9-The Primate Protocol: Boardroom Lessons from the Himalayan Foothills.

 

The Primate Protocol: Boardroom Lessons from the Himalayan Foothills.

Hey fellow tower-hunters, KPI warriors and “let’s-take-this-offline” survivors,

Your friendly neighbourhood Telecom Regional Head here, back from the trenches with a story that’s equal parts jungle safari, corporate thriller and stand-up comedy. If you’ve ever stared at a burning site report wondering how to tell the Board “everyone did their job brilliantly… except the universe,” pull up a chair. This one’s for you.

Last month I was deep in the mofussil madness — bouncing from one village telecom tower to another, chasing phantom power cuts like a man possessed. By sunset I dragged my dusty SUV into the only five-star accommodation available: a gorgeous old Forest Rest House nestled in the foothills of the Himalayas. No Wi-Fi. No room service. Just me, the croaking frogs throwing an all-night rave, and some unidentified animal barking what sounded suspiciously like “quarterly targets missed.”

I loved it. Real disconnection. Real inner peace.

Until 2 a.m., when a troop of monkeys decided my window was their new nightclub. They screeched, they swung, they performed acrobatics that would make Cirque du Soleil quit. Thank God for the wire mesh — otherwise I’d have woken up missing both my phone and my dignity.

Next morning (Sunday, blessed Sunday) I woke to birdsong and a majestic peacock strutting like he owned the place. Peace restored. Until the same gang of corporate raiders — sorry, monkeys — descended on the front-lawn mango tree like a private equity team spotting an undervalued asset.

They didn’t just eat the ripe ones. Oh no. These primates had standards. They ripped open every mango in sight, took one bite, made a face like they’d tasted last quarter’s ARPU, and hurled the rest to the ground. Half-ripe, over-ripe, perfectly ripe — all became mango pulp confetti. I stood there in my pyjamas, coffee in hand, watching nature’s most successful species demonstrate zero inventory management and maximum wastage.

Then my boss called.

“Site 47 burned down last night. Serious accident. Photos. Report. Now. Board wants answers by EOD — and heads if necessary.”

Cue instant career flashback. I summoned the driver, raced 10 km through jungle roads, and walked into a scene straight out of a disaster movie: charred equipment, melted batteries, locals looking guilty, and a very creative “jugaad” wiring setup that had clearly tried to turn one diesel generator into a golden-egg-laying hen. Greed + innovation gone rogue = boom.

I clicked photos on my phone, fired them to the boss with the speed of a Level-1 employee dodging appraisal season, then joined the retired police investigators taking statements. The truth was ugly: someone had bent every safety rule to squeeze extra uptime and extra bonus. Classic “the hen that laid golden eggs got ripped apart” moment.

Back at the rest house that evening, I had the herculean task of condensing three thick files into one crisp one-page report that was (a) truthful, (b) Board-ready, and (c) didn’t get any of my bosses (or me) fired.

I sat on the veranda, sipping strong masala chai, letting the Himalayan breeze do its magic. And that’s when the real masterclass began.

The same monkey troop was back — but this time I watched them like a consultant studying a rival company. Ruthless dominance hierarchies. Mid-level monkeys scapegoating juniors the moment a senior glared. Complex alliances, nepotism, territorial wars, and the constant game of “throw someone under the bus to save your own tail.” The weaker ones pushed to the edges, vulnerable to leopards (or, in our world, auditors).

And then it hit me — harder than a missed quarterly target.

We are just very well-dressed, 90%-DNA-sharing monkeys.

Our org charts? Fancy mango trees. Our performance reviews? Dominance displays. Our “strategic offsites”? Troop politics with better catering.

I laughed so hard I nearly spilled my chai. Suddenly the report wrote itself.

I titled it “Equipment Performance Under Extreme Climatic Conditions.” I highlighted “technical incompatibilities,” “sub-optimal acclimatisation to Indian heat & humidity,” and “unforeseen environmental stressors.” Not one mention of human greed, shortcuts, or the creative wiring that looked like modern art gone wrong.

The Board loved it. “Excellent analysis,” they said. “Professional, balanced, forward-looking.” My boss sent me a thumbs-up emoji — the highest form of corporate affection.

Moral of the story, my fellow sophisticated primates?

Monkeys are the ultimate corporate survivors. Playful, ingenious, dexterous, and brilliantly adaptive. They don’t waste time writing 50-page blame reports — they just adjust, pivot, and swing to the next branch when the current one breaks. They understand hierarchies instinctively, use politics like a superpower, yet never lose their sense of mischief.

Next time your project explodes in a cloud of jugaad smoke, remember the mango-wasting, hierarchy-playing, survival-of-the-cleverest legends outside my rest house window.

Observe them. Laugh at them. Learn from them.

Because in the corporate jungle, the ones who thrive aren’t the strongest or the loudest — they’re the ones who know exactly when to throw the half-ripe mango… and when to protect the whole troop.

Now go forth, my friends. Be the wise monkey in the boardroom.

And if anyone asks why your report magically avoided naming names, just tell them you spent the weekend in advanced primate leadership training.

Deep in the Himalayas. With excellent chai. And slightly judgemental mango critics.

Yours in monkey business and 4G connectivity, A very relieved Telecom Executive (Still picking imaginary mango pulp off my shirt)