If Vivek were alive today, he would have been proud to see Journey Woodblock.
I met him while working as an OFW in Kuwait. He was a quiet man—reserved, observant, his confidence shifting depending on who stood before him. Among the production workers, he carried authority. But around office staff, he became noticeably smaller.
He headed the CNC department—the most high-tech section of the factory at that time. When our supervisor, Mr. Abdo, assigned me there, the first task Vivek gave me was simple:
Clean the machine.
Spotless. Sparkling. As if we could sell it as brand new.
And that was all I did.
Cleaning was no light task—lifting heavy MDF sheets, emptying dust collectors, clearing scraps from every corner. But he would not allow me near programming, near controls, near responsibility. I was present, but not included.
Another Filipino, Arnel, worked with me. He told me Vivek once had an Indian assistant who did not work well with him. That explained the distance.
One day Mr. Abdo came to inspect.
He saw me standing beside Vivek, doing nothing while he programmed.
With his thunderous voice he shouted,
“Yalla, Vivek! Why no teaching Benyamin?!”
Then in broken English:
“All you doing? All you only everything?”
Vivek’s face turned pale.
From that day on, I made a decision: I would learn.
I belonged to Generation X—a generation divided between brilliant programmers and those too intimidated to press a single key. I belonged to the latter. But I understood mathematics, and I could see that CNC machines operated on axes, coordinates, logic.
Two months to grasp programming fundamentals.
One month to understand AutoCAD.
After that, something shifted.
Vivek began opening up. He told me he would soon return to India for vacation—and marriage. His parents had arranged a bride for him. He worried about leaving unfinished work.
I told him that Arnel and I could manage.
He looked at me with disbelief… then cautious trust.
He allowed us to handle the next project.
When he saw the results, I saw amazement in his eyes. Then relief.
But not long after, fear.
That was when I understood why many refuse to teach others: the fear of being replaced.
Vivek left a week later. During his last days before vacation, he barely spoke.
After two months, he returned.
When he saw everything completed without him, the fear intensified. He retreated to his office, scrutinizing minor details, searching for mistakes.
There were none.
Instead of defending myself, I asked him about India. About his wife. About his life.
Then he said softly,
“I little afraid about married. No problem I ask question?”
He feared I might replace him.
That thought had never crossed my mind.
While he was away, I had learned not just CNC—but how the entire company operated. How job orders flowed. How departments depended on one another. I understood the system.
And now I understood him.
Fear had built a wall between us.
So I did something unexpected.
I taught him.
I showed him how to break cabinets into components. How to prepare bills of materials. How to draft cutting lists. How to translate design into production. How to think beyond the machine.
He became deeply interested.
In less than three months, he could perform the work of a draftsman—something the company desperately needed.
One day I prepared a concierge counter plan for an ongoing project. I told our supervisor that Vivek had done it.
Mr. Abdo looked at the drawing, surprised.
“Who make?”
“Vivek,” I replied.
He looked at me and asked,
“Why Vivek no showing?”
The supervisor called him immediately.
I tried not to smile as Vivek entered the office.
When he walked out, he hugged me.
The next morning, instead of the standard blue production gown, he arrived wearing office clothes.
He had been promoted.
And it was my turn to lead the CNC department.
I replaced him—not by stepping on him, but by lifting him higher.
Physics teaches that no two bodies can occupy the same space at the same time. That is the Law of Impenetrability.
But leadership reveals something deeper:
When you push someone upward, you do not collide—you create space.
And sometimes, the only way forward is not to force your way through…
but to raise another man high enough so both of you can stand.
Originally published on Benjie's Bench - Measuring Life's lessons in Millimeters
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