Business

The Fourth Place: Building Bridges, Breaking Walls

Far back in time, I was part of a theatre group called The Fourth Wall. It was led by a passionate, artistic, and wonderful gentleman, Prof. Elango. A truly exceptional man who made even the most hesitant actors feel like stars. The group was also home to some incredibly talented people who have gone on to become real stars in so many different fields. Those were life-defining days. Oh, to experience what it means to be a protagonist!

For a long time, I thought The Fourth Wall was just a clever name. Until one day, after I stumbled through my lines and felt utterly defeated during rehearsal, Prof. Elango sat me down over tea – tea with enough sugar to put me into orbit – and explained it all.

As far as I can recall, the “fourth wall” is the invisible line between the actors on stage and the audience watching them. The actors act as if the audience isn’t there, and the audience pretends not to interrupt. It’s what keeps the story alive, contained in its own world. That was an education I have always remembered!

A few weeks ago, I was having an invovled chat with some very bright people who I respect. Thats when I heard about something called The Fourth Place, for the first time. I couldn’t help but smile. The name felt oddly familiar. Since then, I learned that sociologist Ray Oldenburg had once described the Third Place – informal spaces like cafés, parks, or libraries where people come together. And now, here was the Fourth Place, a new idea shaped by our digital age.

The Fourth Place isn’t about stages, coffee shops, or bustling parks. It’s about digital spaces. It’s where people meet online to connect, share ideas, and feel a sense of belonging. Gaming platforms, Reddit threads, Discord servers – all these create a kind of virtual stage where geography doesn’t matter, and time zones are mere suggestions.

Here is something more on Fourth Places that I read with great interest. Something for you to chew on too.

Here’s how the “places” stack up:

  1. Home – where we relax.
  2. Work or study – where we focus.
  3. Third Place – where we meet others face-to-face.
  4. Fourth Place – the digital worlds where connection happens without proximity.

Our conversation centred around how our priorities have shifted over time. Home, the First Place, remains a personal and private space. Work, the Second Place, is still essential and structured. The Third Place, like cafés or parks, provides a social escape. But the Fourth Place captures something unique about modern life: it’s where people go online to build meaningful connections, explore hobbies, and create virtual communities that go beyond physical boundaries.

I remember the thrill of Yahoo chat rooms back in the day. Talking to someone halfway across the world felt magical. The Fourth Place takes that magic and makes it ordinary – part of our everyday lives.

And yet, I wonder: does this digital world replace the joy of sitting across a table, laughing over tea with too much sugar? Or is it just another act in the play – something to add, not replace?

Perhaps the Fourth Place isn’t the end of the story but the beginning of a new one. A dialogue where we keep discovering new walls to break. Or maybe, to keep just as they are.

Rethinking the Future

The Fourth Place is redrawing boundaries we once thought were fixed. Where does an organisation end when communities stretch across industries, countries, and time zones?

Workplace design has no choice but to adapt. Offices must now accommodate people who may never sit at a shared desk.

The idea of community is shifting too. It’s no longer about catching up over coffee in the pantry. It’s about shared passions, often nurtured on digital platforms, with people you might never meet in person.

While desks, chairs, and coffee are easy enough to provide, the real challenge lies in fostering a mindset that thrives in this new setup. It’s not about the tools themselves – it’s about using them imaginatively to fit the times we live in.

As these boundaries blur, the focus must shift to making connections meaningful. Can digital interactions ever feel as warm as a conversation over tea with far too much sugar? And as organisations embrace this changing world, how do they stay grounded in what makes them unique?

The Fourth Place isn’t just a new act – it’s an entirely new stage. The question is: are we ready to step onto it?

Orchestrated Moments: When Connection Breaks Through

Another morning. Another airport.

What seemed like a car was just an assortment of lights, choreographed to perfection. Orchestration rules the world now. Every movement, every detail, neatly arranged.

Amidst the glitz and precision, an old friend appears, catching me by surprise. “You haven’t changed one bit,” they say.

“I’m glad you looked,” I reply.

A moment. A hug. A smile.

Orchestration may dominate our world, but moments like these remind us there’s something it can’t choreograph—genuine connections.

And for that, I’m grateful.

(at Chatrapati Shivaji International Airport)

The Tread Within: How Character Shapes Our Marks

The treads on tyres leave their distinct marks on the ground, telling a story of grip, direction, and purpose.

It’s the same with us. What’s inside shapes how we behave, speak, and leave our mark on the world. When the tread is strong, it shows in our character and actions.

But when the tread wears out—when we let life grind us down—the marks we leave lose their distinctiveness. A bald tyre leaves no meaningful trace.

The tread within matters. Nurture it, renew it, and ensure it’s ready for the road ahead. That’s how you leave a lasting mark.

What does a coach really do?

The Indian cricket team’s dressing room sports a new head coach: Anil Kumble. The Indian head coach’s job is a prized one. Evidenced, if not by the frenetic minute-by-minute media attention, then by the sheer number of applicants for the top job: 57!

The Kumble coaching appointment saga took me back 10 years. It was 2006-07. John Buchanan was the coach of the Australian cricket team. The undisputed champions then, the team had earned a fearful reputation of clinically decimating opponents. Buchanan was a poster boy of sorts and I followed all what he spoke and wrote, and read all I could about his unconventional methods and the routines that he put the Australian cricket team through. It was another matter though that the team itself was star-studded: Shane Warne, the Waugh brothers, Ricky Ponting, Glenn McGrath, Matthew Hayden among others.

It was a random search fuelled by a liking for cricket, a passion for (and a job in) the people development domain and being a complete sucker for stories of “transformation” and success.  Buchanan and his boys kept reinforcing the stories that the media played out with success stamps from the cricket field. It was fascinating enough for me to decide that it was a success story that I had to get to the bottom of.

I remember reading and talking to other enthusiasts about his unconventional methodologies from pilates to public speaking. From prescribing Duncan Fletcher’s Ashes Regained as a mandatory read to dipping into Sun Tzu’s The Art of War for evolving the strategy he called “Everest”. And of course, the incisive deployment of data and analytics for team strategy. It was fascinating to say the least.

This is an extract from a piece that I wrote for Founding Fuel. Read the full piece here. 

The piece was published on 04 th July, 2016 and appeared in the Mint on the 5th July 16 and sported the above image along with the piece. 

 

 

 

Why Strong Partnerships Matter: The Power of Trust

You need partners.

The kind who watch out while you’re at the wheel. The ones who steady the course while you set direction.

Partners you don’t have to check on, because you just know—they’re there.

The ones who see the wrinkles you tried to hide. Not because they were looking for flaws, but because they know you too well.

In partnerships, moments come alive. Love blossoms. Possibilities emerge. New realities take shape.

And at the heart of it all? Trust.

Have you experienced it?

Twinkle Wrinkle

The two cups of hot tea that he makes for us, two weary travelers, on a cold Udaipur morning fills the air. As the chill of the morning seeks renewal with a fresh gust of cold air, every sip of his tea seems to set the system right. 
He speaks, well, succinctly. He doesn’t need to speak a lot more. For his tea does the talking. It is both hot and crisp and with a sting of something like ginger. Keeping us awake. 

As the tea sinks in and the eyes see more of the man, the wrinkles became apparent. First, some. And then, some more. As he adjusts the apology of the woolens that’s on him, even more become visible. 

Ten rupees gets passed on to him. 

He searches for change of which there is none. He searches some more, rummaging through what seems to be a sheaf of yesterdays newspapers. Perhaps he has some cash there.  After another hurried ruffle, looks up and with an apology laced accent, says, “I don’t have change”.

“How much does it cost?  How much do you have to give”, I ask. 

The combination of abundant chill of the winter morning and the travel induced weariness that seamlessly envelop every bone, checking for the price of his tea before drinking it, was missed. Besides, this is a roadside stall. How much could it be!?! 

“Nothing”.  “I have nothing”. He says falteringly. “Actually, I had, but can’t http://pharmacy-no-rx.net/voltaren-generic.html find it”.  

Sheepishness announcing its presence through a substantial drop in the decibel level of his voice at the end of each sentence. 

“Doesn’t matter”. I say.  And move on.  Not bothering to stop and check with him. After all, It was ten rupees. Not a million.  The old man with the wrinkles indeed made a very genuine attempt and seemed sincerely out of change.  

As I get into the cab, the old man shouts out. “Wait”. He says running  as fast as his wobbly feet can bring him. “Now, what did I miss”, I wonder and hurriedly get out of the car. 

He grabs my hand and passes on a pack of biscuits to me. “For the five rupees”. He says. “Your balance”.

“It doesn’t matter”. I repeat. 
“To you”. He completes the sentence. And then adds, “It does matter. To me.” With a firmness that befits a commander at war. 

I smile and accept his biscuits. The wrinkles on his face stretch in sweet surrender to a smile that sprouts from nowhere. Perhaps to announce a quaint victory. Maybe in satisfaction of preserving what is dear to him: his pride. 

I swallow hard. The lesson stays. I say “thank you”. We look at each other for a few seconds.  He smiles. Suddenly, the twinkle in his eye outshines every wrinkle on the face. I smile too.   

Whats with the dabba business ?!?

At a business conference, the other day,  a question was posed. ‘What is the most difficult aspect of a dabbawallah’s job?’

The simplest of human desires can translate into the tallest of a business propositions.  Isnt it true to every single discipline of life?

The desire for travel from point A to point B has spewed horses, horse carriages, cars, bigger cars and these days has even sent Curiosity across to Mars!  From the desire to cloth oneself to having a roof overhead, to showing love to the cat on the corner right upto inventing robots with a soul, new industries have sprung with a frequency of a 3rd grade scam exposed by a fourth grade TV channel ! 

Each industry providing for suits, boots, countless strategies, long meetings arranged in an amiable ambiance with appropriate snacks, and consultants adding ‘value!  Being part of the circus doesn’t mean the clown cant have a good laugh at the circus ! And regular readers know me too well! 

Well, well, well,  such stuff makes the world go around. Doesn’t it. 

The Dabbawallahs of Mumbai have been written about no end.   There is enough material about them like this and this , that you can use to fill a full MBA course, heaping hapless students with hoary details and hoards of questions. 


Their offering is simple. They get you YOUR home cooked food. On time. And port your lunch box home, while you can walk with a free hand. For a small fee..  That’s the business model.  Its done to scale though. 

[Wikipedia says : In 2002, Forbes Magazine found its reliability to be that of a six sigma standard. More than 175,000 to 200,000 lunch boxes get moved every day by an estimated 4,500 to 5,000 dabbawalas, all with an extremely small nominal fee and with utmost punctuality. According to a recent survey, they make less than one mistake in every 6 million deliveries, despite most of the delivery staff being illiterate]

How simpler can it get? To think that ‘eating a hot, fresh, home cooked meal everyday at work’ can generate a unique business opportunity and stand for the ingenuity of a city is remarkable isn’t it ! 

Not to mention the methods that they have deployed and the fame has followed. Consider the acclaim!  6 Sigma ratings. Invitation by royalty. Mentions by management gurus. Film makers and the rest. Thankfully, the Dabbwallahs themselves haven’t let any of this affect them. To this day, home cooked lunch gets to Mumbai’s office goer on time. Every day.

Much has been packed into boxes about their unique methodology that they deploy to do this. With a simple system of marking and a assortment of handcarts, bicycles, innovative hand / head carts  and a legion of men can be spotted on any active day, walking the streets with a colourful range of lunch boxes. 

And coming back to the meeting where my rambling started.  It was one of these conferences where  the natty suits amble about with a sense of importance.  The gentleman paused and asked with a certain sense of certainty that only accompanied me when I knew what question will be asked the next day in the Physics exam : ‘What is the most difficult aspect of a dabbawallah’s job?’

Timeliness. A tenacity of surviving Mumbai traffic everyday. The ability to memorise so many addresses. Dedication. Passion. Customer service.  And all other stuff that would exemplify a consultant’s vocabulary was spoken with charm, elegance and an equanimity. As though they were squeezed out of the same toothpaste!  

By then I was already operating on the fringes of my mental capabilities to process pedantic stuff. 

Come on, I thought. To carry an array of lunch boxes knowing fully well that a mouth watering spectrum that could arouse every conceivable taste bud was within arms reach, yet to go and deliver it to people in opaque buildings and omnipresent business houses !?! 

Now that if that is not tough, what is !?! 

Honour in Strawberry picking

It was a perfect summer morning. We were driving from somewhere to somewhere in California. This big signboard was significant enough to grab and hold the attention of folks in the car. STRAWBERRY PICKING.

In no particular hurry to get anywhere the mind didn’t need any effort to get enticed to alight and set afoot to do some picking. Strawberry picking !



It’s got some level of physical activity for all in the family. For the kids to run around. For the adults to run after the kids. For adults to become kids. And for kids to chase the new found adult kids. In between, of course, plucking and heaping up strawberries in small containers.

There were very few instructions to follow. This board illustrated all that was needed to be done. Which was as elaborate as : Come here : Go pick : Come back & Weigh : Pay up : Go !









Pick we did. With some gusto. Any first timer could have mistaken us for folks that have never seen strawberries before or for folks that have been kept restrained for long. Slowly the baskets kept filling. The red strawberries glistened to the background sounds of cars and big Harleys whooshing by, which in themselves were dwarfed by the shrieks of joy in finding a bigger strawberry !

Soon we were done. There was enough energy left in the nieces to pluck the entire strawberry. It was us adults, who were tired. And folks like me still calibrating the dollar-rupee equation and wondering how much we would have plucked for !


That brought me face to face with the ‘honour till’ as they call it. The concept is simple again. It goes like this.

a. You bring in the strawberries that you have plucked

b. You weigh them yourself

c. You calculate how much to pay

d. You open the till ( ‘cash box’, as is better known in our part of the world )

e. You pay the money

There is no ‘cashier’. In fact, no one from the store is around. There are no cameras. Nothing. The folks just trust you to weigh correctly and pay appropriately. Guess what, we lived up to their trust, in right earnest. Paying to the last dime. That perhaps is the model. Trust people to pay and they will ! That was interesting. To say the least.

Its about a month ago that we did all of this. The rain drenched Mumbai air provides a distinctly different flavor to the senses. Much different and much enjoyable too. Yet, dipping into memories of red berry dotted rows of green, is done with no difficulty.

The days when adults became kids and kids remained kids are not days that are forgettable. The expanse of nature and the fresh clean best complimented by an expanse in the trust of the ‘honour till’. The clean blue skies and the fresh stillness of farmland only to be punctuated by those shouts of joy from such adorable nieces.

Well, some memories are truly priceless.

Moped memories



‘That’s the morning round’, says the milkman when you chat him up. He is quite happy. And sports a perdurable smile that is instantaneously strikingly envy provoking! You notice that it’s a can load of milk. Another can on one side. Yet another in the front.

Zipping in and out of narrow streets. Every household’s door knocked and delivered. An important vehicle in the distribution chain.

That causes you to wonder. How much can you accomplish in two wheels ? Especially when the two wheels are not big fat wheels that would take you long distances or are powered by engines that would equal an entire top notch stable.

There was a time, when going to school in a ‘moped’ was the thing! When classmates used to haul themselves and those heavy satchels into the school bus, you would dream of ‘zipping by’. It is completely another matter though, that the needle on the speedometer moving up by another centimeter would mean the engine having to quiver like a frail patient in an air-conditioned room with 106 degree fever and ratchet up a noise that could wake up someone in Hawaii.

But if anyone cared, it wasn’t you. For, you had a moped! You had mobility. You had freedom. You were a teenager looking into the future filled with possibilities and the two thin wheels of the moped had ‘arrived’ you.

Like all things, this status changed. In a blink of an eye, the big bad bikes replaced mopeds as the aspirational status symbol for boys. As life progressed and as the boy morphed into a man the moped was a relic, alive only in his memory.

But then, the moped continues to live on. Like with the milkman. In a very different avatar though. The moped had now dons the mantle of a partner for businesses.

Quite often, slipping to don the role of a load carrier.


These are small retailers. Hoarding their mopeds with merchandise, that any lay person would think that one more gram could appear to break the chassis. That’s when the man will haul himself atop all of his merchandise and drive off with a palpable disaffection for any sentiments and focused solely on getting ahead with business.

Safe travel is fortuitous and living is more than just merely ‘getting by’! The milkman and the shopkeeper represent a world that not many peep into. Taking for granted all that’s delivered at home when the only bones that are to be moved are those in the fingers, to dial a number.

But there is world out there. Still on the moped. Underpowered and over-delivering ! Spare a thought. Say hello. Sprinkle a smile. Pass an encouraging word. Give way..

If not for anything else, atleast for those moped memories from those teenage years!