The Termites Nobody Mentioned

 An Unexpected Lesson in Leadership, Respect and the Courage to Disagree

Some of the most valuable leadership lessons come not from books, seminars or management gurus, but from our own mistakes. One such lesson came to me years ago, courtesy of a group of well-meaning boys, enthusiastic tutors and, believe it or not, a colony of termites.

The story goes back to my days as Housemaster of Kashmir House at The Doon School. We had just concluded our Pagal Gymkhana, an event every bit as mad, merry and energetic as its name suggests. The boys had thrown themselves into it wholehear
tedly and, by the time the dust had settled, we had raised a rather handsome sum of money.

Money in the House kitty had a very peculiar way of making a Housemaster feel like a visionary. Suddenly every corner of the House seemed to be screaming out for improvement, and every improvement started to look like a legacy.

I was no exception.

I called a House Council meeting, attended by the tutors and student representatives, and presented what I thought was a splendid idea. Why not use the money to transform our rather ordinary House Common Room? We could have rich wooden panelling on the walls, handsome wooden benches and a room that would be the envy of the other Houses.

I presented the proposal with all the enthusiasm of a man who had just discovered the secret to architectural excellence. Everyone listened. Everyone smiled. Everyone nodded. Not one objection. Not one uncomfortable question. Not even a hesitant “But Sir…”

I remember feeling rather pleased with myself. Here was democracy at its finest, I thought. A leader with a vision and an entire team united behind it!

Looking back, I realise that what I had mistaken for consensus was perhaps something quite different.

Anyway, work began in earnest. The carpenters arrived, the woodwork took shape, and before long, the Common Room had undergone a remarkable transformation. The walls looked elegant, the benches were impressive, and the entire place had acquired an air of sophistication that made us all rather proud. We even invited the then Headmaster, Dr Kanti Bajpai, to inaugurate our newly refurbished Common Room. There was a proper little ceremony, sweets were distributed, compliments exchanged, and everyone congratulated everyone else on a job splendidly done.

For a while, all was well. Unfortunately, we had overlooked one small detail.

Dehradun has termites. And termites, unlike House Council members, are not particularly impressed by a Housemaster’s enthusiasm.

Our House was an old building, and Dehradun’s damp climate provided just the right conditions for these uninvited guests. To them, our expensive wooden panelling was not an architectural improvement. It was an all-you-can-eat buffet, generously funded by the boys of Kashmir House.

Within a few months, the wood began to deteriorate. What looked perfectly sound from the outside was being quietly hollowed out from within. Before long, the damage became so extensive that we had no option but to pull the panelling down. There went our beautiful Common Room. There went our hard-earned money. And there went my grand architectural vision. Stripped of its finery, the room looked worse than it had before we started.

I called another House Council meeting. This time, the atmosphere was a little different. The earlier excitement had given way to an awkward silence. I looked around the room at the tutors and the boys and asked a question that had been troubling me.

“Tell me something. There were so many intelligent people sitting in this very room when we discussed the proposal. Did it not occur to even one of you that termites might be a problem?”

Silence.

A few embarrassed smiles. Some shifting in chairs. A couple of people suddenly found the tabletop extraordinarily interesting.

Finally, someone spoke.

“Sir, actually, we did think about it.”

I was astonished.

“Then why on earth didn’t anyone say anything?”

The reply was as innocent as it was revealing.

“Sir, you were so excited about the idea. We thought that if we mentioned termites, you might feel bad. We didn’t want to discourage you or appear disrespectful.”

For a moment, I didn’t know whether to laugh, get annoyed or admire the sincerity of the explanation.

There it was.

That incident has stayed with me all these years, not because of the money we wasted or the Common Room we ruined, but because of what it revealed about human behaviour and leadership.

We often confuse agreement with respect and silence with support.

Think about how frequently this happens in our schools, offices, institutions and even families.

A principal announces a new initiative. A manager presents an ambitious project. A senior colleague proposes a sweeping reform. The person speaking is enthusiastic, articulate and completely convinced of the merits of the idea.

Meanwhile, someone sitting across the table can already see the termites.

Perhaps the timeline is unrealistic. Perhaps the resources are insufficient. Perhaps an important stakeholder has been overlooked. Perhaps the idea, however attractive on paper, definitely will not work in practice.

But nobody speaks.

One person does not want to appear negative. Another is reluctant to challenge authority. A third worries that raising an objection might be interpreted as questioning the leader's competence. The rest decide that silence is the safest option.

And so the meeting ends with smiles, nods and the comforting illusion of unanimous agreement.

Everybody leaves happy.

Except, of course, the termites are already getting to work.

I have often wondered why we have made disagreement such an uncomfortable business. Somewhere along the way, particularly in hierarchical institutions, we seem to have developed the peculiar belief that respecting someone means agreeing with them.

It does not.

There is a world of difference between being disrespectful and expressing a respectful disagreement. Challenging an idea is not the same as challenging a person's dignity. Pointing out a possible flaw is not an act of disloyalty. In fact, it may be the most responsible contribution a colleague can make.

But there is another side to this story, and it concerns the person sitting at the head of the table.

As leaders, we cannot simply complain that people do not speak up. We must also ask ourselves whether we have made it easy for them to do so.

Was I so carried away by my own idea that I left little room for disagreement? Did my enthusiasm unintentionally suggest that the decision had already been made? Had I asked for honest opinions, or was I merely seeking approval?

These are uncomfortable questions, but necessary ones.

A leader's enthusiasm can be infectious. Unfortunately, so can a leader's intolerance of disagreement. People are remarkably quick at learning which opinions are welcome and which are best kept to themselves.

And once they learn that the safest response is "Yes, Sir", they become very good at saying it.

The real test of leadership, therefore, is not how many people agree with us when we speak. It is how comfortable they feel disagreeing with us when they genuinely believe we are wrong.

A healthy institution needs people who are willing to ask awkward questions, point out inconvenient realities and occasionally throw a bucket of cold water over an otherwise magnificent proposal.

Not because they are pessimists. Not because they enjoy finding faults. But because they care enough about the institution, the work and the people involved to prevent a mistake before it becomes an expensive lesson.

Equally, leaders must learn to welcome such voices without taking every objection personally. Sometimes, the person who questions our favourite idea is doing us a greater service than the ten people who applaud it.

I certainly wish someone had done me that favour during that Kashmir House Council meeting.

Years later, I can smile at the memory of our grand wooden Common Room and its rather short-lived glory. The boys meant well. The tutors meant well. I meant well. Even the termites, I suppose, were doing what termites do.

But the episode left me with a lesson far more valuable than the money we lost.

Respect should never demand silence, and leadership should never make honesty feel like an act of courage.

So, if you are fortunate enough to have someone in your team who can look you in the eye and say, "Sir, wonderful idea. But have we thought about the termites?", value that person.

And if you happen to be the one sitting at the head of the table, do not merely allow that question. Encourage it.

Because the greatest danger to an institution is not always the person who disagrees with the leader.

Sometimes, it is a room full of people who agree with everything.

And somewhere, quietly, the termites are having a feast.