Chanakya Pillai : The Man Who Understood Our Generation’s Chaos

When I first read Corporate Chanakya, I admired it like thousands of other readers do. The clarity, the simplicity, and the way complex management lessons were explained through Chanakya’s wisdom stayed with me for a long time. At that point, Dr. Radhakrishnan Pillai was a respected author to me — someone whose books I was reading, underlining, and learning from.

And then one day, Dr. Rajan Welukar Sir suggested his name for a session.

The moment sir mentioned, “You should invite Dr. Radhakrishnan Pillai,” I still remember that sudden excitement inside me. It genuinely felt like I was jumping with happiness. The person whose books I was reading and following for management lessons was now someone I would actually get to meet and interact with.

The session was planned May 2018. Karthiga Thevar of Chanakya Aanvikshiki Pvt Ltd was coordinating all the arrangements, and gradually my conversations with sir started happening over phone calls. But the most beautiful part was this — from the very first conversation, he never made me feel I was talking to a nationally celebrated personality. There was no distance, no formality, no weight of fame in his tone.

Instead, it felt like an elder brother speaking.

And slowly, without any formal declaration, he became a mentor.

One thing that always touched my heart was how naturally he shifted to Marathi while speaking with me. Hearing someone of his stature speak with such warmth and comfort in Marathi felt incredibly personal and grounding. Every call almost began the same way:

“Tu kashi aahes aadhi te sang… mag pudhe bolu.”

(First tell me how you are… then we will talk further.)

And somehow, that one sentence itself used to calm half the chaos inside me.

I still remember that first session we organised with him on 30th May 2018. The weather was terrible that day. His flight got delayed. The hall was packed with people waiting, arrangements were under pressure, timings were collapsing, and I was completely anxious. While everything felt chaotic around me, he was the one calming me from the other side of the phone.

“Relax… don’t worry… things will settle.”

And when he finally arrived, he came directly from the airport to the session venue without any complaint, without any irritation, without carrying the stress of travel on his face. In fact, he was the one reassuring us.

That simplicity stayed with him always.

Most of the time, I used to call him exactly like a confused school student calls a teacher before exams. I would tell him, “Sir, it may take a little longer… things are difficult right now.” And he would calmly reply, “Okay… then let us catch up at this time.”

But the surprising part was — he himself would call back before time.

And then I would simply start pouring out every tension, every confusion, every difficulty in front of him. He would quietly listen to everything without interrupting. No hurry. No judgment. Just complete attention.

And after listening patiently, he would softly say:

“Okay… tu relax ho aadhi…”

(First, you relax.)

And then he would begin speaking in such a way that solutions felt like they were pouring out through every word. Not motivational speeches. Not complicated management jargon. Just practical clarity, emotional steadiness, and wisdom that could untangle the cluttered mind.

But what made his guidance even more real was this — when needed, he could also scold with complete authority.

And strangely, even that carried care.

If he felt you were overthinking unnecessarily, delaying something important, exhausting yourself emotionally, or making a wrong decision, he would not simply comfort you for the sake of sounding nice. He would firmly make you understand.

There was affection in his warmth, but there was honesty in his mentorship too.

That is why his words carried weight.

That is why people trusted him.

That is why for me, he was never only “Chanakya Pillai.”

He was someone who truly understood the real-life chaos of this generation — the pressure of managing things, the emotional exhaustion, the self-doubt, the balancing of responsibilities, and the loneliness that leadership sometimes brings silently.

When we started envisioning the Orange City Literature Festival in 2019, he was among the very first people we wanted with us. And from day one, he stood like a pillar beside the festival. In fact, he made sure that he would be present in every edition of the festival. Even before the festival, during planning meetings, he would actively participate with ideas, suggestions, solutions, and clarity.

His involvement was never symbolic.

He genuinely cared.

Even during the 6th edition, when his health did not permit him to travel and attend physically, he was still there for us emotionally. I still remember him calming me over the phone:

“Mrunal… relax. You can do it all.”

And what motivation those words carried.

Sometimes, while the festival was going on, I would look around and realise he was not sitting in the guest room meant for dignitaries. Instead, he would be somewhere among students, talking to young minds, listening to them, encouraging them, attending sessions of other authors, or simply interacting with people like an ordinary participant enjoying the atmosphere.

And when I would call and ask,

“Sir, where are you? Why are you not in the guest room?”

He would laugh softly and say, “Tu relax… मी एकदम fine आहे. Enjoy करत आहे. काही काम असेल तर सांग, मी येतो.”

(You relax… I am completely fine. I am enjoying. If there is any work, just tell me, I will come.)

That humility is rare.

In a world where people often carry their designation before themselves, he carried warmth before recognition.

Last year, during the festival, we celebrated his 50th birthday as well. Every year, somehow, his birthday and the festival dates would come almost together around 21st November. And that celebration now feels even more precious.

I still remember the smile on his face while cutting the cake.

It was not the smile of a celebrity enjoying attention.

It was like a small child smiling with slight awkwardness, almost silently asking,
“Why was there a need to do all this for me?”

That innocence in such a celebrated personality is something very rare to witness.

Another beautiful thing about him was that he genuinely wanted people to grow. He used to see possibilities in people before they themselves could see it. His recommendations, introductions, and guidance were always completely selfless.

And those moments are unforgettable.

I still remember one particular moment — he, me, and Purnima Ramakrishnan were sitting quietly at one corner discussing a few matters. The way he was suggesting things, recommending ideas, and connecting perspectives was not transactional at all. He spoke with genuine concern, as if he was emotionally invested in seeing people move ahead in life.

There was no insecurity in him.

No need to dominate conversations.

No need to prove superiority.

Just clarity, kindness, and an honest desire to help.

Today, while writing this, the loss feels deeply personal.

Some people do not just guide projects or organisations. They become emotional anchors in people’s lives.

And the truth is — it is very difficult to accept that his reassuring voice, his calmness, his warmth, and those simple Marathi conversations will no longer come through the phone again.

Love you, sir.

For the guidance.

For the warmth.

For the calmness you brought into chaos.

For every “Tu relax ho aadhi…” that healed more than advice ever could.

Some mentors teach from stages.

You taught through presence, simplicity, and humanity.

A very deep void has been created.

You will always remain far more than an author or speaker to me. And it will take time to even understand how much your presence truly meant.

Om Shanti 🙏