Harvard Business Review Case Study: The Parable of the Sadhu Analysis

This case study, based on Bowen McCoy's 'The Parable of the Sadhu,' details an ethical dilemma faced by a group of mountain climbers in the Himalayas. The climbers encounter a dying pilgrim, a Sadhu, and must decide how to balance their personal goals with their responsibility to help him. The article explores the tension between individual ethics and corporate ethics, questioning whether the group's actions were sufficient, and examining the prioritization of goals over ethical considerations. The case study prompts reflection on leadership, responsibility, and the complexities of making ethical decisions in challenging circumstances, drawing parallels between the climbers' choices and the values of American business. The case study also includes questions to analyze the company's treatment of an ethical issue and how a company or corporation could resolve such a problem.

The Parable of the Sadhu1
by Bowen H. McCoy
On a mountain climbing expedition to the Himalayas, Bowen
McCoy, a managing director of the Morgan Stanley Company,
and his party found a pilgrim, or Sadhu, dying of cold. Although
the climbers helped the holy man, Mr. McCoy and his team
ultimately pressed on with their trek, determined to reach the
summit. This unexpected ethical dilemma left them
questioning their values--and the values of business, which
often places goal achievement ahead of other considerations.
In this moving article, which received the Harvard Business
Review’s Ethics Prize in 1983, Mr. McCoy relates his
experience in the distant mountain of Nepal to the short and
long-term goals of American business.
Last year, as the first participant of in the new six-month sabbatical program
that Morgan Stanley has adopted, I enjoyed a rare opportunity to collect my
thoughts as well as do some traveling. I spent the first three months in Nepal,
walking 600 miles through 200 villages in the Himalayas and climbing some
120,000 vertical feet. On the trip my sole Western companion was an anthropologist
who shed light on the cultural patterns of the villages we passed through.
During the Nepal hike, something occurred that has had a powerful impact on
my thinking about corporate ethics. Although some might argue that the experience
has no relevance to business, it was a situation in which a basic ethical dilemma
suddenly intruded into the lives of a group of individuals. How the group responded
I think holds a lesson for all organizations no matter how defined.
1. This article was originally published in the September-October 1983 issue of the
Harvard Business Review (HBR). For its repoublicxation as a HBR Classic McCoy has
written the commentary, “When Do We Take a Stand?” to update his observations.
Bowen McCoy
Photos by Mike
Brozda
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The Nepal experience was more
rugged and adventuresome than I had
anticipated. Most commercial treks
last two or three weeks and cover a
quarter of the distance we traveled.
My friend Stephen, the anthropologist,
and I were halfway through the 60-
day Himalayan part of the trip when
we reached the high point, an 18,000-
foot pass over a crest that we'd have
to traverse to reach the village of
Muktinath, an ancient holy place for
pilgrims.
The Sadhu
Sadhus, or holy men, roam the
countryside of India and Nepal,
begging for food.
Six years earlier I had suffered pulmonary edema, an acute form of altitude
sickness, at 16,500 feet in the vicinity of Everest base camp, so we were
understandably concerned about what would happen at 18,000 feet. Moreover, the
Himalayas were having their wettest spring in 20 years; hip-deep powder and ice
had already driven us off one ridge. If we failed to cross the pass, I feared that the
last half of our "once in a lifetime" trip would be ruined.
During the late afternoon, four backpackers from New Zealand joined us, and we
spent most of the night awake anticipating the climb. Below we could see the fires of
two other parties, which turned out to be two Swiss couples and a Japanese hiking
club.
To get over the steep part of the climb before the sun melted the steps cut in the
ice, we departed at 3:30 a.m. The New Zealanders left first, followed by Stephen and
myself, our ports and Sherpas, and then the Swiss. The Japanese lingered in their
camp. The sky was clear, and we were confident that no spring storm would erupt
the day to close the pass.
At 15,500 feet, it looked to me as if Stephen were shuffling and staggering a bit,
which are symptoms of altitude sickness. (The initial stage of altitude sickness
brings a headache and nausea. As the condition worsens, a climber may encounter
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difficult breathing, disorientation, aphasia, and paralysis.) I felt strong, my
adrenaline was flowing, but I was very concerned about my ultimate ability to get
across. A couple of our porters were also suffering from the height and Pasang, our
Sherpa sirdar (leader), was worried.
Just after daybreak, while we rested at 15,000 feet, one of the New Zealanders,
who had gone ahead, came staggering down toward us with a body slung across his
shoulders. He dumped the almost naked, barefoot body of an Indian holy man--a
Sadhu-- at my feet. He had found the pilgrim lying on the ice, shivering and suffering
from hypothermia. I cradled the Sadhu’s head and laid him out on the rocks. The
New Zealander was angry. He wanted to get across the pass before the bright sun
melted the snow. He said "Look I’ve done what I can. You have porters and Sherpa
guides. You care for him. We’re going on!" He turned and went back up the
mountain to join his friends.
I took a carotid pulse and found that the Sadhu was still alive. We figured he had
probably visited the holy shrines at Muktinath and was on his way home. It was
fruitless to question why he had chosen this desperately high route instead of the
safe, heavily traveled caravan route through the Kali Gandaki gorge. Or why he was
almost naked and with no shoes, or how long he had been lying in the pass. The
answers weren’t going to solve our problem.
Stephan and the four Swiss began stripping off outer clothing and opening their
packs. The Sadhu was soon clothed from head to foot. He was not able to walk, but
he was very much alive. I looked down the mountain and spotted below the
Japanese climbers marching up with a horse.
Without a great deal of thought, I told Stephen and Pasang that I was concerned
about withstanding the heights to come and wanted to get over the pass. I took off
after several of our porters who had gone ahead.
On the steep part of the ascent where, if the ice steps had given way, I would have
slid down about 3,000 feet, I felt vertigo. I stopped for a breather, allowing the Swiss
to catch up with me. I inquired about the Sadhu and Stephen. They said the Sadhu
was fine and that Stephen was just behind. I set off again for the summit.
Stephen arrived at the summit an hour after I did. Still exhilarated by victory, I
ran down the snow slope to congratulate him. He was suffering from altitude
sickness, walking 15 steps, then stopping, walking 15 steps, then stopping. Pasang
accompanied him all the way up. When I reached them, Stephen glared at me and
said: "How do you feel about contributing to the death of a fellow man?" I did not
fully comprehend what he meant. "Is the Sadhu dead?" I inquired. "No, replied
Stephen, "but he surely will be!" After I had gone, and the Swiss had departed not
long after, Stephen had remained with the Sadhu. When the Japanese had arrived,
Stephen asked to use their horse to transport the Sadhu down to the hut. They had
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refused. He had then asked Pasang to have a group of our porters carry the Sadhu.
Pasang had resisted the idea, saying that the porters would have to exert all their
energy to get themselves over the pass. He had thought they could not carry a man
down 1,000 feet to the hut, reclimb the slope, and get across safely before the snow
melted. Pasang had pressed Stephen not to delay any longer.
The Sherpas had carried the Sadhu down to a rock in the sun at about 15,00 feet
and had pointed out the hut another 500 feet below. The Japanese had given him
food and drink. When they had last seen him he was listlessly throwing rocks at the
Japanese party’s dog, which had frightened him.
We do not know if the Sadhu lived or died. For many of the following days and
evenings Stephen and I discussed and debated our behavior toward the Sadhu.
Stephen is a committed Quaker with deep moral vision. He said "I feel that what
happened with the Sadhu is a good example of the breakdown between the
individual ethic and the corporate ethic. No one person was willing to assume
ultimate responsibility for the Sadhu. Each was willing to do his bit just so long as it
was not too inconvenient. When it got to be a bother, everyone just passed the buck
to someone else and took off."
I defended the larger group saying "Look, we all cared. We all stopped and gave
aid and comfort. Everyone did hit bit. "The New Zealander carried him down below
the snow line. I took his pulse and suggested we treat him for hypothermia. You and
the Swiss gave him clothing and got him warmed up. The Japanese gave him food
and water. The Sherpas carried him down to the sun and pointed out the easy trail
toward the hut. He was well enough to throw rocks at a dog. What more could we
do?" "You have just described the typical affluent Westerner's response to a
problem. Throwing money--in this case food and sweaters--at it, but not solving the
fundamentals!" Stephen retorted.
"What would satisfy you?" I said. "Here we are, a group of New Zealanders, Swiss,
Americans, and Japanese who have never met before and who are at the apex of one
of the most powerful experiences of our lives. Some years the pass is so bad no one
gets over it. What right does an almost naked pilgrim who chooses the wrong trail
have to disrupt our lives? Even the Sherpas had no interest in risking the trip to help
him beyond a certain point."
Stephen calmly rebutted, "I wonder what the Sherpas would have done if the
Sadhu had been a well-dressed Nepali, or what the Japanese would have done if the
Sadhu had been a well-dressed Asian, or what you would have done, Buzz, if the
Sadhu had been a well-dressed Western woman?" "Where, in your opinion," I asked
instead, "is the limit of our responsibility in a situation like this? We had own well-
being to worry about. Our Sherpa guides were unwilling to jeopardize us or the
porters for the Sadhu. No one else on the mountain was willing to commit himself
beyond certain self-imposed limits." Stephen said, "As people with a Western ethical
tradition, we can fulfill our obligations in such a situation only if (1) the Sadhu dies
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in our care, (2) the Sadhu demonstrates to us that he could undertake the two-day
walk down to the village, or (3) we carry the Sadhu for two days down to the village
and convince someone there to care for him." "Leaving the Sadhu in the sun with
food and clothing, while he demonstrated hand-eye coordination by throwing a rock
at a dog, comes close to fulfilling items one and two," I answered. "And it wouldn't
have made sense to take him to the village where the people appeared to be far less
caring than the Sherpas, so the third condition is impractical. Are you really saying
that, no matter what the implications, we should, at the drop of a hat, have changed
our entire plan?"
Suggested Questions
1. In The Parable of the Sadhu, every person contributes some degree of help
toward the welfare of the Sadhu, but no one attends to the ultimate well-
being of the Sadhu. Can you think of a parallel case of a corporation’s
treatment an ethical issue, addressing some parts of it, but never bringing
about a resolution to the problem?
2. How could a company or corporation actually resolve such a problem?
3. Once strategy would seem to involve a merge between individuals in the
company or corporation and the collective vision of the company or
corporation. A consensus would need to be reached and a leader found to
bring about the resolution. Do you think such a strategy could lead
companies to actually resolve an ethical issue? If not, why?
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