Chronicles from Mehra World: When rivalry threatened to enter my home

The four of us—Ashish, Atul, Venkat and I—were enjoying an evening drink at the club after another hard day's work in our boutique consulting venture. This particular week had been especially demanding. Our average working hours had almost doubled—to about two hours a day. The mental faculties, we felt, deserved a stiff restorative. One has to look after the tools of the trade.

Four members walked past in tennis whites, racquets in hand, clearly on their way to indulge in a sport rather different from ours.

"...Double or quits?"

The statement reached us just before they disappeared out of earshot.

We looked at one another and smiled.

Four minds.

One thought.

"Still competing after retirement," observed Venkat.

"Thirty-five years of competitiveness sloshing around in your bloodstream isn't something you let go of easily."

"How did we manage to leave it behind?" said Venkat.

Venkat's question gave me pause.

The four of us had competed relentlessly for over three decades—against rival companies, against rival teams and, occasionally, against colleagues occupying cabins uncomfortably close to our own.

Yet somehow, we had managed to leave that part of our lives behind.

Or had we?

Because I could still remember, with surprising clarity, the day Ashish and I were first initiated into the fine art of corporate competitiveness.

We had both just joined as management trainees and had been invited to the annual sales conference—the one occasion each year when the sales team was made to feel genuinely special, as compensation for the remaining three hundred and sixty-four days spent convincing them that nothing they did was ever quite enough.

It is a lasting tribute to sales professionals everywhere that they somehow manage to make a single day's fuel last an entire year.

The conference kicked off with a five-minute film produced by our own marketing team.

The plot was admirably straightforward.

A truck belonging to Our Company set out to deliver its products.

Unfortunately, this perfectly innocent commercial undertaking attracted the attention of Our Competitor, whose villainous employees immediately gave chase in a truck of their own, intent on destroying ours.

What followed made Mad Max appear like a documentary promoting peaceful coexistence.

Our unfortunate truck found itself subjected to what seemed to be the combined military capabilities of several medium-sized nations. The competitor's employees hurled an astonishing assortment of obstacles, projectiles and contraptions at it—sometimes three missiles simultaneously—enough to suggest they possessed an arsenal that some countries might only acquire years later.

The sales organisation collectively held its breath and, in the process, proved that while management may have entertained reservations about its forecasting and execution skills, its respiratory discipline was evidently beyond reproach. Never before—nor since, I remain convinced—had such commitment to oxygen conservation been displayed.

Meanwhile, the ferocious assault on Our Company's sacred truck continued unabated.

Our heroic driver, however, remained magnificently unflustered. Amid the increasingly hysterical cheers of 1,500 salespeople, he evaded every attack with the effortless composure of a Formula One champion and protected his precious cargo with complete nonchalance, probably even whistling all the while, though I could not be entirely certain amidst all the din.

There remain those within the organisation who firmly believe that the spectacular truck sequence towards the end of Licence to Kill, in which 007 tilts an eighteen-wheeler onto the wheels of one side alone to avoid an incoming missile, was shamelessly copied from this very film. I have never found sufficient evidence to dismiss the theory.

In a suitably dramatic finale, our heroic driver then sent the competitor's truck careering spectacularly off the road—a sequence which, the same school of thought insists, was borrowed as well.

The auditorium exploded.

Just when we thought the chauvinistic fervour had reached its natural conclusion, a striking young lady appeared on the screen, rushed towards our victorious driver and embraced him with an enthusiasm that left no scope whatsoever for alternative interpretations.

"My hero!" she declared.

For the next few minutes, every one of those fifteen hundred salesmen became that truck driver.

Each had personally pummelled the competition, safeguarded the company's future, won the admiration of a beautiful woman, become a national hero and felt entirely capable of doing it all over again before lunch.

I could see, while dancing on my chair, that Ashish was pounding his chest with such ferocity that I briefly wondered whether he was celebrating having single-handedly vanquished the competition on his seventh day in the organisation, or attempting to restart his heart.

Looking back now, I remain convinced that no management institute in the world has ever offered a more intensive introductory course in competitiveness.

From that day onwards, the blood in our veins was never quite the same. The virus of competitiveness had been administered.

Within a few years, it had become chronic.

If there was a scoreboard, a trophy, a quarterly ranking, a promotion or even a parking space at stake, we suddenly found ourselves—otherwise perfectly sensible adults—transformed into gladiators prepared to die in an effort to capture the prize.

My reverie was interrupted by the ringing of my mobile.

It was Anjali.

“Arvind, call me when you are leaving the club. I am out with Neeta. I will also leave when you do”

"OK, Anjali. See you at home."

Home.

The one place where, unlike work, no scoreboards were permitted. Rivalry had no business entering my home.

And for the better part of thirty years, it hadn't. But only because I had nipped it in the bud the very first time it had threatened to, three decades earlier.

The origin of that threat lay in a theory of mine which, despite repeated rejection by both the scientific and the sporting communities, continues to enjoy my complete confidence.

I believe that, just as tennis has separate ATP and WTA rankings, every newly married lady maintains two subconscious ranking tables of her own.

One for the women in her life.

And another for the men.

The latter is of particular interest to us husbands.

The bride's father enters the rankings at World No. 1 and, in complete defiance of every ranking principle known to sport, retains the position for life entirely on the strength of past performance.

The husband, with youthful optimism, is generally permitted to debut at World No. 2.

Thereafter, gravity takes over. His ranking embarks upon a slow, steady and entirely irreversible descent.

The intervening positions, when occupied at all, generally belong to sons, grandsons and the occasional nephew.

I, unfortunately, never enjoyed the privilege of debuting at World No. 2.

I bypassed Silver altogether and joined directly at Bronze.

The Silver Medal, of course, had long since been awarded to Anjali's revered Jijaji.

Now, it was not as though I had entered the marriage under any illusions. The Mehra brain had, within the first half hour of meeting Anjali, arrived at a fairly reliable assessment of where I was likely to feature in those rankings.

Looking back now, I have often wondered whether the Mehra Conundrum somehow travelled back in time, first infiltrated the screenplay of the Bengali film Chhadmabeshi, and thereafter found its way into Chupke Chupke. I am given to understand that both films now form part of the mandatory curriculum for any gentleman proposing to marry into a family blessed with two or more daughters.

Dharmendra, entrusted with portraying Arvind Mehra on screen, threw himself into the role with such admirable conviction that I could not help wondering whether he was labouring under a similar domestic ranking system himself.

In a heroic attempt to dislodge his wife's revered Jijaji from the silver spot and claim it for himself, the poor fellow was reduced to becoming a chauffeur, mastering impeccably pure Hindi, recruiting unsuspecting friends into increasingly elaborate acts of impersonation and generally creating one alarming situation after another.

And, lest we overlook the gravest sacrifice of all, voluntarily surrendering the privilege of sharing a room with his own wife in order to share one with an inebriated aspiring poet cum spare driver. Such was Dharmendra's commitment to moving up one spot in the ranking that it brought tears to my eyes.

It made for splendid cinema and provided invaluable guidance to generations of prospective husbands. Looking back now, however, nearly half a century later, it strikes me as rather an arduous solution for husbands attempting to improve their position in the rankings, particularly since every Jijaji has by now developed suitable countermeasures to this particular modus operandi.

Arvind Mehra had to find the Arvind Mehra way.

It required a comprehensive understanding of the competitive landscape, which was duly commissioned.

The executive summary made for sobering reading.

Jijaji appeared to enjoy an extraordinarily high market share of the family's affection and respect, extending well beyond the immediate family to relatives one branch removed. Across geographies.

Everywhere I turned, I encountered the same familiar slogans.

"Naveen says..."

"Naveen thinks..."

"Naveen will know."

"Naveen has already done it."

"Ask Naveen..."

Naveen was everywhere.

I was everywhere too.

On the sidelines.

Where I appeared to enjoy an almost exclusive tenancy.

Having assessed the competitive landscape, it was time to assess the principal competitor.

This proved another strategic setback.

The dominant market share appeared to be entirely justified, with considerable scope for further growth.

The report unequivocally concluded that Naveen was worthy of all the respect and admiration he enjoyed, and quite possibly rather more.

Its comparative assessment of Naveen and me suggested that I would have to be combined with my five finest cousins to produce approximately ninety per cent of him.

To complicate matters further, I too fell under his spell and developed a genuine fondness for him. Before I knew it, we had become rather good friends, united by several common interests, not least a shared affection for sport.

It is exceedingly difficult to sustain a meaningful rivalry with a man one genuinely likes.

This was clearly a task for the Mehra brain, which welcomed the assignment, spat on its hands, rubbed them together gleefully and retreated to a strategic offsite.

When it returned, it unveiled a solution so devastatingly ingenious, yet so disarmingly simple, that it quite took my breath away—a sensation I had not experienced since the annual sales conference.

Why was I trying to pull Naveen down from World No. 2?

Why not promote him instead?

If he could somehow be elevated to joint World No. 1, the entire No. 2 position would become gloriously vacant.

I could simply move into it, without all the unnecessary exertions that had so exhausted poor Dharmendra.

The Mehra brain was warmly congratulated.

A self-congratulatory smile expressed complete agreement.

And so it began.

Over the years, I had devoted considerable effort to making my organisation Number One, for which I had been respectably compensated.

That effort, however, was about to be comfortably eclipsed by what I was preparing to do for Jijaji—entirely gratis.

The campaign rested on two simple, yet remarkably effective, pillars.

The first required almost no effort whatsoever.

I praised Jijaji at every conceivable opportunity.

Execution was simplicity itself. Everyone else was already doing it. I merely repeated what they were saying.

The second pillar required a little more application. It involved planting, with due care and patience, a series of deep-rooted convictions throughout the family and its various branches.

Naveen was the better driver.

Naveen was the better negotiator.

Naveen was the better investment adviser.

Naveen was the better organiser.

Naveen was the better conversationalist.

You get the drift.

This wasn't a difficult task either because, more often than not, it was true. Most of the heavy lifting was done by serendipity itself, while I supervised proceedings from my customary position on the sidelines.

Whenever serendipity appeared less willing to shoulder the burden, I intervened with careful project management.

My modus operandi for engineering the latter, I'm afraid, must remain confidential. It has enjoyed an unbroken record of commercial success for well over three decades.

Never before, I venture to suggest, had such a sustained campaign of giving credit for virtually everything to someone else been pursued with such unwavering commitment.

In the corporate world, one generally devoted rather more energy to claiming credit than surrendering it.

My selfless endeavour did, however, produce a number of wholly unanticipated benefits.

It is a well-established principle of human nature that public sympathy invariably gravitates towards the underdog.

There was unanimous agreement that yours truly qualified admirably for the role.

Accordingly, I found myself treated with a degree of kindness and consideration normally reserved for the underprivileged—which, in relative terms at least, I technically was.

I was spared every assignment more strenuous than passing the salt at the dining table, while my occasional lapses were dismissed as being entirely consistent with my established capabilities.

You had to witness the concern with which I was attended to after once scratching myself on a door handle to believe it.

Naveen, by contrast, could have returned home missing two teeth, and the first question would almost certainly have been, "How many did the other fellow lose?"

Excellence, once established, has an unfortunate tendency to become a lifelong contractual obligation.

The arrangement suited me admirably.

One evening, Ruchika and Naveen came over to discuss the upcoming wedding of a cousin's daughter.

"Mom and Dad land just after midnight day after tomorrow," said Ruchika. "Naveen, you'll pick them up?"

I found myself wondering why this had been framed as a question rather than a statement. Wasn't Naveen the better driver—a distinction of particular value shortly after midnight? And wasn't he also the better conversationalist, a capability of obvious strategic importance when undertaking an hour-long commute with one's in-laws after a lengthy interval?

"Of course," said Naveen, with the faint air of a man wondering why the matter had required discussion at all.

"Perfect," said Anjali. "They can stay with you for a couple of days and then come over to us. Jijaji, we'll also need you for the wedding shopping. Three or four days at least."

This, unlike the previous sentence, was unmistakably a statement. Naveen was the better negotiator too. A quality of no small consequence when a North Indian wedding was involved.

"No problem," said Naveen. "I've already taken three days off."

I was mildly surprised. I had expected him to take the entire week. Was the family, I wondered, quietly planning to utilise my services as well?

Ruchika turned towards me.

"And Arvind, while we always enjoy your company, I know you hate shopping. You can safely excuse yourself if you wish."

I fought a powerful urge to hug her. Instead, I settled for making the appropriate social noises.

"All right," I said. "I'll stay out of the way. But do let me know if I can help in any way."

Anjali nodded.

"I'll keep Madan for a couple of days. You can drive yourself to office."

Another statement.

For the briefest of moments, I regretted my generous offer.

Then my naturally accommodating disposition reasserted itself.

That, as it transpired, just about summed up my contribution to both the conversation and the wedding.

For the first time since entering the corporate world, I had discovered an environment in which being consistently outperformed not only carried no penalty but actually generated rewards. It represented a radical departure from my corporate life. Surprisingly, I adjusted to it with no trouble at all.

This is not to suggest that I was entirely without utility.

There were occasions when the might of a large organisation—or the timely intervention of an exceptionally capable Executive Assistant—could accomplish in a few hours what ordinary mortals might have pursued for days. Those were my moments.

The family, however, appeared convinced that these occasional flashes of competence were merely the result of prolonged exposure to Naveen, allowing some of his abilities to seep into me by osmosis.

There was another wholly unexpected consequence. Ruchika appeared to be more troubled by my perpetually being in Naveen's shadow than I was. Underdogs do tend to evoke such sentiments. In an entirely understandable attempt to redress the balance, she quietly elevated me to the Joint No. 1 position in her own rankings and accorded me all the importance and pampering attached to that office.

The family had, quite unintentionally, evolved a remarkably equitable system. Naveen occupied the Joint No. 1 position in Anjali's rankings. I occupied the Joint No. 1 position in her sister's. Justice, if unconventional, had finally been done.

I accepted these developments with my customary humility. If any pangs of guilt threatened to arise over occupying so exalted a position despite possessing capabilities so plainly inferior to Naveen's, I learned to suppress them with admirable firmness.

Between the two of us, the family maintained a perfectly respectable average score for sons-in-law.

The arrangement, I am delighted to report, continues to function magnificently to this day.

Naveen remains as indefatigable, uncomplaining and cheerful as ever.

I remain fully committed to coping.

This is not to suggest that the spirit of competition has never again attempted to rear its ugly head within the four walls of our home. It has. On each occasion, however, it has been dealt with firmly and decisively.

The most recent attempt came courtesy Karan, our personal trainer.

I was in the 211th second of a plank position and looking increasingly likely to convert myself into a carpet at any moment when Karan suddenly bellowed,

"Come on, Sir! Another thirty seconds and you'll break Ashish Sir's record!"

Thirty-five years of motivational exhortations from assorted bosses began ringing in my ears.

"Come on, Mehra!"

"You can beat them!"

"You can do it!"

"Don’t give up now!"

"You're almost there!"

I immediately abandoned the plank position and returned to all fours without a second thought, cheerfully sacrificing the twelve seconds I might conceivably have managed.

The business model of personal trainers had suddenly become a great deal clearer.

Evidently, exploiting competitive instincts formed a significant part of a their professional toolkit.

Fortunately, the Mehra brain had long since retired from such pursuits.

My reverie was interrupted by the same quartet returning from the tennis courts.

Their whites bore unmistakable signs of recent exertion. Two wore the satisfied expressions of men who had just enhanced their ATP rankings.

The other two looked remarkably like Napoleon's troops on the long journey back from Moscow. They wouldn’t sleep well tonight.

We looked at one another and smiled.

Four minds.

One thought.

We would sleep well tonight!

Every night!

Arvind Mehra will return next Wednesday.

New to Mehra World?

• Chronicle 1: What Retirement Did to My Brain
• Chronicle 2: What My Personal Trainer Didn't Tell Me
• Chronicle 3: The Retirement Ecosystem

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