The numbers got me. Four seconds. Twelve seconds. Twenty-seven seconds.
A product development process module, fifteen pages of the most boring material you have ever read. You also have to sign it. To confirm you understood it. That you really knew it. Rahul got that part done easily. In just four seconds. Lightning fast doomscrolling to reach the finish button that quick. I stared at the dashboard. I stared at his name. I stared at the column full of green checkmarks. Every single training finished two days ago, on Monday.
I’d asked him how the trainings were going. In our one-on-one call. That’s how it started.
“Fine,” he said. “I’m learning a lot.” Lie number one.
“Oh, that’s nice. Let’s be honest though, most are super boring. How are you progressing? I think there’s like more than 30.”
“I usually do one training a day. That’s enough time to really understand them.” Lie number two.
Well, he’s definitely saying the things I would want to hear as his manager.
Rahul was new. He joined less than a month ago. He’d come from one of the best universities in India. His resume rocked. His tech skills, I was told, were killing it. Due to a vacancy on my team, he got assigned to me, on short notice. We expected a lot.
The thing is I’m paranoid. He said the things I would want to hear. “I’m learning so much”, “I like the trainings”, “I invest a lot of time into boring stuff.” Well, something was definitely off.
So I double checked. Him. His answers. Looked at the training dashboard. Gut-feeling. Experience. Either.
He sits low in the chair. Leaning back, one ankle resting over the opposite knee. He’s barely looking at the Teams screen while I’m quiet. He slightly tilts his head every now and then. Smiling, a tiny touch of friendliness. A much bigger touch of superiority. I guess he learned how to look cool. He gives off the vibe of importance. That triggered my gut. Just as much.
“Something’s weird,” I finally said. “You finished all of them on Monday. I thought you did one each day?”
“Oh yes. On Monday I did many. It was a long day.” Lie number three.
And in an instant, the lazy lean-back is gone. The chill tilting smile too. Instead, he looks at the camera, looks at me. Watches. Intently.
“I see you finished nearly all of them in under thirty seconds.” I read him the numbers. Four. Twelve. Twenty-seven. “Some of these are fifteen pages or more.”
“Oh... I read some very fast.” Lie number four.
He didn’t flinch. He still looked very straight at me. Not smiling. But I saw it nonetheless. Well, I tell myself I saw it creeping in. The fear. Pushing the cool superiority out.
I’m obviously a sadist. I knew. Still let him spin up another lie to justify the previous ones. The way out was still there though.
“Let’s stop that Rahul, it’s impossible to read that fast. Are you lying to me about the trainings?”
“No, no, no, I just looked through the trainings on a very high level,” he said. Lie number five. “It’s OK. I will just do them again.”
As if we’re still talking about the trainings. As if I care right now whether he knows them or doesn’t.
“I asked whether you were lying to me. I’m giving you one last chance to be honest.”
Still sitting straight. Still not blinking. Still looking at me. The real deal now. The real fear.
“No worries. I’ll read them again. I promise. I’ll read them more slowly now.” Lie number six. No. That was honest. I guess.
Black screen. Done.
One week later, the whole team joins another Teams call. Short notice. My colleague and our twenty-five developers and test engineers. I told them all to attend. Some things cannot be buried in an email.
“Rahul is not working here anymore,” I said. “His last day was Friday.”
I told them, very straight, I didn’t care if they had no clue what to do, if they were still learning stuff or if they were the freaking best developer I’d ever hired. “You mess up, I’ll be cleaning the floor next to you. You lie to me, find the door.”
They were still. Silent. Twenty-five people looking at me. One, two, three, four, five. Six. It dragged on. The silence.
“Yeah, it’s ok Jonas,” one of the developers finally said. “We get it. It’s ok.”
And that was it. Nobody pushed back. Black screen. Done.
A few of them even came to me after the call, in private. Not to question it. But to tell me they liked what I did. That they respected me cutting a technical star. That I took a clear stance and told everyone openly.
I was right. They confirmed it. I believed them. I still do.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like that. I still do.
My boss wanted the short version. I gave him the lying part and the not-admitting part, clean and fast. Teams call, again. Us, looking at screens.
“Good decision. Good work.”
Same as always. Done correctly. That’s what I do. I was about to move on.
“One more thing though,” he said. “Next time I need you to go one level further.”
“What?”
He’s sitting there. In his chair in front of the camera. No lazy lying back. No superiority. No “I command you cause I can.” No intense staring at me either. No uncertainty or nervousness. He’s just sitting there. Comfortably.
“Rahul was lying. He wasn’t admitting it. But why? Did you ask him why he chose to lie?”
“What does it matter? I’d have let him go either way. There’s no good reason to lie. Not on trainings that are crucial for our company’s certifications.”
“True. The result wouldn’t have changed at all. But you’re a leader. I need you to understand your people. So next time, ask them.”
That bastard. Best boss I ever had. Everyone else told me how good I am. He told me when good wasn’t enough. Wasn’t finished.
Fuck, that hurt. Black screen. Done.
I got angry. Especially because I’m used to being right. All the time. Asking Rahul wouldn’t have changed anything. It would have been a waste of my time. Why should I feel sorry for a cheater? He lied to my face and then dared to just offer to redo the trainings. Like a totally normal clean-up-and-get-on-with-it job.
Underneath the anger, there’s that other voice though. Still. Quiet. Annoying as hell. Ask anyway. Care anyway. Even now. I would much rather stay right. My boss doesn’t let me have it that clean. Something spilled. Same lie, same result. Different humanity.
I know the numbers. Even today. Four, twelve, twenty-seven.
Maybe Rahul was terrified of authority. Maybe he was arrogant enough to believe everyone was stupid. Maybe he just didn’t care.
I don’t know. I never asked.