Improving and updating your cross functional skills is critical . It will be the only thing that will help you survive the ruthless corporate world.
In a world where change strikes even before you flip a coin, survival for many is a daily chore. Understand your strengths, polish your talents and keep yourself ahead by upskilling.
Here is a story that will help you understand this truth.
The Survivor Rat
The palatial mansion had a problem.
The owners discovered they had a family of rats living in the house. A mother rat and her two children had found their perfect home — warm, well-stocked, and sparkling clean. Being a decent bunch, they lived by their own quiet principles. They nibbled only on leftovers, never chewed through the curtains or clawed at the fancy upholstery. They had a conscience, and they answered to it faithfully. That conscience was the rent.
The mother, in particular, was no ordinary rat. She had seen the world. She had survived drains, alleyways, stinking cellars and dirty restaurant kitchens. She had, along the way, picked up a thing or two that most rats never bothered with.
The owners, meanwhile, were never truly at ease. A rat in a mansion was hardly a good look — what would the neighbours think, what would the guests say? Something had to be done. So they did what the world would do, what companies do when faced with an uncomfortable problem they do not fully understand — they hired someone to make it go away. They brought in a cat. Not just any cat. The sly, sleek, well-groomed kind that hunts for sheer pleasure and takes pride in its own reputation.
The cat arrived with the quiet confidence of an overvalued and overfed consultant. It said little, observed everything, and bided its time. It walked around with a smirk and an arrogant strut.
Then the inevitable happened.
It was a Tuesday evening. The rats were feasting on the magnificent remnants of a grand dinner party — a lot of fine roasted chicken, some buttered cashew nuts , and what the rats thought was a rather well made woodfired pizza. The two children were jostling for the olive topping when the cat struck without warning.
The children scattered instantly, squeezing beneath the heavy oak dining table with the practised efficiency of those who have grown up understanding that danger is always a possibility. The mother, caught out in the open near the roasted chicken plate, had no such luck.
In a heartbeat, the vast dining room transformed into a racetrack. The chandelier watched without emotion as the rat ran for her life and the cat closed in to take it. Round the chairs, past stately table legs, beneath the grand piano and back again .The mother rat ran with everything she had, her small heart hammering, her mind racing faster than her feet.
But the chase was taking its toll. She was no longer young. After several breathless laps, she felt her legs begin to slow, her lungs begin to burn. The cat, by contrast, was barely warming up, its eyes bright with the casual cruelty of one who knows the outcome is inevitable. It knew in this open field it would have the last laugh.
The rat knew it was not going to last long. She had to come up with something that did justice to her priceless experience. It was now or never.
And then something shifted inside her.
She stopped dead in her tracks and spun around to face her pursuer.
The cat screeched to a halt, claws sparking against the marble floor. It stood there, chest heaving, tail swishing slowly from side to side . It was now utterly puzzled. Surely the rat had given up. Surely, finally, this was surrender.
But the mother rat stood up tall on her hind legs, rolled back her shoulders, drew one long, slow breath and let out a growl from somewhere deep in her chest. She sounded like a nasty Rottweiler when she growled.
GRRRRRRRRRRRR!
The cat froze. Every hair on its body stood on end. Its eyes popped out. For one long, bewildering moment it could not process what it was hearing. That was no rat. That was unquestionably, unmistakably a dog. A large one. Possibly an angry one. The growl echoed in that stately hall. It bounced off the golden curtains and the silver curtain trinkets.
Stunned, dazed, and completely undone, the cat spun around and bolted. It did not have time to rub its eyes or pinch itself. This was surely a save-your-life moment. The mansion door was open and the cat flew through it, a streak of panic disappearing into the night , glancing back over its shoulder with every stride, desperate to put as much distance as possible between itself and whatever that was.
Inside the mansion, everything was suddenly very quiet.
The two children crept out slowly from beneath the table, wide-eyed, and trembling with a mixture of shock and awe. Their mother stood in the centre of the room, composed, unhurried, smoothing her whiskers as though nothing particularly remarkable had just occurred.
The elder child found her voice first.
“Mum,” she whispered, “what on earth was that?”
The mother rat allowed herself a small, satisfied smile — the smile of someone who had quietly prepared for this moment long before it arrived.
“I have always told you,” she said, “it helps to have learnt a second language.”
She straightened her whiskers one final time, picked up a barely chewed chicken wing , and walked calmly back to their corner of the mansion.
I hope you got my point.
Now think.
What is your second language?
Because one day, when you are caught out in the open with no table left to hide under, it will not be your strongest skill that saves you. It will be the unexpected one.
The one you quietly took the trouble to learn when nobody was watching.
The one that sends the cat running.
