<p>Several years ago, my wife and I boarded the New Delhi-Mumbai Central Rajdhani Express, excited for a short escape from our demanding routines. As we settled into our seats, the hum of conversation, the rhythmic clatter of wheels on tracks, and the gentle sway of the train blended into a familiar symphony of Indian train travel. Seated across from us was an elderly couple, poised and serene, offering us gentle smiles that spoke of warmth and grace. We returned their greeting politely, expecting the usual pleasantries and little more.</p>.<p>What unfolded, however, was a journey far more profound than the miles we covered.</p>.<p>Iyengar had been a lifelong librarian, believing in the quiet power of books to shape minds and societies, while his wife had worked for decades in social work, focusing on education for underprivileged children. Iyengar and his wife were in their late seventies, travelling to Mumbai to attend the wedding of a voracious reader Iyengar had mentored over the years. Our conversation shifted from casual chatter to a profoundly personal exchange. </p>.The quiet street lessons in courtesy.<p>Their stories were laced with wisdom, humility, and a quiet resilience. Iyengar spoke of the generations of readers he had guided with a gentle pride, free of ego and full of affection for the written word, while Mrs Iyengar recounted stories of women she had mentored—some who had escaped abusive homes, others who had never set foot in a classroom before adulthood. Each tale carried the weight of real, lived experience.</p>.<p>What struck us was their complete lack of bitterness. Though advanced in years, they carried an energy that left us feeling youthful. They spoke not of regrets but of lessons; not of what they had missed but of what they had gained from a life of service and purpose.</p>.<p>As I found myself turning inward in the light of such calm, my troubles began to dissolve into insignificance. The promotions I hadn’t received, the fleeting disagreements with colleagues, even my habit of measuring life by success and failures—all appeared embarrassingly shallow.</p>.<p>My wife, too, was moved. Later, she confessed that Mrs Iyengar’s calm, grounded presence had made her rethink her tendency to overanalyse and worry about the future. “It was like meeting someone who had already arrived at the destination we didn’t even know we were trying to reach,” she said.</p>.<p>Before we parted ways in Mumbai Central, Iyengar handed me a worn copy of Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations. “Let these words find you when the noise drowns the silence,” he said. I didn’t open it for weeks, but when I finally did, it was as if I were back on that train, listening to him all over again.</p>.<p>That journey was not just a trip from Delhi to Mumbai. It became a quiet reckoning. A mirror was held up to us—not in judgement, but in gentle invitation. And though the miles passed, the lessons have remained, nudging us still to become better, quieter, humbler versions of ourselves.</p>
<p>Several years ago, my wife and I boarded the New Delhi-Mumbai Central Rajdhani Express, excited for a short escape from our demanding routines. As we settled into our seats, the hum of conversation, the rhythmic clatter of wheels on tracks, and the gentle sway of the train blended into a familiar symphony of Indian train travel. Seated across from us was an elderly couple, poised and serene, offering us gentle smiles that spoke of warmth and grace. We returned their greeting politely, expecting the usual pleasantries and little more.</p>.<p>What unfolded, however, was a journey far more profound than the miles we covered.</p>.<p>Iyengar had been a lifelong librarian, believing in the quiet power of books to shape minds and societies, while his wife had worked for decades in social work, focusing on education for underprivileged children. Iyengar and his wife were in their late seventies, travelling to Mumbai to attend the wedding of a voracious reader Iyengar had mentored over the years. Our conversation shifted from casual chatter to a profoundly personal exchange. </p>.The quiet street lessons in courtesy.<p>Their stories were laced with wisdom, humility, and a quiet resilience. Iyengar spoke of the generations of readers he had guided with a gentle pride, free of ego and full of affection for the written word, while Mrs Iyengar recounted stories of women she had mentored—some who had escaped abusive homes, others who had never set foot in a classroom before adulthood. Each tale carried the weight of real, lived experience.</p>.<p>What struck us was their complete lack of bitterness. Though advanced in years, they carried an energy that left us feeling youthful. They spoke not of regrets but of lessons; not of what they had missed but of what they had gained from a life of service and purpose.</p>.<p>As I found myself turning inward in the light of such calm, my troubles began to dissolve into insignificance. The promotions I hadn’t received, the fleeting disagreements with colleagues, even my habit of measuring life by success and failures—all appeared embarrassingly shallow.</p>.<p>My wife, too, was moved. Later, she confessed that Mrs Iyengar’s calm, grounded presence had made her rethink her tendency to overanalyse and worry about the future. “It was like meeting someone who had already arrived at the destination we didn’t even know we were trying to reach,” she said.</p>.<p>Before we parted ways in Mumbai Central, Iyengar handed me a worn copy of Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations. “Let these words find you when the noise drowns the silence,” he said. I didn’t open it for weeks, but when I finally did, it was as if I were back on that train, listening to him all over again.</p>.<p>That journey was not just a trip from Delhi to Mumbai. It became a quiet reckoning. A mirror was held up to us—not in judgement, but in gentle invitation. And though the miles passed, the lessons have remained, nudging us still to become better, quieter, humbler versions of ourselves.</p>
