<p>Your columnist was seven or eight years old when he received his first lesson in swimming and, unintentionally, his first lesson in humility. His instructor was Chandan Das, a friend and colleague of his father, who had agreed to teach a small boy how not to drown. This was generous of him because your columnist, even at that age, appears to have combined limited aquatic ability with considerable confidence in his own importance. After a few lessons, Chandan decided that the boy was ready to swim the entire length of the pool. He swam alongside carrying a rubber tube, partly as reassurance and presumably partly because he understood the nature of his pupil. Halfway across, your columnist began to sink. He reached for the tube. Chandan refused to give it to him, correctly believing that the child was capable of continuing. Your columnist responded with the calm dignity for which seven-year-olds are famous. “You are being rude,” he apparently declared, while swallowing chlorinated water. “I will tell my father and he will sack you.”</p><p>There are a few admirable qualities your columnist may have possessed in childhood. Humility was not one of them. Neither, apparently, was an understanding of corporate governance. Life, fortunately, has its own appraisal process. Over the years, professional reverses, personal disappointments and the occasional clobbering by circumstances have gradually introduced your columnist to an interesting idea. He may not always be right. This discovery came rather late. He remains far from perfect, but can legitimately claim improvement.</p><p>Humility is sometimes misunderstood in business. It does not mean being indecisive or permanently apologetic. Nobody wants a chief executive who enters a meeting saying, “I have absolutely no idea what we should do”. Leadership requires conviction. Humility simply requires recognising that conviction and infallibility are not the same thing. That distinction becomes especially important as executives rise through organisations. Seniority produces some peculiar effects. Jokes become funnier and opinions become more insightful. Eventually, if the leader is not careful, he begins to believe the reviews. Success makes the problem worse. Make three difficult decisions and get all three right, and it becomes tempting to conclude that superior intellect is responsible. Sometimes it is, but often markets helped or you were lucky.</p><p>Luck, regrettably, does not normally attend the annual strategy meeting to explain its contribution. This is where humility becomes a serious leadership asset. Humble leaders ask questions and they employ people cleverer than themselves, without feeling threatened. Crucially, they allow people to disagree. That last quality is particularly important. Organisations rarely run into trouble because absolutely nobody saw the problem coming. More commonly, somebody saw it, mentioned it, noticed the boss’s expression and decided henceforth to concentrate on more rewarding activities. A leader who punishes disagreement eventually creates a remarkably harmonious organisation where everyone agrees with everything. This is pleasant until the business goes for a toss.</p><p>There is also a more fundamental reason humility matters. People prefer working with leaders who give credit, accept blame and do not treat every conversation as an exhibition of their own intelligence. Nobody expects a CEO to be modest to the point of invisibility. Leadership involves confidence and occasionally a substantial ego. But the ego should preferably fit inside the room. Your columnist learnt this slowly.</p><p>Chandan Das, incidentally, remained a close family friend for decades. Your columnist eventually learnt to swim. And somewhere along the way, he learnt something more useful.</p>
<p>Your columnist was seven or eight years old when he received his first lesson in swimming and, unintentionally, his first lesson in humility. His instructor was Chandan Das, a friend and colleague of his father, who had agreed to teach a small boy how not to drown. This was generous of him because your columnist, even at that age, appears to have combined limited aquatic ability with considerable confidence in his own importance. After a few lessons, Chandan decided that the boy was ready to swim the entire length of the pool. He swam alongside carrying a rubber tube, partly as reassurance and presumably partly because he understood the nature of his pupil. Halfway across, your columnist began to sink. He reached for the tube. Chandan refused to give it to him, correctly believing that the child was capable of continuing. Your columnist responded with the calm dignity for which seven-year-olds are famous. “You are being rude,” he apparently declared, while swallowing chlorinated water. “I will tell my father and he will sack you.”</p><p>There are a few admirable qualities your columnist may have possessed in childhood. Humility was not one of them. Neither, apparently, was an understanding of corporate governance. Life, fortunately, has its own appraisal process. Over the years, professional reverses, personal disappointments and the occasional clobbering by circumstances have gradually introduced your columnist to an interesting idea. He may not always be right. This discovery came rather late. He remains far from perfect, but can legitimately claim improvement.</p><p>Humility is sometimes misunderstood in business. It does not mean being indecisive or permanently apologetic. Nobody wants a chief executive who enters a meeting saying, “I have absolutely no idea what we should do”. Leadership requires conviction. Humility simply requires recognising that conviction and infallibility are not the same thing. That distinction becomes especially important as executives rise through organisations. Seniority produces some peculiar effects. Jokes become funnier and opinions become more insightful. Eventually, if the leader is not careful, he begins to believe the reviews. Success makes the problem worse. Make three difficult decisions and get all three right, and it becomes tempting to conclude that superior intellect is responsible. Sometimes it is, but often markets helped or you were lucky.</p><p>Luck, regrettably, does not normally attend the annual strategy meeting to explain its contribution. This is where humility becomes a serious leadership asset. Humble leaders ask questions and they employ people cleverer than themselves, without feeling threatened. Crucially, they allow people to disagree. That last quality is particularly important. Organisations rarely run into trouble because absolutely nobody saw the problem coming. More commonly, somebody saw it, mentioned it, noticed the boss’s expression and decided henceforth to concentrate on more rewarding activities. A leader who punishes disagreement eventually creates a remarkably harmonious organisation where everyone agrees with everything. This is pleasant until the business goes for a toss.</p><p>There is also a more fundamental reason humility matters. People prefer working with leaders who give credit, accept blame and do not treat every conversation as an exhibition of their own intelligence. Nobody expects a CEO to be modest to the point of invisibility. Leadership involves confidence and occasionally a substantial ego. But the ego should preferably fit inside the room. Your columnist learnt this slowly.</p><p>Chandan Das, incidentally, remained a close family friend for decades. Your columnist eventually learnt to swim. And somewhere along the way, he learnt something more useful.</p>
