Yesterday, I spoke to an old HUL colleague. It had been almost a year since both of us spoke an she had stepped into a leadership role in a different organization.
As we spoke, I noticed something interesting. What struck me wasn’t what had changed in us, but what hadn’t.
This colleague has always had a rare gift: the ability to say “no.”
Not the harsh, dismissive no that shuts the door.
But the calm, steady no that clears the fog.
The kind of no that makes you pause and realize — this isn’t rejection, this is clarity.
I have always admired that quality. Because when you say no with intention, what remains is sharper focus on what truly matters.
You protect your time, your energy, your attention. And over time, strategies become clearer, priorities crystallize, and impact multiplies.
Three cues I’ve carried with me from such conversations:
🔹 Core vs. Co-curricular — if it doesn’t move the main outcome, it’s peripheral.
🔹 Define success upfront — clarity on the destination filters out distractions.
🔹 Guard your “yes” — every yes costs time, focus, and energy; spend it wisely.
Today, life showed me a very different side of “no.”
For 12 years now, Navaratri has been my rhythm. All ten days, ten bows of the head in surrender.
This year was no different. On Vijayadashami, flowers in hand, I went to a temple that is new to me. The air was thick with incense. The bells inside rang in waves. Devotees pressed forward with offerings, whispering their prayers.
I had a ticket. I stepped forward.
And then came the guard’s voice.
Not just a no — but a shouted no.
Sharp. Loud. Cutting through the air.
“No!”
Everyone turned. Heads swiveled. Whispers spread.
It wasn’t the first time here. This was the second time.
And in that moment – under all those eyes, feeling the weight of being singled out – I broke. Tears spilled, something I rarely allow myself. On Vijayadashami, the day of victory, I stood there undone by a word.
Because it wasn’t just denial. It was the way it was delivered – harsh, careless, in full view of everyone. A no without compassion.
And then, through the crowd, someone appeared. An elderly woman, a stranger I had never seen before. She stepped close, touched my arm gently, and said with quiet strength:
“Don’t cry. We shouldn’t show them that we are weak.”
Her words held me up when I was falling apart.
If she hadn’t been there, I would have walked away. Defeated, carrying nothing but hurt. But because she was there, I steadied myself. I wiped my tears, walked forward, offered my flowers to the goddess, bowed my head, and then left for home. Her kindness gave me back the strength to finish what I had come for.
That’s when I understood: the power of “no” is not just in saying it. It lies in how it is said, and what it leaves behind.
A no with clarity can align.
A no with compassion can preserve dignity.
A no with arrogance – especially when shouted in public – can wound far beyond intention.
Saying no is strength.
Saying it well is wisdom.
Saying it with humanity – that is grace.
Because no is never just a word.
Sometimes it breaks us.
Sometimes it pushes us to rise.
And sometimes, when the universe is kind, a stranger steps forward like a guardian angel reminding us that strength is not in walking away, but in carrying through.
This Navaratri, I was reminded of two truths: that a shouted no can scar, but kindness however brief, however unexpected has the power to rebuild.
But with grace, compassion, and humanity a no can also guide us back to what matters most.
And that is the kind of no I want to carry forward.
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