Targets on the Lawn

It was the winter of 1989 in Pune, the sort of Pune winter that was cold enough to justify a blazer but not cold enough to prevent senior managers from holding important discussions on lawns.

I was then an Area Manager in the marketing division of an automotive company. Our annual retreat had been organised by the Managing Director to celebrate the previous year’s performance and, more importantly, unveil what awaited us in the year ahead.

It was my first large-company annual retreat. Perhaps that is why I remember it so vividly.

There are some corporate events you remember because something extraordinary happened. Others remain with you because nothing visibly extraordinary happened, but something underneath did.

This was one of those.

The venue was an impressive combination of a sprawling lawn, food counters and a well-stocked bar. Area Managers responsible for different states and territories across India had assembled there. We had survived the performance reviews, presentations, explanations and the corporate equivalent of medical examinations without anaesthesia.

So, technically, we were supposed to relax.

We did what managers normally do when officially instructed to relax. We became tense in a more informal setting.

The previous year had been exhausting. Our vehicle was still in its launch phase across several Indian markets, and the company was pursuing almost every number known to managerial civilisation.

Sales revenue. Market share. Dealer productivity. Territory coverage. Individual performance. Competition tracking. Customer visits. Activity schedules. And probably, had somebody thought of measuring it, the number of times an Area Manager smiled optimistically while internally calculating his chances of survival.

Everything had a number attached to it.

Numbers, of course, are useful. Businesses cannot be managed entirely through intuition, optimism and motivational quotations framed outside conference rooms.

But numbers acquire strange personalities inside organisations.

A target of 1,000 units on a spreadsheet looks remarkably disciplined.

The same 1,000 units, when handed to the person expected to sell them in a territory with six weak dealers, two aggressive competitors and questionable infrastructure, suddenly develops a sense of humour.

Management by Observation

Our organisation was aggressive by the standards of the time.

This was 1989, even before India formally entered the economic liberalisation era in 1991. Yet one could already sense a different managerial culture emerging—more competitive, more performance-oriented and much less patient with leisurely explanations.

We were constantly on our toes.

What made the environment particularly stressful was not merely the pressure to perform. It was the feeling of being continuously observed.

A casual remark could be interpreted as negativity. A thoughtful silence could become lack of enthusiasm. A relaxed posture could indicate insufficient aggression. And disagreeing with an optimistic sales projection could occasionally be diagnosed as an attitude problem.

Corporate body language had become almost as important as corporate results.

One learned to sit forward during meetings. Sitting backwards might suggest complacency. Crossing your arms could imply resistance. Looking at the ceiling possibly meant you lacked strategic alignment.

By the end of the year, many of us had mastered the difficult art of appearing confident while being completely uncertain.

Different People, Different Parties

That evening on the Pune lawn brought home something I would understand much better later in my career—the enormous power of our frames of reference.

We were all standing at the same venue. We were attending the same annual retreat. We were listening to the same management team. Yet psychologically, we were attending completely different events.

For senior management, it was an exciting planning exercise.

The year ahead represented opportunity. New territories. Higher market share. Stronger dealer networks. Ambitious targets.

Management particularly liked the idea of “sales-owned targets.” The phrase had an attractive democratic ring to it.

If the salesperson himself committed to a number, management could later describe it as his own target.

A wonderfully efficient piece of organisational engineering.

The target could therefore simultaneously be management’s expectation and the salesperson’s commitment.

If achieved, it validated the strategy. If missed, it validated the appraisal system.

For those of us in sales, however, the evening looked rather different.

We were wondering what figures we should commit to without signing our own professional death warrants.

Some were worried about territory changes. Others were wondering whether they would be transferred across the country. Could their families move? Would their children have to change schools? Could they adapt to the language, culture and consumer behaviour of another region? Would the dealer network cooperate? Was the market ready?

Management saw coloured territories on a map. The Area Manager saw his life packed inside cardboard boxes.

Same geography. Different frame of reference.

Commitment Without Context

The sales commitment exercise gradually began.

Managers were asked what numbers they believed they could deliver in the coming year. In principle, this sounded sensible. People closest to markets should participate in target setting.

The problem was that participation without preparation can become theatre.

There had been little structured discussion on how these numbers were expected to be developed. What was the territory potential? How mature was the dealer network? What had competitors achieved? What was the expected category growth? What investments in advertising, manpower and distribution would support the target? Which assumptions were fixed and which could change?

In established territories, at least some historical numbers existed. New geographies were a different matter altogether. There was virtually no precedent.

Yet a number had to emerge.

Corporate meetings have a remarkable ability to produce numbers even where evidence is unavailable.

Nature may abhor a vacuum. Management abhors a blank Excel cell.

The danger was obvious to the sales team.

Commit too low, and you lacked ambition. Commit too high, and twelve months later somebody would produce the same figure on a transparency and ask why you had failed.

So everyone searched for that magical number located somewhere between career stagnation and career suicide.

The Meeting Before the Meeting

Looking back, the real management failure was not in setting ambitious targets.

Ambition is necessary.

Nor was it wrong to move managers between territories.

Businesses need mobility.

The problem was the absence of what I now call the study before the meeting.

Important meetings should rarely begin inside the meeting room. Good management begins earlier.

Before asking a salesperson for a target, management should understand the market that salesperson is expected to address. Before reallocating territories, it should understand the human consequences of relocation. Before asking for commitment, it should establish assumptions. Before demanding ownership, it should create participation.

Otherwise, the meeting is not a planning exercise.

It is an announcement ceremony with audience involvement.

Imagine doing the same thing in retail.

Suppose I tell a salesman in our showroom today:

“Last year you sold ₹50 lakh worth of merchandise. Please give me your own committed target for this year.”

He says, “₹55 lakh.”

I reply, “You lack ambition.”

He nervously says, “₹70 lakh.”

I smile.

“Excellent. I appreciate ownership.”

I have contributed absolutely nothing to the calculation, yet I have successfully created accountability.

Real target planning would be different. How much was last year’s footfall? Has average billing increased? Are we introducing new brands? Will inventory improve? Are competitors expanding? Will marketing expenditure rise? Are we adding tailoring capacity? Are there local events likely to influence demand?

Only then does a target become something more intelligent than a number extracted under managerial lighting.

When Geography Becomes Personal

Eventually, territories were allocated.

I still remember looking at a couple of colleagues.

Nothing had been said openly. No protest. No argument. No emotional speech.

But resignation was written across their faces.

Not metaphorically. One could almost imagine the letter already typed. They saw their new geography as punishment.

Management may have regarded the allocation as an operational necessity. The individuals concerned interpreted it as a judgment on their worth.

That distinction matters enormously.

Organisations frequently underestimate how employees interpret decisions.

Management announces a restructuring. The employee hears: I am becoming irrelevant.

Management says rotation. The employee hears: I am being moved out.

Management says stretch target. The salesperson hears: Start updating your résumé.

Management says exciting new responsibility. The family hears: Which city are we shifting to now?

The language of organisations and the language of human beings are not always the same.

The Underbelly of an Organisation

The retreat eventually ended. Glasses were emptied. Hands were shaken. People smiled for photographs.

Senior management probably went home feeling that the organisation was aligned for another aggressive year. On paper, perhaps it was.

But underneath, something had changed.

The invisible emotional machinery of the sales organisation had started turning. Some people felt energised. Some felt trapped. Some felt undervalued. Some felt frightened. Some were already calculating alternatives.

None of this appeared on the sales forecast.

And therein lies one of management’s recurring blind spots. We measure revenue, productivity, conversion and market share because they are visible. Fear is not. Resentment is not. Loss of trust is not. Anxiety about relocation is not. Yet these invisible numbers eventually influence all the visible ones.

Perspective Before Prescription

That winter evening in Pune stayed with me because it taught me that management decisions cannot be understood purely through the intentions of those who make them.

They must also be examined through the frame of reference of those who receive them.

A target may be motivational to the person assigning it and terrifying to the person carrying it. A transfer may be strategically logical and personally devastating. A meeting may look participative while producing no genuine participation. A celebration may look cheerful while half the lawn quietly evaluates its employment options.

Managing people therefore requires something beyond analysis. It requires perspective.

Before asking, What number should this person deliver?, perhaps we should also ask, What information does he have to arrive at that number?

Before saying, Why is she resisting the transfer?, perhaps ask, What does that transfer mean to her life outside the organisation?

Before concluding that somebody lacks aggression, ask whether caution might actually be experience speaking.

Businesses require targets. They require accountability. They require ambition.

But good management also requires the intellectual humility to recognise that the view from the boardroom is not necessarily the view from the territory.

That evening in 1989, all of us stood on the same lawn.

Management saw a new financial year. Sales saw twelve uncertain months.

Management saw territories. Some managers saw uprooted families.

Management saw commitments. Sales saw consequences.

It took me many more years in business to fully appreciate what that Pune lawn was quietly teaching me.

Sometimes the biggest gap inside an organisation is not between target and achievement. It is between two frames of reference looking at exactly the same reality—and seeing entirely different things.