge, and Lloyd in their ranks, most expected the West Indies to chase it down in 30 overs.

But Indian bowlers had other plans. Balwinder Sandhu clean-bowled Greenidge with a delivery that jagged in sharply. Haynes followed. Then came the moment that swung the momentum: a sprinting Kapil Dev took a backward catch off Richards that has since become part of cricketing folklore. With Richards gone and Lloyd, Gomes and Bacchus falling cheaply, India sensed blood. Mohinder Amarnath cleaned up the tail with three wickets, as the West Indies were bundled out for 140. India had won by 43 runs. Amarnath, for his all-round heroics, was rightly named man of the match.

Kapil Dev lifting the World Cup has become an enduring image of national pride, an emblem of possibility for a country then grappling with economic and political malaise. The victory sparked a cricketing renaissance.

First, it fuelled self-belief. India now knew it could beat the best. Second, the televised triumph ignited public imagination. Cricket had been popular, but it now became religion. Third, it democratised the sport, expanding its reach beyond elite urban centres to small towns and rural outposts. Fourth, it sowed the seeds for the professionalisation and commercialisation of the game. And finally, it elevated India’s performance. With stars like Dhoni, Gill, and Pant hailing from provincial backgrounds, the bench strength today is unmatched. India consistently ranks among the top two in all formats.

Perhaps the biggest transformation has been economic. Cricket is now a multibillion-dollar industry in India. The Indian Premier League is the most lucrative and widely watched T20 league in the world. Cricketers command endorsement deals rivalling those of Bollywood stars, and broadcasting rights draw fierce global bidding. No cricketing nation dares ignore India’s clout.

On that June afternoon in 1983, Kapil Dev and his men sowed a seed that would grow into an empire. Today, India’s cricketing juggernaut rolls on - but it does so in the long shadow of that audacious coup at Lord’s.

(The author is a political commentator and a global affairs observer. Views personal.)

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