“Frankly speaking,” my Professor friend said, lighting his cigar, “is one of the least trustworthy openings in the English language.”
We were sitting in his drawing room. A cup of black coffee rested beside him.
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“Because when people begin with ‘frankly speaking’, they are usually about to do one of three things: say something they should have said much earlier, say something unnecessarily unpleasant, or avoid saying what they really mean.”
He drew slowly on his cigar.
We admire people who speak frankly. Organizations place candour, openness and transparency among their values. Leaders encourage employees to speak without fear. Families claim that nothing should be hidden from one another.
But when someone actually speaks frankly, the atmosphere often changes.
Perhaps it is because truth never travels alone. It carries with it pride, affection, fear, hierarchy and consequence.
The Colleague Who Was Not Doing Well
A manager has to speak to a colleague whose performance has declined. Reports are late. Errors are increasing. Clients have begun to complain. The rest of the team quietly corrects the work.
The colleague is sincere and takes criticism deeply. The manager postpones the conversation, hoping that matters will improve.
They do not.
Finally, he calls him in.
“Rohan, how do you think the project is going?”
“Quite well,” Rohan replies. “There were a few initial problems, but I think I have handled them.”
The manager now has three choices.
He can say, “Yes, there have been a few issues, but overall things are fine.”
That preserves the pleasant atmosphere but denies Rohan an opportunity to improve.
He can say, “Frankly speaking, your performance has been poor.”
That may be direct, but it reduces a complicated situation to a verdict.
Or he can attempt something more difficult.
“Rohan, I need to speak plainly. Three reports were delayed, two required major revision, and the client has raised concerns about follow-up. I want to understand what is causing this and what support or change is needed.”
Rohan looks hurt.
“So you think I am not capable?”
“No. I am saying that your present performance is not meeting the requirements of the role. That is serious, but it is not the same as saying that you cannot improve.”
Too often, we protect someone from discomfort by withholding information. Months later, when a decision is taken, the person feels betrayed. Nobody spoke frankly when there was still time to act.
There is, however, another kind of manager – the one who takes pride in being “brutally honest”.
My Professor once said, “People who advertise themselves as brutally honest are sometimes more interested in the brutality than in the honesty.”
Frankness at work therefore needs discipline. Describe the problem, not the person. Use evidence, not irritation. And leave open a credible path towards improvement.
Otherwise, candour becomes merely an elegant word for exercising power.
When Two People Must Part
Truth becomes more difficult when affection is involved.
Two people may love each other and still discover that they cannot build a life together. One wants children; the other does not. One seeks stability; the other wants freedom. Their differences no longer concern restaurants or holiday destinations. They concern the shape of the future.
They meet at a café where they have spent many happier evenings.
“I think we should talk about us,” she says.
He recognizes the sentence and tries to avoid it.
“We have been talking too much about us. Let us discuss something cheerful.”
She smiles faintly.
“I do not think we are making each other happy anymore.”
“That is not true. We have simply had a difficult few months.”
“It is not only the last few months.”
“What are you trying to say?”
She could say that she needs space. Space is often the waiting room outside separation.
She could invent another person or some external circumstance. A convenient lie might make the conversation easier, but it would leave him struggling with a false explanation.
Finally, she says, “I care deeply for you. But the life you want and the life I want are different. Neither is wrong. If we continue, one of us will eventually have to become someone else.”
“So love is not enough?”
“Sometimes love helps people overcome their differences. Sometimes it only helps them postpone facing those differences.”
There is no painless sentence with which to end a relationship.
Paul Simon treated the same awkward territory with wit in his song 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover. The title promises a manual, but the humour lies in how casually departure is reduced to a set of tactics as though one can soften heartbreak by choosing the right exit route. In reality, there may be fifty ways to leave, but very few ways to do so without leaving behind confusion, resentment or unanswered questions. The song makes escape sound simple; life rarely does.
We expect too much from language when we ask it to remove all hurt.
The purpose of speaking frankly is not to eliminate pain. It is to avoid adding humiliation, blame and false hope to pain that cannot be avoided.
Frankness does not require presenting a complete inventory of the other person’s defects. Nor does kindness require saying, “You are perfect; the problem is entirely mine.”
Sometimes the most respectful parting words are simply: “I cannot honestly promise you the future you deserve.”
The Doctor and the Remaining Time
In a hospital, frankness carries a heavier responsibility.
A doctor sits across from a patient and his family. The cancer has advanced. Treatment may reduce pain or slow its progress, but a cure is unlikely.
The patient asks, “Doctor, tell me honestly. How much time do I have?”
The family intervenes.
“Please do not tell him anything negative. He must remain hopeful.”
The doctor looks at the patient.
“What would you like me to explain?”
“Everything. It is my life.”
The doctor pauses.
“The disease has progressed despite treatment. We can still manage the symptoms and perhaps slow its progress, but I do not believe that we can now cure it.”
“How much time?”
“No one can predict that precisely. From what we see, it may be months rather than years. But individuals respond differently.”
The patient looks at his wife.
“I have some things to put in order.”
That sentence explains why truth matters. A person protected from painful knowledge may also be denied the opportunity to make or revise a will, update nominations, settle practical matters, complete unfinished work, repair a relationship or decide how to spend the time that remains.
The film The Bucket List treated the idea with humour and adventure, but beneath it lay a serious question: should a person not have the chance to decide what still matters when time has suddenly become scarce?
Yet a prognosis is not a railway timetable. Medical frankness must include uncertainty.
Hope need not disappear. It may simply change its object. When cure is no longer possible, hope may mean freedom from pain, one more family gathering, a conversation long postponed or the dignity of spending the final days at home.
The doctor’s task is not to choose between truth and hope. It is to prevent false hope from occupying the place where a more honest hope could live.
A Brief Conversation with Lord Vishnu
That night, I dreamt that I met Lord Vishnu. A large heap of petitions lay beside him.
“You look busy, Lord,” I said.
“Human requests have become increasingly ambitious,” he replied.
He picked up one.
“This devotee wants his son to pass an examination for which the boy has not studied. Apparently, I am now expected to write the examination.”
He opened another petition.
“This businessman wants his competitor’s factory to fail.”
“Will you grant it?”
“The competitor’s workers are praying for the factory to prosper. Human prayers are rarely subjected to stakeholder consultation.”
“Why do you not tell your devotees frankly that some things are impossible?”
“I do,” Lord Vishnu said. “Sometimes through failure, sometimes through delay, and sometimes through a door that remains firmly closed despite their repeated attempts to push, pull and pray it open.”
“And when the answer is no?”
“They usually consult an astrologer for a second opinion.”
Before disappearing, he added, “Most people do not pray to understand life. They pray to renegotiate it.”
Before Speaking
I later narrated the dream to my Professor friend.
He listened, sipping his coffee, the cigar resting between his fingers.
“So,” he said, “even God finds frank speaking difficult.”
“Apparently.”
He looked thoughtful.
“Before speaking frankly, ask three questions. Is it true? Is it necessary? And are you saying it for the other person’s benefit or merely for your own relief?”
“Should we add: Can it be said with kindness?”
“Yes,” he replied. “But do not use kindness to dilute the truth until it becomes meaningless.”
That, perhaps, is the real boundary of expression.
Frankness should not become an excuse for harshness. Sensitivity should not become a reason to hide what must be said. Between the two lies a narrow passage, where truth must travel without surrendering either its clarity or its humanity.
The words “frankly speaking” are easy to pronounce.
The difficult part is choosing what should follow and being prepared for what those words may change.
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