Mahtab Uddin Ahmed

In Bangladesh, praise is treated like public money: everyone agrees it should circulate, but nobody wants to release it. Tell a colleague he did well, and someone will demand an audit. Compliment a bridge and another citizen will ask which political party issued your membership card. We are generous with criticism, stingy with gratitude and quick to suspicion.

Applying for a job can feel like seeking admission to a royal household. Candidates submit a CV, cover letter, certificates, photograph, present salary, expected salary and perhaps proof of good behaviour in a previous life.

Two neighbours went to a village elder with a dispute. After hearing the first man, the elder said, “You are right”.

We Bangladeshis love being unique, usually in the wrong direction. We speak of governance “of the people, by the people, for the people”, then regulate as if service providers prepared the draft, proofread it, and blessed it for their spiritual welfare.

Office attendance is not merely a management practice; it is almost a cultural festival.

My office is slowly becoming a corporate emergency ward. CEOs walk in not with ECG reports, but with bruised egos, unsigned exit letters and bonuses that have developed a terminal illness.

Alignment is often achieved the way we achieve traffic discipline: everyone honks, nobody moves, and yet each driver is fully confident that the jam is caused by someone else.

In Bangladesh, we have a special talent for feeding the stable owner, polishing the saddle, praising the horse and then wondering why the rider is still walking barefoot.

We have a tradition. When we cannot solve a problem, we form a committee. When we do not want to solve it, we form an inquiry committee.

We often see discrimination only when it becomes loud, ugly, and reportable. But most discrimination in Bangladesh does not arrive with a microphone

There is an old corporate truth in Bangladesh: everyone admires integrity until it begins to disturb someone important.

The news was so uplifting that one could almost picture an emergency meeting of the “Chor Samity”, “Dakat Association”, “People Looter Forum” and the esteemed “Bank Looters Welfare Council”. Tea was poured. Samosas arrived. A solemn resolution was passed.

One evening in Dhaka, a man shouted “chor, chor” and “dhor, dhor”, and within seconds a crowd appeared with the efficiency of a flash sale.

In many offices, teamwork means eight people joining a meeting, three speaking, two pretending their internet is unstable, one sharing the wrong screen, and the rest saying, “Fully aligned.”

When a company runs into financial trouble, the first casualty is usually logic. The chief executive announces a budget review.

Trump launched the crisis, blamed Iran, blamed Europe, blamed the media, and then asked allies for urgent support. It felt like a bad boss breaking the office printer, shouting at staff, and ending the day with a lecture on teamwork.

Trump seems to treat war like a reality show season finale: loud entry, dramatic lines, and then a tweet-sized promise that everything is under control, while the rest of the world is left counting the bill. Sadly, this is not Hollywood, and countries like Bangladesh end up paying for the popcorn, the petrol and the power cut too.

Numbers rarely lie, even when Trump is in the room. But they do have a habit of whispering truths our profession would rather not discuss over coffee. Bangladesh’s latest audit statistics are doing exactly that.

Three friends from different countries once discussed what made them happiest.

In every office, there’s that “corporate friend” who calls you brother but forwards your email to the boss with “just for visibility.” He borrows your charger, your ideas, and occasionally your lunch. At appraisal time, he suddenly develops selective amnesia about team efforts. Yet at office parties, he hugs you, saying, “We survived together!” “We are one team!” In corporate life, friendships are real, just performance-linked and ego-driven.