Rebels Without a Cause

Remember those Che Guevara T-shirts everyone wore in the ’90s?

My roommate flaunted his at every college fest. When someone actually asked him about Che’s political philosophy, he froze, then whispered to me, “Cuban revolution, right?”

Wearing Che wasn’t about ideology—it was identity. A cotton declaration that you were intellectual, dangerous, and possibly free for coffee later.

Most didn’t know if Che was Venezuelan, Colombian, Mexican or Argentinian. Including me, until I looked it up on a dial-up connection that took so long I made chai, drank it, and still had time to question my life choices before the page loaded.

Graduate school corridors smell of cigarettes and revolution. Grand theories about dismantling systems while parents fund the education. We’d quote Foucault without reading him and debate capitalism while ordering Domino’s on daddy’s credit card.

But then comes Management School, and something shifts.

The rebels trade Che for Chanel.

The only revolution worth planning is their startup’s go-to-market strategy.

My first corporate office had its own revolutionaries. They huddled by the water cooler, not plotting overthrow but exit strategies.

“This place is a dead end.”

“Management doesn’t get it.”

“My cousin’s friend got promoted twice at his firm.”

I nodded sympathetically. Years later, I became the management that “doesn’t get it.” Life is circular that way.

It reminds me of Pakistani cricket fans after losing the Champions Trophy. The theories flowed faster than the Indus—ball chips, doctored pitches, hacked umpire screens, even pandits casting spells on their batsmen.

Because admitting you played badly is harder than inventing a technological conspiracy.

I once blamed a missed sales target on “market conditions” while conveniently forgetting I’d spent the month watching sunsets in Goa and then in Bangalore for a Roger Waters concert.

These days, everyone’s dispensing the same advice: Don’t be a Zelensky. Don’t squabble at the White House when you need allies. We should have managed Trump, Tariffs and the narratives betters. Pick your battles. Know your leverage.

We’ve perfected selective outrage into an art form.

At a dinner in Pune last year, my host spent twenty minutes ranting about “Western moral decay” on his iPhone 16 Pro Max while his daughter practiced for her SATs upstairs. Later, he asked if I knew anyone at the US consulate who could expedite his visa.

It has become fashionable to simply outrage. The West is bullying us, their culture is corrupting our youth, their societies are failing—all discussions held between Netflix episodes on American-designed devices.

Yesterday, Starlink got approvals from the Indian government for launch. The two major Indian telcos joined hands with Starlink—the same Starlink they vigorously opposed earlier. This isn’t hypocrisy. It’s pragmatism.

Pragmatism comes from self-belief. If you can’t beat them, join them — and then get ahead of them.

One of my bosses told me something in 2007 that changed my approach to every workplace since: “Before you complain about not being heard, ask yourself—is what you’re saying worth hearing?”

The office rebel complaining about “politics” rarely asks if they’re actually good at their job, if they offer solutions or just criticism, if they would promote themselves.

Most find it easier to blame the boss and the system. This is how you disempower yourself. This is how you become the philosopher with impressive theories but an unimpressive pay slip.

Finding fault is almost recreational. Building something better requires the courage to acknowledge where we stand, what we lack, and what we must improve.

The world doesn’t owe us attention simply because we demand it.

Neither does your manager.

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