*(inspired by Kahlil Gibran’s The Two Hermits)
In a lot of cultures, especially Indian, work often suffers not because we lack talent or opportunity, but because we insist on breaking the bowl.
We say we’re here to build—something enduring, something true.
We say we’re in it together.
Two brothers. Two co-founders. Two cousins. A father and his daughters.
And then, one day, the silence breaks:
“This cannot go on.”
“Let us divide our possessions.”
Because it’s not enough to build.
We must own.
We must win.
So we fight.
In boardrooms, in WhatsApp groups, in silence.
In courtrooms where lawyers feed on legacy.
In the streets, when egos spill into rage.
Sometimes through gangs and hits—because business becomes blood.
And always, always in the media—leaked emails, planted stories, reputations shredded for sport.
We break what we built.
Not because it stopped working,
But because we stopped trusting.
One wants fairness.
The other offers peace.
Neither is willing to bow.
So the bowl must be broken.
Even if it feeds neither.
India doesn’t suffer from a lack of enterprise.
It suffers from too much inheritance and too little surrender.
From businesses treated like crowns, not causes.
From successions decided by surname, not soul.
From egos too fragile to take a step back—
Men who won’t follow women.
Women who won’t yield to women.
Teams that fracture because someone had to be right.
The real damage isn’t in the court cases.
It’s in the factories that fall silent.
In the teams that scatter.
In the vendors who get caught in the crossfire, bills unpaid and trust betrayed.
In the promising careers quietly abandoned—because the vision turned toxic.
In the customers who move on, confused but certain they deserve better.
We don’t need better contracts.
We need better character.
The bowl is always more useful when it’s whole.
But wholeness asks something difficult.
It asks that we let go.
Not because we must lose.
But because something greater wants to live.