When the Chair Becomes the Self

By – Dr Srabani Basu

Associate Professor, Department of Literature and Languages, SRM University AP, Amaravati.

My maternal grandmotheroccasionally used this statement, “Whoever arrives at Lanka becomes a Ravana.”

She never studied organisational behaviour. She never attended leadership programmes, earned an MBA, or quoted management gurus. Yet, with one simple sentence, she captured a profound truth about human nature that many books on leadership continue to explore. Whenever someone acquired a little authority and suddenly began displaying arrogance, she would smile and say, “Whoever arrives at Lanka becomes a Ravana.” As a child, I thought she was talking about mythology. As an adult, I realise she was talking about psychology.

Lanka was never merely a kingdom. It was every office, every designation, every title, every chair that quietly whispers to its occupant, “You are important.” And that is where the danger begins. Not because power changes people, but because borrowed power often convinces people that it belongs to them. Some people begin to mistake the authority of the chair for the authority of the self. The distinction is subtle, yet it is one of the most important distinctions any leader can learn.

Almost every institution has witnessed this transformation. A colleague who was once approachable suddenly becomes inaccessible after a promotion. A manager who passionately criticised bureaucracy now defends it with unwavering conviction. An academic who once championed student-centred education begins invoking rules with mechanical precision, as though policy itself were a virtue. Nothing about the furniture has changed. Only the occupant has. Yet the occupant slowly begins to believe that the authority now originates from within. It does not. It originates from the office. The chair lends authority; the individual merely borrows it. The tragedy begins when the borrower mistakes stewardship for ownership.

Social psychology has long recognised this phenomenon. Philip Zimbardo’s Stanford Prison Experiment – despite the significant methodological and ethical criticisms it later attracted, drew attention to a phenomenon that subsequent research on social roles has continued to explore human beings often internalise the positions they occupy. Titles, uniforms and institutions subtly reshape behaviour. Leadership positions carry precisely the same psychological risk. The title whispers, “You are powerful.” Wisdom quietly replies, “No. The responsibility entrusted to you is powerful.” Unfortunately, the whisper is usually louder than the wisdom.

Perhaps that is why my grandmother chose Ravana as her metaphor. Ravana was not corrupted by Lanka; rather, Lanka amplified what already lay dormant within him. Authority rarely creates character. It magnifies it. If humility resides within, authority magnifies humility. If compassion resides within, authority magnifies compassion. If insecurity resides within, authority magnifies insecurity. And if ego resides within, authority becomes its loudspeaker. The chair does not transform character. It reveals it.

Indian philosophy understood this long before organisational psychology gave it a vocabulary. The Bhagavad Gita repeatedly reminds us not to confuse ourselves with the roles we temporarily occupy. Warrior, teacher, parent, king; these are functions, not identities. Krishna gently but firmly redirects Arjuna from identifying with transient roles towards recognising a deeper, enduring Self. Modern organisations often encourage the opposite. People gradually stop saying, “I serve as the CEO,” and unconsciously begin saying, “I am the CEO.” The designation quietly swallows the individual.

The Sanskrit concept of adhikāra is frequently translated as authority, yet embedded within it is the idea of responsibility rather than privilege. Authority was never intended to inflate identity; it exists to enable duty. Somewhere along the way, many institutions inverted the equation. The chair became a symbol of status instead of stewardship. When authority becomes a possession rather than a responsibility, leadership quietly gives way to domination.

History is remarkably consistent in exposing this illusion. Empires have vanished. Governments have changed. CEOs have retired. Vice-Chancellors have completed their terms. Judges have demitted office. Deans have handed over their charge. Every chair eventually finds another occupant. Yet some names continue to evoke affection decades after they have left office, while others are forgotten almost as soon as they depart. Why? Because people rarely remember power. They remember how power made them feel. Did they leave your office diminished or empowered? Did your authority create fear or trust? Titles have an expiry date. Character does not.

Every promotion therefore presents two simultaneous examinations. The organisation asks, “Can this person shoulder greater responsibility?” The ego quietly asks, “Now that you have the chair, will you finally show everyone who is in charge?” Many pass the first examination. Far fewer pass the second. The finest leaders understand that true power is not demonstrated by how frequently it is exercised but by how consciously it is restrained. Anyone can say “no” because they possess authority. Only leaders know when authority must make room for humanity.

One day, every office is vacated. Every designation is handed over. Every nameplate is replaced. The institution survives with remarkable indifference. The question is not whether we shall leave the chair…we all will. The real question is what people will remember after we do. Will they remember the designation? Or will they remember the dignity, fairness and humanity with which we occupied it?

Perhaps my grandmother was right all along. Whoever arrives at Lanka indeed faces a choice. One may become another Ravana, intoxicated by borrowed power and forgetting that the kingdom was never one’s own. Or one may remember that the chair is only a temporary trust, never a permanent possession. For the power never truly resides in the chair. The chair merely reveals whether power has already conquered the person sitting in it.