Samosas, Exam Anxiety, and Reading Glasses

Being a CEO is a peculiar thing. It comes with a corner office, hot chai at the desk, and the assumption that I have answers to some of life’s great mysteries.

Sure, I can talk about whisky with some authority, though I’m no longer the prodigious consumer I once was. I know a bit about cricket and have a deep, somewhat questionable passion for ’80s and ’90s Bollywood—absolute pulp, gloriously over-the-top, defying both logic and gravity. (This won’t help my reputation.) I used to be a voracious reader, back when books didn’t have to compete with emails, deadlines, and travel. Speaking of which, I can pack four nights of travel into an overnighter—a truly valuable skill that impresses no one.

Now, for the longer list.

I can’t swim. I’ve spent two decades waging a mostly losing battle against my midriff. My impulse control—and not just with food—is poor. I don’t know my way around a wine glass, and at a fine-dining restaurant, I don’t know the fork for the course. I still finger-comb my hair, unless there’s a board meeting. I am clinically mildly colour blind. I crack dad jokes. I am always rushed for time. And to save time, I default to the most uninspiring outfit possible: a plain white shirt.

But my visiting card gives people the impression that I am an expert—on everything.

I get asked for investment advice, despite mostly forgetting to move money out of my savings account. People seek my counsel on relationships, despite zero evidence that I’ve successfully managed any. Keto, intermittent fasting, paleo? Apparently, struggling with weight makes me an authority.

Education? Ah, of course! As a CEO, I’m expected to provide profound insights into the alphabet soup of ICSE, CBSE, IB, and IGCSE—never mind that I changed seven schools and remember them mostly for their canteens and their ability to generously (mis)judge my potential.

Suketu Mehta, in Maximum City, wrote about how his old school—one that hadn’t thought much of him—invited him back as a guest speaker. I can relate. Some of the schools I attended now list my name on their websites, which, according to my closest friends, is less an endorsement of me and more an indictment of the school.

Mental wellness? Judicial reforms? Conflict resolution? Biodiversity? Every week, invitations land in my inbox asking me to speak on these topics. But my absolute favourite happened a couple of months ago, when a prestigious school invited me to address students on handling exam anxiety.

I politely told them there must be some mistake—I am definitely not the guy.

The principal, immediately suspicious, asked, “Are you the CEO?”

When I confirmed that I was, he sounded genuinely bewildered. “But you’re a CEO. You can surely talk about this.”

The truth is, people don’t really want expertise. They just want a title—CEO or any other—on stage or in the studios.

I suppose I could lean into it, play the role, and dispense advice with the conviction of a TED Talk speaker. But I’m still the guy who forgets to book his cab on time, eats one samosa too many, and frequently loses his most important new accessory—reading glasses.

And if you still want my advice—well, at least I warned you.

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