The remote-controlled family
There are occasions in retail when you sell fabric.
And then there are occasions when, somewhere between the shirting counter and the billing desk, you accidentally attend a management seminar.
This particular seminar took place in our showroom on a busy Saturday afternoon. The faculty consisted of a family of three.
The subject was Decision-Making, Hierarchy and the Complete Elimination of Individual Opinion.
Admission was free. I was merely an observer. Or so I thought.
The Shopping Committee Arrives
A gentleman entered our store accompanied by his wife and younger son. They wanted to purchase fabrics, initially for their elder son.
Nothing unusual there.
Our salesman began doing what salesmen in fabric stores have been doing faithfully for generations—opening bundles, unfolding lengths, explaining brands, discussing cotton counts, comparing textures, pointing out colors, and occasionally pretending not to notice that the customer has already rejected the same blue three times.
The father was reasonably involved.
A few fabrics were shortlisted.
Then suddenly a fourth participant entered the showroom. Not physically. Digitally.
The father pulled out his mobile phone and made a video call to his elder son, who apparently lived elsewhere.
The selected fabric was held in front of the camera. “What do you think?”
There followed some discussion. One fabric was approved. Another rejected. A third required better lighting. A fourth needed to be shown from another angle.
Our salesman obediently rotated the fabric like a television presenter demonstrating a new luxury bedsheet.
I watched with mild amusement. Technology, after all, has made families more connected.
Little did I know that we were only warming up.
From Video Call to Video Governance
The exercise continued.
Every fabric had to pass through what I can only describe as the Remote Central Approval Authority.
Colour?
Video call.
Pattern?
Video call.
Brand?
Video call.
Shade slightly darker than the previous shade?
Video call.
The elder son was not shopping with the family. But spiritually, administratively and constitutionally, he appeared to be running the shopping expedition.
So far, I could still understand it.
After all, the fabrics were being purchased for him. It was only reasonable that his opinion mattered.
Then came the younger son’s turn. He was standing right there. A living, breathing adult male. Physically present. Possessing eyesight. Presumably possessing preferences. And, one hoped, possessing constitutional rights.
Our salesman showed him a few fabrics. The younger man appeared interested in one.
Before he could develop the dangerous habit of expressing an independent opinion, the mobile phone appeared again. The elder brother was called. The fabric traveled to the screen. Discussion resumed. Approval was sought.
I looked at the younger son. He looked at the fabrics. The fabrics, I suspect, looked equally helpless.
Apparently the person physically standing in the store required clearance from someone who wasn’t. That was the moment when my curiosity turned philosophical. But who were we to interfere?
Retail teaches you many things, one of which is that customers are entitled to their own purchasing rituals. Some compare prices. Some consult spouses. Some consult astrologers. Some consult children. And apparently some operate a miniature United Nations Security Council where one family member enjoys permanent veto powers.
Surely Father Controls the Money?
After the selections were finally made, I assumed the great democratic exercise was over.
Pricing, I thought, would surely be the father’s territory. He was the senior member. He appeared to be paying. At least economics would restore the natural order. I had underestimated the system.
The phone returned. Prices were discussed. Discounts were discussed.
One fabric was reconsidered. Another suddenly became unnecessary. A third was too expensive. A fourth was acceptable only if some mysterious cost-benefit calculation conducted several kilometers away produced a favorable result.
Meanwhile, other customers in the showroom were becoming involuntary participants in the video conference.
This is particularly easy in India because our mobile conversations are rarely private. We do not speak into telephones. We broadcast through them.
A person making a video call in a public place often assumes that everyone within a forty-foot radius is deeply interested in whether Rahul prefers the grey checks or the blue stripes.
Eventually, after several rounds of consultation, approval, rejection, reconsideration, and what could have passed for a board meeting, the family paid their bill and left.
Some fabrics survived. Others did not. Peace returned to the showroom. But the incident stayed with me. Because what I had witnessed was not really about fabric.
It was about power.
Who Was Actually in Charge?
The obvious question was, “Who was making the decisions?”
The father? Apparently not.
The younger son? Certainly not.
The mother? She appeared to have wisely chosen the safest position available in many complicated family negotiations—strategic neutrality.
The elder son? Apparently yes.
Which made the entire episode fascinating.
Because hierarchy is rarely as simple as age, position, or physical presence. Every family has an organizational chart. It is just never printed.
The oldest person may formally occupy the top position while someone younger exercises the real authority. A parent may control the finances but seek emotional approval from a child. A son may be physically absent yet psychologically dominate family decisions. Another family member may gradually learn that expressing an opinion is pointless because it will eventually be overruled.
Over time, this becomes culture. And culture is powerful precisely because nobody needs to announce it.
No father says, “From today onward, your brother will approve your shirts.” No company chairman announces: “From Monday, every manager should stop thinking independently.”
It simply happens. Slowly. Repeatedly. Until nobody finds it unusual anymore.
Welcome to Corporate Life
Businesses perform exactly the same comedy, except they call it governance.
Imagine a branch manager who has been appointed because of his experience, responsibility, and knowledge of the local market.
A customer requests a small commercial concession. The branch manager cannot approve it. He calls the regional manager. The regional manager calls the zonal manager. The zonal manager sends an email to the commercial department. Commercial asks Finance. Finance asks Legal. Legal asks why Sales offered anything in the first place.
By the time permission arrives, the customer has bought from somebody else. Everyone followed procedure. Nobody made the sale.
The younger son in our showroom would understand this organization perfectly. He too was present at the point of action. He too had access to all the information. And he too apparently lacked authority.
This is one of the great organizational contradictions of our time: we recruit capable people and then construct systems to prevent them from using their capability. We call it control.
When Control Becomes a Status Symbol
Hierarchy itself is not wrong. Families need some structure. Businesses certainly need accountability.
A retail salesperson cannot randomly offer fifty percent discounts because he has discovered his inner entrepreneur. An employee cannot approve a crore-rupee purchase because the supplier seemed like a pleasant fellow.
Controls matter.
But there is a difference between control and suffocation.
Healthy hierarchy defines boundaries. Unhealthy hierarchy constantly demonstrates who is superior. That distinction is crucial.
Sometimes decisions are centralized not because centralization produces better decisions, but because authority itself has become a status symbol.
“I must approve it” gradually replaces “I need to approve it.”
The first is about necessity. The second is about importance.
This happens in families too.
Parents occasionally continue deciding for grown children because surrendering control feels suspiciously like surrendering relevance.
An elder sibling becomes accustomed to being consulted.
A successful family member acquires disproportionate influence because financial success is quietly converted into intellectual superiority.
Soon we begin assuming that the person who earns most must also understand fabrics, careers, marriage, investments, restaurants, child-rearing, and perhaps atmospheric science.
Human beings have an extraordinary ability to convert achievement in one area into authority over completely unrelated areas.
Corporate titles produce the same miracle.
Give someone “Senior Vice President” on a visiting card, and within six months he may develop informed opinions about software architecture, office furniture, advertising copy, and the correct thickness of cafeteria napkins.
The Invisible Victim: Identity
My thoughts kept returning to the younger son. Maybe he genuinely wanted his brother’s opinion. Maybe this was normal in their family. Maybe I completely misread the situation.
A retailer must be careful not to convert observation into judgment.
Yet the episode raised an important question.
What happens when someone’s preferences are repeatedly overridden? Eventually, they may stop having preferences. That is the deeper cost of excessive control. It does not merely slow decisions.
It undervalues identity.
The same happens in organizations.
Tell a store manager ten times that every small decision needs head office approval, and eventually he will stop deciding. Tell employees that initiative is welcome but punish the first initiative that fails, and they quickly understand the actual policy.
Soon every email contains that immortal corporate sentence: “Please advise.” Not because advice is required. Because responsibility is dangerous.
One employee sends the problem upward. The next manager forwards it higher. Eventually, some senior executive who knows the least about the actual situation makes the decision.
If it works, leadership has prevailed. If it fails, execution was weak. Corporate civilization survives.
Who Makes Hay?
Every hierarchy creates beneficiaries. Those at the top receive importance. Those below receive protection.
That second benefit is often overlooked. People sometimes surrender authority willingly because authority brings responsibility. If I never decide, I can never be blamed for a bad decision.
Thus, centralized cultures often become mutually convenient arrangements. The boss enjoys control. The subordinate enjoys plausible deniability.
Both complain about each other. Neither wants the system changed. The true loser is the organization.
Customers wait. Employees disengage. Innovation slows. Capable managers become messengers. Entrepreneurial instinct disappears. And eventually competitors with faster decision-making systems begin eating your lunch while your organization is still circulating the menu for approval.
Culture Is What We Repeatedly Permit
That Saturday afternoon reminded me that culture is not created by grand statements. It is created through hundreds of small permissions.
Who gets consulted? Who gets ignored? Who can disagree? Who requires approval? Whose opinion automatically carries greater weight? Who is allowed to fail?
These questions define families as much as companies. Respect for elders is valuable. Family consultation is valuable. Business controls are necessary.
But respect must not become intellectual surrender. Consultation must not become compulsory obedience. And hierarchy must not become an elaborate system for proving that people lower down are lower down.
The strongest families, like the strongest businesses, probably understand something remarkably simple: authority should increase responsibility, not diminish everyone else’s identity.
As I watched that family disappear beyond our showroom entrance carrying their packet of approved fabrics, I smiled at the irony.
They had come to select clothes. Yet what remained with me was an entire lesson in organizational behavior.
Perhaps retail stores are secretly ‘management institutes.’ The case studies simply walk in through the front door. And occasionally, they join us by video call.
