Leadership

A blinding beam of white light slaps me. The spotlight. I stretch my fingers on the velvet of the green podium before me, then abruptly stop and hold them still. The first five rows of the auditorium are filled with students from all classes: bemused, carefree seniors; uncertain, hesitant middle-class men; innocent, naïve juniors. I breathe in. I breathe out. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the first-ever meeting of The DPSI Post!”, booms Shrey. 

My gaze flicks in astonishment at his face before returning to the crowd; as Founder and Editor-in-Chief, I should be the one to start this meeting. But there is no undoing it now, the podium’s flexible mic is resolutely tilted toward him. I force on a smile. 

“And, don’t be worried, relax – we are all friends here. You see, there's no need for formality at all…”, he flows on.

Behind me, the PPT I made last night appears, but Shrey does not cease talking. I have been constantly imagining this moment in my head all week, and I by so doing have perfected an opening speech that is not too controlling while still being firm. First and foremost, I would begin by thanking all student writers for placing their hope in this darling project of mine, reaching out to them from my heart for helping this little bird of mine be allowed to fly. 

“Most important, of course, are all of you. Thank you to all present here for joining The DPSI Post from me and all the team, you are truly a boon to us!”, continues Shrey, in that overpowering, loud voice of his.

I breathe in again. I look at the audience, and my heart skips a beat as I spot my opportunity to seize command. I quickly shift the mic toward me as Shrey pauses for a breath, and add:

“And thank you to Anupama ma’am as well, of course, for making this possible in the first place!” 

Shrey smiles knowingly, as though this is exactly how his mind’s eye saw the event proceeding, but I beam as Anupama ma’am waves my compliments off. I turn back to the PPT, finally ready to live what I had birthed and fed and cradled in my mind for so long—but the PPT is stuck on slide one, a mere heading upon a dark background. How am I to continue without any information to continue with? Is the next slide about member roles, or about the timeline? Is that Shrey trying to steal the mic again?

In my frenzy, I begin speaking too fast. I grow red, and I grow nervous, and I grow achingly aware of the knowledge that my weakness is on display for all to see. Perhaps letting Shrey take the reins is for the best, no matter the fact that he has been employed for a mere day more than the rest of the students sitting here. I twist my head back and forth in hopes that something - anything - will appear on the slide while my mouth releases a rushing river of ideas, so fast that every thought is swept up before it has the time to register. 

“Speak slowly. You are going too fast.” suddenly whisper-scolds Shrey, a schoolmasterish air hanging about him. Huddled as we are around the podium, with the mic barely an inch away, it is only expected for the rest of our companions to clearly hear his condescension toward me. 

“I am Editor-in-Chief. Not you. So shut the fuck up.” my brain screams in rage, but the second slide has finally shown itself, and before my mouth has the opportunity to express what my brain was feeling, Shrey is speaking once more. Not missing a beat, he smooths over the rocky bed I have been cutting myself on till now, curving the water flow around it so it becomes shiny and polished and gleaming once more.

The third slide comes on, but I am better prepared this time. I gesture behind me as I speak, outlining each component of the table that is being presented, learning the language of the stream, swimming with its flow, soothing it, coaxing it, laying a motherly hand on it so it can gentle into a soft sprinkle. Before me, a bespectacled boy of age 11 raises his hand, and without thinking – lost as I am in my newfound self-possession – I answer, cutting off my own sentence:

“Yes?”

Shrey, ever a predator awaiting an advantageous moment, immediately bends the mic in his direction with the flick of a wrist. Away from me.

“We will take questions later.”, he declares with stern authority. 

I can only blink. 

I believe my face smiles peacefully throughout the next 5 minutes when Shrey finishes the explanation of the third slide, then goes on to tutor the audience on the “expectation” we, as heads, hold of them, and their “duty” to submit on time, and the “consequences” if the deadlines are not met. I should be the one listing these outlooks. I should be the one demonstrating our aims, I should be the one stating all of that and more, and I should be the goddamn one doing it with that confident, impenetrable, exacting voice belonging to an Editor-in-Chief!

“So, you see, if you do not adhere to the timelines—”

“Please ignore Shrey’s increasingly concerning threats,” I interrupt, beginning to glow. “However…”

Shrey spins to face me for one quick second, shooting daggers at me with his eyes. But I am facing forward, and I am finally seeing the students before me as credits to my own work – not his – rather than dark clouds created to drown me in rain. I float in these high, white, puffy clouds, all the while continuing my speech, telling them what it is I want from them, why it is I chose to start the newspaper in the first place, and what kind of work I did to be able to stand here on this platform today.

But I still refuse to be unfair. I finish explaining the role of reporters and direct the next section happily to Shrey, grinning in earnest the entire time. Shrey, admirably, passes the spotlight back to me after his turn elapses, and I bask in the light this time, comforted by the revelation that as long as I have the courage to step up and take what is rightfully mine, others like Shrey will learn to comply too. Unthinking once more, I toss jokes at Shrey like I am throwing candy, I luxuriously weave through the data which needs to be transferred from my mind to theirs, I roll my eyes and wiggle my eyebrows every time Shrey utters something particularly superior. 

Just as the little boy from grade 5 raises his hand once more, a shrill sound pierces the air, signaling the end of the period. The students reluctantly lower their hands as Anupama ma’am urges them out, but I am too focused on my victory at the first-ever meeting I have led to offer anything other than mechanical goodbyes. I am so drunk on giddiness that I twirl right there on stage, then slowly wade through my delight as I descend the stairs. Shrey heads out before me, muttering something about an important math's-class.

I did it, I wonder. I actually did it.

At dispersal, I find Shrey again, charming a group of backpacked girls. Not having gotten the chance to congratulate him earlier, I want to hug him now and tell him thanks. 

“The meeting went awesome, didn’t it?”, I ask, laughing. 

“Actually, I need to have a word with you about that,” he asserts, his happy-go-lucky demeanor abruptly dropping to reveal a cold, harsh face beneath.

“Okay…”, I respond slowly, unsettled.

“You can’t just insult me on stage like that before everyone else. That's something we do in private, not before our workers.” 

I look at my feet, leather-clad and unable to move.

“Honestly”, he continues in the voice of a parent having to deal with a trouble-making child, “I do not care at this point at all. But you know, it doesn't reflect well on you.” 

“ I just…assumed it was alright to crack jokes because you said it was a friendly atmosphere—it really just felt casual, light, easy, and—” I say, feeling as if I’m sinking.

“Yet I did nothing but elevate you,” he interrupts, the finality with which he conveys this is like a heavy stone thudding on a river floor. He is right. He did do nothing but elevate me. But he also would not have allowed me to elevate myself if I had not taken charge.

“And people noticed your constant stealing of the mic, you know?” he adds, sighing loudly.

Anger floods through me, all at once and sizzling hot– he stole the mic much more than I did after all, as Editor-in-Chief, he should directly yield the mic to me anyway–I shouldn't have to steal it in the first place!

“You stole it too, Shrey!” I burst out, but it comes out much more petulant than I intended.

“I literally never did that,” Shrey spits, then, gathering himself, continues with a heaving breath:

“Just take care, will you?”

His disappointment in me is evident in this last, resigned line, and my resolve flickers out like a candle silenced by a violent wind. I nod, not knowing what else to do, and with a final sigh, he walks away, his receding footfalls ringing in my ears. I envy him a little, the way he walks, the way he stands, the way he has of saying exactly what the other person needs to hear. It is as though a visible aura radiates from him, drugging the air so those in close proximity can do nothing but bow down. He is the kind of person who seems to perpetually be holding their head high, so much so that you cannot imagine him without his chin up. I envy that I am not such a person.

I am not the leader I thought the stage had transformed me into; if I cannot even stand up to one subordinate of mine– how am I expecting myself to control a team of 50? I know, deep within myself, that Shrey is in the wrong. I know it was right of me to steal the mic from him, to prove my own power to the audience, to come into my own and take charge. But I know that I am in the wrong too: for letting him even be there on stage with me in the first place rather than allowing him to sit with the rest of the members in the audience; for not defining boundaries and asserting my authority from the get-go; and yes–for ridiculing him before the others because I simply did not know any better.

More than anything, though, I know my greatest wrong as a leader is the fact that I am letting him walk off even now, that I listened like a submissive lamb to his inane reprovals of me, that even now I look up to him as being in-charge when it is me who is in fact so.