Leadership Wisdom from the Monk Who Sold His Ferrari: The 8 Rituals of the Best Leaders. Робин Шарма
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was still smiling and he radiated a sense of strength and serenity as he stood in the doorway to my office. He did not appear to be a bit concerned about being caught by security and marched into my office. And though he said nothing, I was also struck by the strange feeling that I was in the presence of a man of great knowledge. I experienced the same feeling I used to have when I was with my dad. I really cannot explain it any more than that. Call it intuition, but my gut told me the young man was far wiser than his youthful face showed. Actually, I think it was his eyes that gave it away.
In my years in business, I have discovered that a person’s eyes can reveal the truth. They can disclose warmth, insecurity, insincerity or integrity, if one simply takes the time to study them. The young man’s eyes told me he had wisdom. They also indicated he had a passion for life and perhaps a slight mischievous streak. They seemed to sparkle when the sunlight pouring into my office caught them. Seen up close, the young man’s ruby red robe was quite splendid in its texture and design. And despite being inside, he had chosen to leave the hood on, lending further mystery to his remarkable appearance.
“Who are you and why were you throwing rocks at my window?” I demanded, my face growing hot and my palms growing even more sweaty.
The young man remained silent, his full lips holding their smile. Then he started to move his hands, bringing them together in a prayer stance, offering me the traditional greeting of the people of India.
‘This guy is unbelievable!’ I thought. ‘First he treads through my rose garden, the garden I love looking at from my office when things get crazy. Then he starts pitching rocks at my window, scaring the heck out of me. And now, when he is surrounded by four burly, no-nonsense security guards who could floor him in an instant, he plays games with me.’
“Look, kid, I don’t know who you are or where you’ve come from, and to be honest, I don’t really care,” I exclaimed. “You can keep wearing that silly robe and giving me that silly smile. Be as cocky as you like because I plan to call the police. But before I do, why don’t you break that vow of silence you monks are so famous for and tell me why you are here?”
“I’m here to help you reinvent your leadership, Peter,” the young man replied in a surprisingly commanding tone. “I’m here to help you get your organization back on track. And then on to world-class status.”
How did he know my name? Maybe this guy was dangerous. ‘I’m glad I’ve got security right in front of me,’ I thought to myself. And what was all this nonsense about helping me “reinvent my leadership and get my company back on track?” If this clown was some kind of consultant trying to get my attention for a fat contract, he was going about it the wrong way. Why didn’t he just send me a proposal like the rest of those overpriced, underworked “change agents” who have an amazing gift for creating makework projects that ensure they never miss the target dates for their early retirements.
“You have no idea who I am, do you, Peter?” he asked in a friendly tone.
“No, I’m sorry I don’t. And if you don’t tell me now, I’m going to kick your sorry behind down the hallway and out into the parking lot,” I yelled menacingly.
“I see you still have that temper, Peter. We’ll need to work on that. I’ll bet it doesn’t help you win the loyalty of your team. And I know it does nothing but hurt your golf game, which never was that good,” said the young man, breaking into a laugh.
“Do you have any idea who you are talking to, you arrogant little troublemaker?” I screamed, disregarding the fact that the mysterious stranger was well over six feet tall and in superb physical condition. “How dare you chastise me for my temper? And how do you know so much about my golf game? If you’ve been following me around, I’m definitely getting the police to charge you. That’s a very serious offense you know,” I noted, whipping myself into a frenzy that caused me to sweat profusely once again.
Then the young man did something that astonished me. He lifted his hand and reached deep into his robe, pulling out what appeared to be a gold-plated golf ball. He then tossed it high into the air for me to catch. “I thought you might want it back,” he remarked, still smiling.
I was stunned by the object now resting in the palm of my hand. For the golf ball carried an inscription: To Julian on your fiftieth birthday, a golden golf ball for the man who has it all. It was signed: Your friend always, Peter. How did the young man get this ball? I had given it to my former golfing partner, Julian Mantle, a few years ago. Julian had been a legend in the business world and one of the few friends I had been able to keep over the years. A man with an absolutely brilliant mind, he was widely acknowledged as one of the finest lawyers in the country. Unlike me, he had come from money, his grandfather being a prominent senator and his father, a highly respected judge of the Federal Court. Groomed for success at an early age, Julian graduated number one in his class at Harvard Law School and then landed a coveted position with a spectacularly successful law firm.
He rose to national prominence within a few short years, and his blue-chip client list included multibillion-dollar corporations, major sports teams and even leading governments. In his heyday, he managed a team of eighty-five talented lawyers and won a string of legal victories, which, to this day, causes me to marvel. With an income well into the seven figures, he had everything anyone could want: a mansion in a tony neighborhood favored by celebrities, a private jet, a summer home on a tropical island and his most prized possession of all—a shiny red Ferrari parked in the center of his driveway. But, like me, Julian had his flaws.
He worked like a fiend, regularly working through the night and then catching a few hours of sleep on the couch in his princely corner office before beginning the daily grind all over again. Though I loved playing golf with him, he was hardly ever available. I mostly heard the same excuse from his executive assistant, “I’m sorry, Mr. Franklin, Mr. Mantle will not be able to join you for golf this week due to an emergency that has come up on one of his cases. He does apologize.” The man pushed himself relentlessly and, over time, lost most of his friends along with his once sympathetic wife.
I honestly thought Julian had a deathwish or something. Not only did he work far too hard, he lived far too hard. He was well-known for his late-night visits to the city’s finest restaurants with sexy young fashion models and for his reckless drinking escapades with a rowdy band of cronies, which often ended up in fights that were splashed across the newspapers the next day. Despite his statements to the contrary, Julian Mantle was digging himself into an early grave. I knew it, the lawyers at his firm knew it and, deep within his soul, I think he knew it.
I watched Julian’s steady decline with a feeling of sadness. At the age of fifty-three, he looked as if he was in his late seventies. The constant stress and strain of his hard-driving lifestyle wreaked havoc on him physically, transforming his face into a mass of wrinkles. The late-night dinners in expensive French restaurants, smoking thick Cuban cigars and drinking cognac after cognac had left him embarrassingly overweight and he constantly complained that he was sick and tired of being sick and tired. Over time, he lost his once wicked sense of humor and rarely laughed. A time eventually came when he stopped playing golf, even though I knew he loved the sport as well as our outings together. With all the work on his plate, Julian even stopped calling me. I knew he needed my friendship as much as I welcomed his, but I guess he just didn’t care.
Then tragedy struck the Great Julian Mantle. One Monday morning, in the middle of the packed courtroom where Julian was arguing a case for one of his best corporate clients, Air Atlantic, he collapsed. Amid the frenzied screams of his paralegal and the clicking cameras of the media that were present, Julian was rushed to the hospital. On arrival, he was diagnosed as having suffered a massive heart attack and was rushed into the coronary care unit. The cardiologist said Julian was as close to death as any patient he had ever seen. But somehow he survived. The doctors said Julian was a fighter and seemed to have “a heroic will to live.”
That sad episode changed Julian profoundly. The very next day, he announced he was leaving the practice of law for good. I’d heard through the grapevine that Julian had headed off to India on some kind of expedition. He told one of his partners he “needed some answers” and hoped he would find them in that