Why Your Quiet Colleague Might Be the Most Influential?

Dear Friends,

We all share a popular belief — myself included — that people who are widely known must be great. Traditionally, we tend to think that if many people know you, you are popular and therefore successful. Most of us think this way. Do you?

If someone has a lot of followers on Instagram or Facebook, we often consider them influential. Do you agree with this statement? Initially, I did — but eventually, I realized I was mistaken. It turns out that assumption may not be entirely true. A compelling article challenges this theory.

Science Advances (a journal with an impact factor of 11.7) published a fascinating study that asks a fundamental question: “Who is more popular — the one with the most followers or the one with deep network knowledge?” Let me explain with an example.

Imagine two of your colleagues. One is outgoing and seems to have influence with senior management. The other is more reserved but has a strong grasp of the internal system — who knows whom, who trusts whom, and so on. Who would you consider more influential?

According to the article:
• Highest number of followers = popularity
• Deep understanding of social connections = influence

Popularity may open doors, but social insight helps you build the house.

So how did they prove this?

The study tracked 187 first-year university students over an academic year to understand how individuals gain social influence. The researchers discovered that those who ultimately became the most influential were not the ones with the most friends, but those who had early and accurate insight into how their peers were connected — the overall structure of the social network. Simply knowing many people, or being aware of individual friendships, did not predict influence. As the network stabilized over time, these insightful individuals further deepened their understanding of social ties.

When I reflect on this, it makes perfect sense. In fact, this is at the heart of marketing, isn’t it?

At Wipro, we had the concept of Hunters and Farmers in our sales structure. The hunter’s job was to identify new leads, while the farmer would deepen engagement within an existing account to generate more revenue. In both roles, success depended on influence — specifically, understanding the customer's internal network and knowing who the decision-makers were. It was never about how many people you knew, but how well you understood the ecosystem and managed relationships.

Sales and marketing can't be taught entirely in a classroom. You learn the fundamentals through instruction, yes — but true learning happens on the field.

On a lighter note, in the old days, almost every family had that one aunt or uncle who knew everything about everyone — who was getting married, who had health problems, what the latest gossip was. That person was the “hub” of the family network. Ironically, many of those uncles and aunts are now lost in Instagram reels and slowly losing their influencer status!

So, let me ask you:

Are you popular, or are you an influencer in your family or social network?

Ravi Saripalle

Instinct to Survive: Lessons from a Trapped Tiger

Dear Friends,

Can you imagine a situation where you and your deadliest enemy both got placed in the same coupe in a first-class railway bogie? You both have to travel for 3 days. What would be your immediate reaction? Will you look at each other’s faces? Will you quarrel? Or will you go to the extent of fighting each other? Or do you both ignore each other until you reach your destination? Definitely, it is the most uncomfortable situation, right?

In such a situation, what if you are offered some good food by your neighbour? Will you eat happily, burying the rivalry or suspicion? Or eat with hesitation? Or reject it totally? Unless we experience such a situation, we may not be able to answer correctly.

However, animals behave differently. A few days back, a little bird got stuck on our balcony. It was barely able to fly. At a distance, the mother kept watching but couldn’t enter due to the parapet wall. It took a while. My son prepared a decent enclosure and started feeding it. Surprisingly, it did not eat, despite being given the right food. It was also unable to make any sound. After some time, he took the enclosure to the garden and dropped her near a plant, guarding her from predators. Suddenly, a few of her relatives came and pushed her forcefully. She gained confidence and flew away with them.

You might be wondering — what is so great about this story?

Recently, an incident took place in Kadukkkachiy in Idukki, Kerala. A tiger and a dog were stuck in a pit at a cardamom plantation (The Hindu). Everybody wondered why the tiger did not kill the dog — after all, they were barely a foot apart in a 10-ft-deep pit. It was an easy prey for the tiger. A DFO and a wildlife expert revealed something new. Normally, tigers do not attack or ambush inside traps. When dogs chase tigers, the tiger usually escapes. Generally, we think the other way around. However, experts say, “Instinct was to survive, not to kill.” This is animal dharma.

Many life lessons and management theories can be drawn from this. Today, the whole world is experiencing various phenomena — wars, famine, natural disasters, health outbreaks, human trafficking, slavery, and many more unwanted and undesired conditions. A few are man-made, while a few are natural. We can avoid man-made disasters and collaboratively and collectively handle natural ones.

What is one lesson we can learn from these tigers? The instinct is to survive, not to kill. We are all people trapped on this big planet. Maybe we need the same instinct — to survive. I’m sure everyone will have their own reason. At least, we can reduce the friction. Human life is so short. We send best wishes to family members, greet each other — and within hours, we’re not sure whether we’ll return safely or not. In the process, we build great dreams, make big claims, and create all kinds of noise. But where is the guarantee that our claim will be fulfilled in our own eyes?

Nature’s lessons are always great. They teach us philosophy, science, engineering, architecture, and much more. I think some universities should start a bachelor’s program exclusively on “Bachelor's in Nature Understanding.” It should be a transdisciplinary subject covering all philosophies.

What does your instinct say?

Ravi Saripalle

From Memes to Meaning: A Reflection on Change, Grief, and Generational Shifts

Dear Friends,

A couple of days ago, I came across a meme: A grandfather is on life support, with the oxygen cylinder plugged into an electrical socket. Next to him, his grandson is playing a video game. The grandfather says, “I know how this will end — one of my grandkids will unplug my life support to charge their phone.”

It made me smile — it’s humorous on the surface, but also carries a profound message. It's not just about choosing a phone over a grandparent's life. It reflects how deeply our world and behaviours have shifted — subtly, yet significantly.

Last night, my two-wheeler broke down about 25 KM from home, around 9:30 PM. With limited options, I had to leave the vehicle by the roadside. By the time it was past 10 PM, transportation was scarce. Eventually, I caught a city bus. In front of me sat two boys (they seemed like brothers), engrossed in a video game. Their parents were seated farther away. I vaguely heard the elder boy say, “Bro, keep 40 rupees and kill that character.” I couldn’t tell if it was part of the game or something else, but their instincts were not sounding right. Persistent exposure to such narratives may lead to different behaviour.

That moment reminded me of another experience from a couple of months ago. I was at a hospital, helping a well-wisher with a non-emergency matter. While near the emergency ward, I witnessed something that deeply moved me.

A young painter, perhaps 25–30 years old, had fallen while working and was rushed in. Tragically, he was declared dead on arrival. He was the sole breadwinner for his family — a mother, a wife, and two young children.

Soon, relatives, neighbors, and friends began arriving. It was heartbreaking. The family, with very limited resources, struggled even to cover basic hospital expenses. I watched as people emptied their pockets — pulling out coins and small bills. Even with all that, it wasn’t enough. Some went out in search of additional help, while others sat silently through the night outside the hospital.

What stayed with me, however, was this small yet powerful detail: While the adults mourned — the mother, in particular, was inconsolable — the young children were given mobile phones to keep them occupied. They quietly played games. I’m not here to say whether that was right or wrong. But I did notice the contrast.

A few decades ago, in such a moment, children might have been taken aside, told to sit quietly, or even asked to pray. Today, the instinct is to distract, not reflect.

It brought back a memory from my own childhood. In October 1984, my maternal grandfather passed away in our village, 30–40 KM from Vizianagaram, Andhra Pradesh. He had a cow he loved dearly. That day, the cow cried — all day. Tears were visible in her eyes. Perhaps it was her way of mourning — an expression of love in a language we often fail to understand.

Even today, I rarely get tears in my eyes, even during intense moments. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel, or that my heart is hard. I'm not trying to draw exact parallels between these stories, but there’s a certain disconnect we can sense between generations.

Honestly, I don't know why I chose to share this story today. It wasn’t planned. But two pairs of children, a single meme, and a string of memories prompted me to write.

I’m not here to judge what’s right or wrong. Times are changing. So are our tools, habits, and ways of expressing emotion. We’ll likely see many more such memes in the future.

Let’s just hope they remain memes — not reality.

Ravi Saripalle

From Shelter to Showcase: The Evolution of Construction Costs

 Dear Friends,

A couple of days back, I was reading a post on “Thumb Rule for Construction Cost Wise %.” It said: Cement – 16.4%, Sand – 12.3%, Aggregates – 7.4%, Steel – 24.6%, Painting – 4.1%, Tiles – 8%, Bricks – 4.4%, Windows – 3%, Doors – 3.4%, Plumbing – 5.5%, Electrical – 6.8%, Sanitary – 4.1%.

Let’s assume we aspire to live in a 1200 sq. ft flat at ₹5,000 per sq. ft. That’s ₹60 lakhs. Cement itself would cost around ₹10 lakhs, sand around ₹8 lakhs, steel ₹15 lakhs, and sanitary fittings about ₹2.5 lakhs!

Thirty years ago, we lived in a 200–300 sq. ft house with two rooms. One of the rooms served as a kitchen in the morning and became a guest room at night! Families back then weren’t nuclear—grandparents were part of the household. On average, we hosted 2–3 guests every month, staying for a week. When we said “door,” it meant just the main door facing the road! The rest were partitions. “Sanitary” meant only an Indian-style toilet. There was no concept of a washbasin.

As for furniture, we had one Godrej almirah and 3–4 chairs. No dining table! Privacy was a luxury. The background music while preparing for life-changing competitive exams was the inevitable household cacophony of an elderly grandmother, her standard rumblings, occasional scoldings, and emotional outbursts. But the number of life lessons we learned was immense.

Fast forward to my early career phase—living in a 64 sq. ft room in Bangalore as a bachelor. We could afford a better space, but all of us in that phase shared the same aspirations. We were still growing, still dreaming of a better life for our future families. Back then, we were called misers. But who could understand our hearts? That compromise may not be appreciated now, but I feel deeply content about the responsibility I showed back then.

Looking back today, I can say we are living in luxury compared to those days. Aspirations have changed. Lifestyles have transformed. Given a choice, I don’t think I could return to those old living conditions—unless God’s will demands it.

Recently, while visiting Mumbai, I passed through a slum. Watching the lives there was heart-wrenching. It made me realize: we may not feel we are living in luxury, but in comparison, we are. And maybe—just maybe—we’re occupying a space that could have been someone else’s comfort.

Somewhere I read that in 1959, the LIC Building in Mumbai was constructed at ₹70 per sq. ft. In 2002, an independent house in Chennai could be built at ₹300–₹500 per sq. ft. Today, in most metros, a premium tier-1 apartment costs around ₹5,000–₹6,000 per sq. ft.

Construction today is no longer just about shelter—it’s a statement. But with every additional tile and steel rod, we’re also shaping future costs: both personal and planetary.

This is the challenge for designers—in an age of climate crisis and housing shortages, minimalist, modular, and eco-conscious designs may well be the true architectural innovation we need.

Finally, are we building dreams—or just buying into trends? I must admit, I too fell into this trap.

Ravi Saripalle

Is the “Anting” Philosophy Gaining Ground in Education?

Dear Friends,

A few days ago, we were invited by one of the country’s established and well-regarded deemed universities to conduct an orientation session for a newly designed academic program. Parents from various states attended and actively raised their questions and concerns. The university’s management responded to every query with patience and without prejudice.

While a strong institutional brand carries weight, today, no progressive educational institution can afford to leave any stone unturned. The landscape of education is shifting dramatically across institutions, whether it’s Harvard, IITs, or other reputed centres of learning.

For instance, when IIT Madras launched its BSc in Data Science program, it held multiple orientation sessions before admissions. A decade ago, such efforts were rare. Back then, the brand alone was enough to attract students. Today, things have changed. Students and parents are increasingly concerned not only about academic prospects but also about quality of life—campus experience, living conditions, and co-living environments.

In the past, it wasn’t unusual for four or five students to share a bathroom. That was never questioned. Today, the preference for fewer roommates and private or semi-private amenities has become a deciding factor in course selection. Institutions are tuning into these voices and are transforming—be it infrastructure, faculty mindset, course design, or evaluation methodologies.

This ongoing transformation can be likened to a process known in nature as "Anting."

When a crow feels unwell, it seeks out an anthill. It spreads its wings and remains still, allowing ants to crawl through its feathers. The ants release formic acid, a natural antiseptic that eliminates bacteria, fungi, and parasites. This self-healing behavior is not unique to crows—it’s observed in many bird species. No vet, no synthetic medicine—just instinct and nature’s pharmacy at work.
In many ways, educational institutions are undergoing their own anting process—a phase of introspection, healing, and transformation. If they don’t, they risk being consumed by internal “parasites.”

So, what are these parasites?

• A faculty member who resists adapting to new methods, cultures, or tools becomes a drag on institutional progress.

• An institution that clings to outdated philosophies from the 1990s or 2000s without evolving risks irrelevance.

• Neglecting infrastructure or failing to adopt modern platforms and systems is not just stagnation—it’s regression.

The anting process may be temporarily uncomfortable, just as it might be for the crow, but its benefits are long-lasting. Constructive criticism within institutions is often mistaken as a personal attack. In reality, it is a call to awaken, to become more aware, and to evolve.

And let’s not limit this philosophy to institutions alone. Anting applies to our homes, our lives, and even our personal growth.

Are you experiencing your Anting process?

Ravi Saripalle

The Right Shift of Merit: The Lost Bell Curve

Dear Friends,

This is the season of results. From as early as 5th standard, both students and parents are preoccupied—not about passing or failing, nor about third, second, or even first class—but about the race for 90%+ and 9.0+ CGPAs.

I still remember my own 10th-grade results. In those days, the results came in a special newspaper edition. Pages filled with roll numbers, neatly categorized: third class, second class, and first class. I’m not sure if it was a confidence issue or a competence issue, but we would start by nervously checking the third-class list, then second, and finally, with bated breath, the first-class section. But the most suspenseful category of all was the "WITHHELD" section—a kind of academic Trishanku Swarga. Neither passed nor failed. Caught between suspicion of malpractice or a technical error. Pure suspense!

But oh, the joy of simply passing back then! After my intermediate (Plus 2), my father sent a telegram with just two words: First Class. I was on vacation in Chhattisgarh with no phone, no easy communication, and no reserved travel. My cousin helped me catch a ride on a steam engine (literally sitting next to the driver) to Raipur, then I took a passenger train to reach Vizianagaram. For that entire journey, I was basking in those two words: First Class. I also owe a small thanks to my classmate, Dr. Ravi Sankar (now Professor at IIT Madras), whose roll number was next to mine. Both names are alike. His math help made a real difference.
Where is that kind of joy now?

A few days ago, I came across a post by Dr. Madhuri Parti. She writes:

“Students scoring 95%, even 96%, are anxious, dissatisfied, and in some cases — battling depression. What changed? In 2024 alone, over 2.4 lakh Class 10 students scored above 90%. Over 2.2 lakh Class 12 students crossed that same mark. On paper, it looks like a nation of academic brilliance. But the reality is far more complex — and troubling. When 90% becomes average, we erode the value of genuine understanding. The dignity of skilled work. The joy of learning for life, not just exams.”

How true.

As teachers, we’re encouraged to follow the bell curve model while grading. It’s designed to standardize results across large classes, and to prevent grade inflation or deflation. It assumes that a normal distribution exists—and tries to fit everyone into it.
But reality rarely conforms to theory. When most of the class scores above 90%, trying to fit grades into a bell curve can feel unfair. High-performing students may still get pushed down the grade ladder—not because of their competence, but because of the statistical mold we’re forced to apply. No one feels good in the end.

Initially, I believed this was an India-specific problem. But it’s not. China, the U.S., and even European systems face the same challenge. In machine learning terms, it’s like an overfitted model—excellent results on the training data, but poor generalization to real-world scenarios.

We’re creating excellent academic pathways for higher education, but failing to build flexible, skill-based routes that cater to the socio-physical-psychological uniqueness of individuals.
And then there's the meme making rounds:

“This generation’s marks are like: 99.4, 99.5, 99.8, 99.9.
In our times, we only used to get fever like this.”

Maybe it's time we asked ourselves: Are we chasing the right kind of merit?

Ravi Saripalle

The Numbers Didn’t Reveal the Truth—Empathetic Observation Did

Dear Friends,

Over the past two weeks, I had the opportunity to speak about Design Thinking with diverse groups—from enthusiastic school kids in Hyderabad to a dedicated faculty team at Gayatri Vidya Parishad. Today, I had the pleasure of addressing members of the CMA Association (The Institute of Cost Accountants of India, Visakhapatnam Chapter) on the topic “Design Thinking for CMAs.”

In fields like medicine or consumer products, explaining Design Thinking is relatively straightforward. It’s a human-centered approach to experiential innovation—where human centeredness means empathy, and experiential innovation is the confluence of desirability, affordability, and technical feasibility.

But how do we explain Design Thinking in the context of Cost & Management Accountancy? I shared two stories to illustrate. Here’s the first:

Story 1:
A leading pharmaceutical distributor in Andhra Pradesh experienced a steady decline in net margins—despite increasing sales volumes. The finance team dove deep into the P&L, comparing year-over-year costs, vendor discounts, and pricing models. They adjusted overhead allocations, renegotiated logistics contracts, and even restructured sales incentives. But the problem persisted.

Enter Sudha (a fictional character), the company’s CMA—and more importantly, a Design Thinker at heart. She knew the numbers only told part of the story.

Sudha decided to look beyond the reports. She visited major pharmacies the company supplied to. She spoke to doctors—both those prescribing the products and those who weren’t. She interviewed patients about their experiences. She listened to store managers about ordering delays and invoicing issues. She even shadowed the warehouse dispatch team for a day.
What she uncovered surprised everyone.

Sales reps were being incentivized to push slow-moving, high-margin drugs to meet monthly targets. This resulted in high return volumes from pharmacies, which drove up reverse logistics costs. The manual reconciliation process for returned stock led to delays, missed credits, and write-offs. Pharmacies began favoring rival distributors who offered more flexible, responsive systems.

None of this had shown up in the reports.

The real issue wasn’t pricing—it was a broken user experience across the supply chain.

While AI could detect anomalies in the P&L, it was Sudha’s empathetic observations, interviews, and field visits that revealed the underlying problems. That’s the beginning of the Design Thinking approach.

I’ll share the second story in another letter—but it focuses on the idea of upholding trust.

Today, fraud control isn’t just about detection—it’s about designing trust.

When you’re a design thinker or designing a banking product, you face four possible outcomes:

1. You correctly flag a fraudulent transaction (your duty as a banker).
2. You wrongly flag a legitimate transaction as fraud (a failure of empathy—imagine a customer in a hospital being denied a transaction for surgery, or a traveler stranded because they couldn’t book a ticket).
3. You correctly allow a legitimate transaction (also your duty).
4. You wrongly allow a fraudulent transaction (potentially enabling illegal activities).

In short, while AI automates detection, design thinkers elevate prevention—by designing systems grounded in empathy, trust, and user understanding.

Let’s design that trust.

Ravi Saripalle