Form Fails Before Strength Does: What the Gym Taught Me About ERP Implementations

My trainer has been trying to teach me this for years. Every time a lift felt difficult, I drew the same conclusion: I’m not strong enough yet.

Every time, he stopped me. “Strength shows up fast. Form shows up when you’re tired.”

It took me a long time to understand what he meant.

In strength training, Form and Technique are not the same thing.

Form is structure—posture, positioning, alignment. It is how the body holds itself under load. A stable spine in a deadlift. Balanced knees in a squat. Form protects joints and prevents injury. Its goal is longevity.

Technique is execution — the sequence of movement: breathing, tempo, bar path, muscle activation. The technique helps you move the weight efficiently and perform at your best.

Technique is about performance. Form is about safety and structure.

You can learn the technique relatively quickly. Form takes much longer because it must be built into the body.

And here is the subtle part my trainer kept repeating: Good form does NOT look identical for everyone.

Two lifters can both squat safely with excellent form, yet the movement can look different. Their height, limb length, hip structure — their physical build — changes how alignment appears. The structure is sound, even if the posture is not identical.

Good form creates stability. Uniformity is not the same as stability.

It took me years to understand why that matters.

Because ERP implementations often make the same mistake.

ERP programs are excellent at teaching technique:

• which transaction to use
• which fields to fill
• which steps to follow

Users learn the screens. Training is completed. UAT is signed off. But what determines whether the system survives scale is not technique. It is form!!

A user once told us, “The system tells me what to do. It doesn’t tell me who is allowed to decide.”

That is not a training gap. That is structural misalignment. In an organisation, ERP form is:

• clear process ownership
• stable decision rights
• governance that resolves exceptions
• shared rules that apply consistently

Here is where organisations struggle.

They interpret “standardisation” as identical processes everywhere — across roles, locations, and realities. But just as different bodies lift safely in different ways, different parts of a business may legitimately execute a process differently while still respecting the same structure.

Technique must be consistent.
Form must be stable.
Execution need not be identical.

A sponsor later observed: “The system works, but people keep going around it.”

Often, that happens not because users resist discipline, but because the organisation enforces uniformity rather than building structure. When processes ignore context, people create workarounds to get their jobs done.

Just like lifting, poor form does not fail immediately.
It fails under repetition.
Under pressure.
Under growth.

ERP systems rarely break at go-live.
They break at scale — when volume rises, exceptions increase, and decisions need clarity.

That is why strong implementations focus on form before force:
They stabilise decision rights before enforcing compliance.
They define ownership before automation.
They align governance before scale.

Technique can be trained in weeks. Form must be designed.

It took my trainer years to get me to understand this: strength is never the starting point. Structure is.

Strong ERP programs scale on form, not force.
Processes, governance, and culture carry the load.
When form fails, strength gets blamed — but unfairly.

 

Sit With Control. Stand With Speed. A Leadership Lesson from the Gym for ERP Implementations

I’m not a technologist by training. My grounding has always been in learning, leadership, and people development. Today I lead teams that implement ERP systems for SMEs, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s this: when work gets complex, analogies help. They cut through jargon. They make patterns visible. They help teams align faster than frameworks sometimes do.

One of my most useful leadership lessons came not from a strategy meeting, but from the gym.

I was doing squats, and as I lowered myself, I did what most of us instinctively do — I bounced slightly at the bottom. It feels efficient. You drop, rebound, and come up. My trainer stopped me immediately and said, “No bounce. Sit with control. Stand with speed.”

He explained that the bounce gives the illusion of power, but it’s actually a loss of control. You’re not holding structure — you’re borrowing momentum. And then he added something even more interesting: once you are stable at the bottom, don’t rise slowly. Stand with speed. If you try to come up too slowly under load, you actually spend more energy and increase fatigue.

That stayed with me — because I see the same pattern play out in ERP implementations all the time.

In the gym, the bounce looks energetic but signals instability. In ERP programs, there’s a similar illusion. Things move fast. Files circulate. Workshops conclude quickly. Reports get generated in multiple versions. Approvals happen early. Everyone feels busy. It looks like progress. But sometimes it’s just motion without control.

I believe there’s even a practitioner term for one version of this — data bouncing. It’s when the same data keeps moving back and forth between teams, between functions, between validation stages. Nobody fully rejects it, nobody fully owns it, nobody fully closes it. So it travels. Again and again. Each cycle takes time, drains attention, and quietly erodes confidence.

From where I sit as a leader, data bouncing is rarely just a data problem. It is usually a decision problem in disguise. A definition is unclear. Ownership is fuzzy. A trade-off hasn’t been accepted. A call hasn’t been made. The sheet keeps moving because the decision doesn’t.

That’s where the first half of my trainer’s instruction becomes a leadership discipline. Sit with control. In ERP terms, that would mean staying with the data and the process truth long enough for it to stabilise. Not rushing to closure just to keep momentum alive, not mistaking early agreement for real alignment, and not holding the position long enough for reality to surface.

But the lesson is incomplete if it stops there — because the second half matters just as much.

Stand with speed.

This is where many programs — and many leaders — get uncomfortable. We assume that if we have been careful in thinking, we must now be slow in execution. But that’s not how energy works under load. In strength training, once you are stable at the bottom of a squat, rising slowly is inefficient. Your muscles stay under strain longer. Fatigue builds. Form starts to shake. The instruction is to drive up with intent.

Execution in ERP is similar. Once decisions are made and definitions are settled, slow execution becomes costly. The longer the gap between decision and action, the more second-guessing creeps in. People reopen questions. The memory of why a choice was made starts fading. Exceptions begin to appear. Old habits quietly return. What was settled starts becoming “open for discussion” again.

I see this especially in SME implementations, where energy is not unlimited. The same people running the business are also supporting the transformation. If we drag execution out after clarity has been achieved, we don’t become safer—we become more tired. And tired organisations do not adopt systems well.

Standing with speed doesn’t mean being reckless. It means converting clarity into action while alignment is still fresh. It means moving from decision to configuration, from configuration to usage, without unnecessary delay. It means not hovering in that dangerous middle zone where we are no longer thinking deeply, but not yet executing decisively either.

What I’ve taken from the gym into my leadership work is a simple sequencing rule. Control first—speed second. Not mixed and not reversed.

Sit with the ambiguity. Sit with the disagreement. Sit with the data. Let it settle. Let truth show itself. That’s leadership patience.

Then stand with commitment. Stand with pace. Stand with a visible direction. That’s leadership energy.

No bounce on the way down. No hesitation on the way up.

I may not be a technocrat. But I’ve learned that whether it’s muscle or management, stability first and speed next is a pattern that holds remarkably well.

 

What the Gym Teaches You That Leadership Books Don’t

Episode 1: Recovery Is Designed, Not Accidental

The gym has a way of correcting lazy thinking.

For years, I assumed recovery meant rest—doing less, stepping away, hoping soreness would fade on its own. The gym disabused me of that notion very quickly.

Recovery is not passive. It is an active, deliberate process.

When you train, muscle fibres are stressed and microscopically damaged. Recovery is the phase in which the body repairs the damage, adapts, and becomes stronger. This happens through sleep, nutrition, circulation, lighter movement—and, critically, time. Without recovery, effort does not compound. It deteriorates.

The gym is unapologetically honest about this. Ignore recovery, and progress stalls. Injuries appear. Motivation evaporates. The body simply stops cooperating.

Workplaces, unfortunately, are far more optimistic.

At work, recovery is often mistaken for disengagement—slowing down, switching off, or stepping away. In reality, workplace recovery is also active. It is the phase where people process change, rebuild confidence, and integrate new ways of working after sustained cognitive strain.

Workplace recovery looks like:

• Time to think after intense execution
• Safe spaces to ask repetitive or “obvious” questions
• Permission to make mistakes without penalty
• Opportunities to integrate learning into daily routines

Without this, effort fragments. People comply without understanding, adopt without confidence, and eventually revert.

This misunderstanding becomes especially costly during ERP implementations.

ERP programs place intense demands on organisations. They disrupt routines, vocabulary, decision rights, and identity. People are asked to unlearn years of muscle memory and replace it with unfamiliar workflows—often under pressure to perform immediately.

The recovery phase of an ERP implementation is the change management phase.

Not training calendars.
Not user manuals.
Not go-live announcements.

Change management is the period where users figure out how the system fits into their working lives—how it helps, where it slows them down, and what needs to be rethought. This is where frustration carries information, productivity dips are expected, and adoption becomes possible.

When this recovery phase is rushed or under-designed, organisations misread the symptoms. Fatigue is labelled as resistance. Confusion becomes incompetence. Shadow systems appear quietly, and spreadsheets return with remarkable loyalty.

In the gym, muscles grow during recovery.
In ERP programs, capability grows during change management.

The strongest implementations move in rhythm, not rush.
They treat go-live as a beginning, not a victory lap.
What isn’t designed for recovery returns as resistance.

 

Oru Murai and the End of the Language Argument

Some songs you hear once and move on. Others? They sink in, loop around your head, and before you know it, they’ve set up camp in your chest. Oru Murai, sung as a duet by Sandeep Narayanan and Kaushiki Chakravarty at the Isha Foundation’s 2023 music festival, belongs firmly in the second category. I’ve had it on repeat for the last two days, and honestly, it hasn’t worn out one bit.

The pairing itself was exceptional. Sandeep Narayanan, with his deep Carnatic grounding, has a voice that feels almost architectural—solid, rooted, like the kind of foundation you could build a temple on. Kaushiki Chakravarty, on the other hand, brings the agility and soaring fluidity of Hindustani tradition. Put them together, and you don’t get a tug-of-war between two schools of music. You get a duet that feels like an actual conversation, the kind you don’t want to end.

What makes it even more striking is Kaushiki’s switch between Tamil and Hindi. In a country where language sparks endless debates, here was a performance where words didn’t divide but dissolved. And the audience’s reaction was telling. The applause that broke out when Kaushiki sang a few lines in Tamil was warm and enthusiastic. It’s a strange irony: in a land where people often hesitate to learn their neighbour’s tongue, even a small attempt at crossing linguistic boundaries feels like a revolution. The applause was commendable, yes—but it also spoke volumes about our collective hesitation. Why should singing a handful of lines in Tamil feel like an act of bravery? And yet, in that moment, it did.

At some point, though, just listening wasn’t enough for me. I wanted to know what those Tamil lines meant, so I dug into their essence. And what I found was humbling. The lyrics are not lofty philosophical pronouncements but intimate appeals, a call from the devotee to the divine: a plea for grace, for guidance, for just “one chance” (Oru Murai) to surrender fully. When Kaushiki echoed those lines in Hindi, the simplicity of the sentiment shone even more clearly—faith doesn’t need ornamentation, and devotion doesn’t belong to any single language. The meaning itself felt larger than the vessel carrying it.

And here’s what made the song even closer to my heart: it is set in Hamsadhwani. That raga has always been one of my favourites—bright, uplifting, brimming with optimism. Born in Carnatic music but also embraced in Hindustani circles, Hamsadhwani is, in a way, the perfect metaphor for what this performance achieved. It belongs everywhere and refuses to be claimed by a single tradition. Hearing Sandeep and Kaushiki bring it alive, each colouring it differently, was like watching a familiar place under two kinds of light. Same space, different magic.

The atmosphere wasn’t flashy either. No theatrical overkill, no “look at me” gestures. Just two musicians pouring out devotion. Sandeep’s voice carried a sense of gravity, as though each note had been carefully weighed before being released. Kaushiki matched him with an ease that felt effortless but never careless—you could tell she was anchored in bhakti, but also enjoying the playfulness of it. Together, they weren’t performing for us so much as offering something bigger, and we just happened to overhear.

 Now, you could analyse the performance technically—the ragas, the phrasing, the balance of Carnatic precision with Hindustani fluidity. But doing that would miss the point. The real magic wasn’t in the math of the music, but in how it broke free of the math. It lived in the space where form turns into feeling, where the rules of tradition stop mattering because you’re too busy being moved.

Here’s the thing about songs you play on loop: after a while, you’re not chasing novelty. You’re returning to a particular feeling, like revisiting an old street because it smells familiar. That’s what Oru Murai does. Every replay pulls back another layer. It doesn’t grow stale; it deepens, like listening to your own heartbeat more closely each time.

And maybe that’s why this performance lingers. It wasn’t just a concert; it was a small argument in favour of something we already know but keep forgetting: music does what politics can’t. It unifies without lecturing. Sandeep and Kaushiki didn’t set out to make a statement, but in singing together, they showed us a version of harmony we spend years debating and drafting policies over. A simple ten-minute song accomplished what entire committees often fail to do. That’s both funny and a little humbling.

When the last note fell into silence, the applause came, loud and inevitable. But the truer applause had already happened inside each listener—the kind that doesn’t make noise, the type that simply lets you sit still for a moment because you’ve been reminded of something essential.

So, why do I keep replaying 'Oru Murai'? I could say it’s technically brilliant, culturally relevant, and emotionally rich. All of that is true. But the more straightforward truth is this: it makes me feel human. And in a country where people still argue about whose language deserves primacy, maybe the real punchline is this—music already solved the problem, and we were too busy clapping to notice.

 

The Lyrics We Don’t Hear Until We Do

This morning, I was struck by a strange mix of nostalgia and discomfort.

I was looking for a song to learn next for my music practice — something classic, something rich. This one came to mind almost instinctively. I pulled it up and played it while driving to work. The first time, I was taken in by the melody — smooth, haunting, effortless. The second time, I tuned into the rhythm, let the beat guide my breath, and my mind began to slow. That’s when the lyrics started to really land. Not just as words, but as a story. By the third listen, I found myself reaching for the brakes — not just on the road, but in my thinking. 

I was listening to a beautiful old Hindi film song from the movie Aa Gale Lag Jaa, sung by Kishore Kumar and Lata Mangeshkar, composed by R.D. Burman, and penned by Sahir Ludhianvi. It’s a classic—melodic, romantic, unforgettable. What had felt like a love song was suddenly revealing something else entirely.

There it was again—the quiet pressure women face to comply, to not stand out, to be flattered by persistence that skirts the line of consent.

We often talk about grand gestures and big statements when we talk about sexism. But more often, it's the small things—the offhanded comment, the romantic line, the unchallenged image—that shape how gender roles are understood and reinforced.

A song lyric. A joke. A look. Each of these things, taken alone, might feel harmless. But they build a narrative over time, one that tells women to be desirable but not assertive, to be flattered by pursuit but not too eager, to accept their role in someone else's story. In this case, it is the lyrics that tell the story. 

“Mere hi peeche aakhir pade ho tum kyun
Ek main jawan nahi hoon aur bhi to hain”

She’s asking a fair question. But the response isn’t to respect her boundary—it's to brush past it:

“Jawan kayi hai, lekin jahan mein koyi
Tum sa haseen nahi hai, hum kya karein”

He flatters. He presses on. He refuses to back off.

“Chhuo nahi dekho zara peeche rakho hath”

She’s clearly uncomfortable. But even then, the romantic tone never falters. The melody stays soft, the mood stays playful—as if her protest is just part of the game.

Then comes “Kisi ka to dena hoga, dedo mera sath.” 

This is the most direct admission of the power play. He knows there’s resistance. He knows she hasn’t agreed. But instead of accepting that, he frames submission as inevitable. He reframes consent not as mutual choice, but as something he’s owed.

That’s not love. That’s coercion with a poetic twist.

Imagine the process now: I’m not just listening to the song — I’m learning it. I write the lyrics out by hand, line by line. I break each phrase into its rhythmic pattern, figure out the notations, and repeat the notes until they fall into place, in pitch and in beat. It’s a deeply focused, almost meditative practice. But here’s the thing — while the conscious mind is busy with scales and timing, the unconscious is listening too. The meaning seeps in. Line by line, the story becomes muscle memory. The act of learning turns into an act of internalizing. And without realizing it, I’m not just singing the melody — I’m echoing the message.

I don’t believe this song was written with any malice. These artists were brilliant and well-intentioned. But the effect remains: it normalizes a version of romance where women say no, men don’t listen, and persistence equals passion.

We are taught to see her resistance as coyness, his persistence as charm.

This isn’t about one song. It’s about the culture that shaped—and was shaped by—hundreds of songs, films, and stories like it. These portrayals taught men to chase, to wear women down. They taught women to accept pursuit, even when it feels invasive and to doubt their discomfort. 

It’s tempting to shrug this off as just a song from a different era. A harmless relic of old-school charm.  I doubt that though. If I’m listening to it many years later, if I’m drawn to learn it, rehearse it, embody it — then it’s not just nostalgia. It’s alive. It still holds emotional power, artistic value, and cultural weight. That’s precisely why it matters. Songs like this don’t just live in the past — they live in us, especially when we choose to revisit and recreate them. And if something stays alive that long, we owe it a deeper look. Because what we sing, we carry.

Songs like these are in fact scripts. For many, they were the emotional education of love. And in that education, women were taught to be flattered by pursuit and hesitant to say what they want, while men were taught that a “no” might mean “try harder.”

When girls see this repeated, they internalize that being wanted matters more than being respected. When boys see this, they learn that not taking no for an answer makes them heroic.

It’s easy to say, “Now that you know the meaning is troubling, just compartmentalise. Use the song for music practice — separate the art from the message.” But how does one actually do that? When you’re learning a song, you’re not just skimming its surface — you’re inhabiting it. You’re breathing its rhythm, shaping its emotion, giving voice to its words over and over until they settle into your body. It’s not passive consumption; it’s embodiment. And when the meaning grates against your values, it’s not so simple to shut that part out. You can’t sing with conviction and distance at the same time. The music demands presence — but presence invites absorption. So no, compartmentalising isn’t easy. It’s a negotiation — one that deserves to be acknowledged, not brushed aside.

Does meaning matter? Absolutely! These messages may be subtle, but their influence is profound. Because they don’t scream—they whisper. They tell us who we’re supposed to be. And unless we notice them, we end up absorbing them.  Because when we absorb these narratives over and over, they teach us that persistence is romantic, boundaries are negotiable, and love is something to be earned by wearing someone down.

It matters because when we wrap a dangerous message in a beautiful melody, it becomes hard to question. We teach people to associate dominance with desire, pressure with passion, and emotional manipulation with romance.

The way we challenge these norms is by paying attention. By asking: Why wouldn’t she want to stand out? Why is his insistence treated as love? By seeing the difference between affection and erasure.

Subtle misogyny is harder to challenge than its louder cousin. It’s not a shout — it’s a murmur in a song. It lives in the grey areas: in lyrics we love, characters we root for, scenes we quote. It’s what we absorb when we’re not looking. That’s why it sticks.

The woman in the song spoke up. But the story didn’t make space for her voice — only for his desire.

We can love the music. We can honour the artistry. But we also need to notice what’s being said — and what’s being ignored.

It’s time we start hearing these songs differently — not to cancel them, but to learn from them. To sing with our eyes open. It's about learning to hear them differently. Appreciating the melody while questioning the message. And making space for new stories—where women are not just recipients of desire, but authors of it.

Because in the end, small things add up. And so do the small steps we take to see them more clearly.

I Am Counted, Therefore I Am: What the Census Says About You in a Country of Billions

In a country where population is often described in crores and people sometimes feel like dots on a spreadsheet, it’s easy to wonder—Do I even matter?

But once every decade, something quietly radical happens. A government official knocks (or soon, taps) at your metaphorical door and asks: Who are you? Where are you? What do you do?

It’s called the Census. And no, it’s not just a bureaucratic formality or a throwback to your grandparents’ era of paperwork and pen ink stains. It’s the Indian state’s way of saying to each of its 1.4 billion citizens: You are seen. You are counted. You matter.

Our Census is “us” being seen in the world’s largest crowd. India is the world’s largest democracy and also one of its most complex experiments in coexistence. Languages, faiths, castes, incomes, dreams—all packed into a single subcontinent. It’s beautiful. It’s overwhelming.

And in that sea of humanity, the Census is the one moment where every person is equal in importance. Whether you’re a coding intern in Bengaluru, a tea seller in Guwahati, or a grandmother in Kutch who doesn’t quite trust that tablet the enumerator brings—you count.

In fact, the 2027 Census will be India’s first digital one. No more towering stacks of forms. Instead: tablets, tech, and (regretfully) still no emojis.

Here’s something the new generation might not always pause to consider: being counted has always been the goal, and over the decades, the Census has done its best to reach everyone—across crowded cities, remote villages, winding mountain paths, and quiet coastal hamlets. Enumerators have walked, ridden, and knocked their way through all of India’s complexity.

But here’s the shift we now need to make: while the system has tried to count us, we haven’t always known how to own being counted. Think of it this way—if India were a vast mural, the Census is the moment you pick up a brush and say, “This is where I go. This is my colour. This is my space on the wall.” It’s not just data collection. It’s self-declaration. Being counted isn’t a passive act—it’s a statement: I am here. I exist. I matter.

The narrative of the Census can evolve from one of documentation to one of dignity. And that shift begins with us.

Why Should You Care? Let’s put it this way. You might never visit Parliament, but Parliament is shaped by the Census. You may never draft a government budget, but what your town or village gets depends on the Census. You might think policies are written in Delhi boardrooms—but the data they’re built on? That starts with your name on a census list.

More schools in your neighbourhood? More jobs in your town? More buses, more doctors, more funding? The Census decides.

It’s not just counting heads. It’s creating a map of where India is and where it needs to go.

If Aadhaar is your ID, the Census is your Voice. Yes, you already have an Aadhaar number. You’re on WhatsApp, Instagram, and probably a dozen government portals. So why another “registration”?

Because Aadhaar tells the government that you exist. The Census tells the country who you are, in context—with your family, your community, your language, your history. It’s not just your fingerprint. It’s your footprint.

And while the Census doesn’t give you a blue tick, it gives something far more valuable: civic recognition.

For the Gen Z TL; DR crowd, let’s be real—when it comes to government forms and data collection, your first instinct might be: “Ugh, it’s not giving relevance.” But the Census? That’s different.

It’s giving: Visibility

It’s giving: legit representation 

It’s giving: “I see you, I hear you, I fund your district accordingly.” 

So no, it’s not just another official chore. It’s your IRL blue tick from the world’s largest democracy.

Next time the Census comes knocking—digitally or otherwise—don’t ghost. Say your name. Mark your space. Claim your mural spot.

Because being counted? That’s giving identity. That’s giving power. That’s giving “I matter.”

Next time someone whips out a tablet for the Census, don’t side-eye it. That’s your ‘I’m here’ moment. Own it.

There’s something quietly revolutionary about saying, “I’m here.” Not metaphorically—literally. And knowing that your presence changes how the country thinks, spends, builds, heals.

That’s what the Census does. It says: We don’t just govern the people. We know the people. And every single one of them matters.

So in 2027, when a government official (or a tablet screen) comes your way, don’t brush it off like junk mail. Take a breath, answer the questions, and stand your ground. You are not just a number. You are a number that changes everything.

Because in this democracy, being counted is not just a right—it is a declaration: I am here. I belong. I matter.