The Day Average Joe walked into Harvard

Thirty years ago, I left school barely able to hold a conversation in English. Writing was a distant dream — a country I had no visa for.

My parents, bless them, believed in me more than I ever did in myself. They pledged gold to send me to NIIT every morning from 7am to 9am. I would then take the bus to RKM Vivekananda College, Chennai for my B.Com every evening from 4pm to 8pm. In between, from 11am to 3pm, six days a week, I scooped ice cream at Baskin Robbins — their second outlet in India, right near my home.

Eighteen months of DOS, C, C++, Java, and MS Access. Long lab sessions staring at what I called a "smart-box." I scored in the top percentile. And then I prostrated before my parents and said — “I have no plans to save the world from Y2K”.

They pledged their newly bought house next. For my MBA. No parent should ever have to do that. No son should ever forget it, I say.

Campus placement at RPG Retail followed — a decent salary at the turn of the millennium, when jobs were genuinely hard to find. 

What came next felt like a long relay race across fourteen extraordinary years — Musicworld, Foodworld, Central Malls by the Future Group, United Colors of Benetton, Cafe Coffee Day, and Royal Enfield. 

Each baton pass shaped me more than I understood at the time.

Twenty years ago, I became the first Indian to pioneer Airport Retail — at the country's first PPP greenfield airport in Bangalore. That single chapter handed me a confidence I had never owned before, and a reputation that quietly preceded me across the Indian retail industry.

Fifteen years of Strategy Advisory and Consulting later, something stirred. In August 2024, I began exploring the Senior Executive Leadership Program at Harvard Business School. I enrolled in December 2025. A fat tuition fee. Full-on debt.

My maiden trip to Boston was equal parts surreal and stunning. 

Standing in the rain outside the Mumbai Consulate in mid-July. A 90-second visa interview. Four tense minutes at Boston Logan — answering a curious officer's questions while he read my HBS invitation letter with what felt like deliberate slowness.

And then — the campus. The Baker Library. One hundred and fifty case studies across nine months, led by eighteen of the world's finest teachers, professors, and human beings.

My opinions mattered in that classroom. They rarely shifted. But my lens changed — permanently.

In the closing session, I told our Dean: "I came here in January 2026 hungry and impatient. I am leaving as a human being — taught humility, and to live with Purpose."

On 11 September 2026, forty-eight rockstars of the 22nd SELP-India batch stood outside Baker Hall together. I felt equal, grateful, and ready.

Average Joe. Done well, I say.

I still have Miles To Go.

Boston Days - Part 13

Cardullo's: One Corner. Seventy-Five Years.

(I am writing "Boston Days" as a series of articles for quick reference for myself and other retail pilgrims. This article covers what a 75-year-old gourmet store at Harvard Square taught me about the one decision no retailer can ever get wrong — and what happens when a business outlasts the family that built it.)

Ownership changes. Legacies don't.

There is a small brass plaque on the pillar outside Number 6, Brattle Street. It reads: Cardullo's. Since 1950. Three owners later, that plaque has not moved an inch.

Frank Natali Cardullo was born in Messina, Italy in 1915. He arrived in Boston in 1929, originally intending to become a doctor. By 1942, he had bought the Wursthaus — a beloved German restaurant at the heart of Harvard Square — earning himself the informal title of "the unofficial Mayor of Cambridge." 

On April 1st, 1950, he opened Cardullo's Gourmet Shoppe at Number 6, Brattle Street, to serve the neighbourhood's fiercely international community. Imported foods, a deli counter, an oyster bar and fine wines became its staples.

In 1978, he originated Harvard Square's Oktoberfest, now an annual tradition.

When Frank Sr.'s health began failing in 1993, his son Francis — a former airplane pilot — stepped away from the skies, bought the shop from his father, and took the counter. He sold the Wursthaus to focus entirely on the gourmet store. 

Frank Sr. passed away in October 1997, four years after handing over the keys — but not before Cambridge's Mayor officially proclaimed him the originator of Oktoberfest. He lived to see his life's work in safe hands.

Francis died in 2009. His daughters Donez and Francesca took the counter next — the third generation of Cardullos at Number 6. They ran it for six years before making a decision that no family business takes lightly. 

In 2015, they sold. "We have children who are still at home," said Donez. "We're switching our efforts from family business to family."

The buyers were Rich and Kim Wilson, a Newton couple walking away from corporate careers. 

"We wanted to leave the corporate world," said Kim, formerly of Staples. 

"And we wanted to continue this legacy in Harvard Square." 

Three years in, they made a decision the Cardullo family never had — they expanded. In August 2018, a second location opened at Boston's Seaport. 

"It felt like the perfect fit," said Kim, "to bring our rich legacy from one of the city's oldest neighbourhoods to one of its newest."

In late 2024, restaurateur Joel Hidenfelter took ownership, partnering with hospitality group Flying Line — and announced a third location at Chestnut Hill for 2026.

Four ownership chapters. Three locations. Seventy-five years. The same corner that started it all.

Every time Cardullo's changed hands, the incoming owner said the same thing in different words — I am here to protect this, not replace it. 

That is not sentiment. That is the power of a location so right, so embedded in the life of a place, that no new owner dares disturb it.

Frank Cardullo settled one question in 1950 — where. Every owner since has simply had to honour it.

Boston was teaching me. Again.

Cardullo’s was among the 150 cases that we studied during my ongoing Senior Leadership Program at Harvard Business School, Boston, MA.

(I am writing "Boston Days" as a series of articles for quick reference for myself and other retail pilgrims.)

Read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Part 9, Part 10, Part 11 and Part 12 here.

Boston Days — Part 9

The Store That Spoke to Me. After I Had Already Left.

(I am writing “Boston Days” as a series of articles for quick reference for myself and other retail pilgrims. This article covers frontline culture — and what two factory outlets in Somerville taught me in ninety minutes.)

Assembly Row in Somerville is one of Greater Boston’s more interesting retail destinations. Open-air, mixed-use, genuinely alive on a warm August afternoon. I was there for two names: Nike and Puma.

Same street. Same concept. Ninety minutes between them. A very different education.

The Nike Factory Store is impossible to miss. 

Strong footfall. Unmistakable brand energy. Categories demarcated, range broad — everything that a factory outlet of the world’s largest sportswear brand should signal.

But something was off.

Merchandise was scattered. Shelves in various states of undress. Replenishment appeared to be an afterthought. Staff were few and visibly stretched. Customers were entirely on their own — not by design, simply by default.

The billing queue was long. Not the kind of long that means a great trading day. The kind that makes a motivated shopper quietly calculate whether waiting is worth it.

Footfall without conversion is noise. Brand strength got them through the door. What happened inside was another matter entirely.

Across the street stood the Puma Factory Store.

Fewer customers. Calmer energy. But immediately, noticeably different in composition. Staff were present — not just physically, but attending. The floor was managed. The store felt considered.

I spent over thirty minutes inside. Browsing, trying on, thinking. I stepped out without a purchase.

That is when it happened.

A Puma associate walked up — calmly, without rehearsed enthusiasm — and asked a simple question. Had I found what I was looking for?

It was an unremarkable interaction on the surface. Except it hadn’t happened inside Nike. And it happened here, after I had already left.

Someone had noticed that a person spent thirty minutes inside, walked out without buying, and was carrying unresolved intent. That is not a trained reflex. That is a culture.

A few kilometres away, inside an HBS classroom, I had spent an entire session the previous week discussing the Walmart case. 

Doug McMillon’s conviction — that Walmart’s greatest long-term competitive asset was its people — had generated sharp debate. His bets on frontline dignity and training were not HR policy. They were strategic capital allocation.

Standing on that Somerville sidewalk, I had just watched the same case play out. Not in a classroom. In real life.

One store had the crowd. The other had the conversation.

Ninety minutes at Assembly Row. No slides. 

No framework. Just one street, two stores, and a reminder that the greatest competitive advantage in retail has always been the person standing closest to the customer.

Boston was teaching me. Just not always inside a classroom.

(I am writing “Boston Days” as a series of articles for quick reference for myself and other retail pilgrims.)

Read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8 and Part 9 here.

Boston Days - Part 8

The Man Who Saved Best Buy Walked Into My Classroom Today.

(I am writing “Boston Days” as a series of articles for quick reference for myself and other retail pilgrims. This article covers “Culture as Strategy — a Leadership Class with Hubert Joly”)

There is a specific kind of pause that happens inside you when you register, fully and without warning, who exactly is standing at the front of the room.

It happened to me this morning at HBS.

The professor for today’s session was Hubert Joly. Former chairman and CEO of Best Buy. 

The man who walked into arguably the most distressed large-format retail situation in modern American business — stock at $11, market cap at $4 billion, Amazon at its most predatory — and rebuilt it by asking one question almost no CEO was asking at the time: what is this company actually for?

I have spent three decades watching Indian retail. One hundred plus cities. Every format from airport terminal to neighbourhood kirana. 

And yet, sitting in that classroom this morning, I had to consciously remind myself to take notes rather than simply listen.

The session was built around two cases. Nvidia. Walmart.

The Nvidia case was not primarily a technology story. At its core, it was a study in Jensen Huang’s deeply personal leadership style — his instinct for flat structures, radical transparency, and a culture where the fear of embarrassment is replaced entirely by the fear of missing a consequential idea. 

Every person in the room left understanding that Nvidia’s extraordinary run cannot be separated from who Huang is as a human being, and how that humanity travels through fifty thousand people. Strategy, in his hands, is inseparable from character.

The Walmart case landed differently, and with equal force. The discussion centred on Doug McMillon’s fundamental conviction that Walmart’s greatest long-term competitive asset is not its logistics network or its store footprint — it is its people. 

His big bets on workforce investment, wage floors, training and dignity are not HR policy. 

They are strategic bets made with the same rigour a CFO applies to capital allocation. McMillon has simply decided that people are the capital.

The thread connecting both cases — and the man teaching them — was impossible to miss.

Culture is not a consequence of strategy. It is the strategy.

What I carried out of that room was not a framework. It was a reckoning.

Thirty years in retail. Thousands of hours on floors and in boardrooms. Have I always been as deliberate about culture as I have been about category, format and footfall?

The man who walked into Best Buy in 2012 — when people around him said he was either crazy or suicidal — did not walk in with a better product or a superior balance sheet. 

He walked in with a clearer answer to that question than anyone else in the building.

As it turns out, that is not a small thing.

It is everything.

(I am writing “Boston Days” as a series of articles for quick reference for myself and other retail pilgrims.)

Read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8 and Part 9 here.