Thirukkural with the Times explores real-world lessons from the classic Tamil text ‘Thirukkural’. Written by Tamil poet and philosopher Thiruvalluvar, the Kural consists of 1,330 short couplets of seven words each. This text is divided into three books with teachings on virtue, wealth, and love and is considered one of the great works ever on ethics and morality. The Kural has influenced scholars and leaders across social, political, and philosophical spheres.
Motivational speaker, author and diversity champion Bharathi Bhaskar explores the masterpiece.
The Chairman of L&T’s casual comment, “How long can you stare at your wife?” in connection with working on Sundays was recorded—without permission— and circulated online, which soon exploded into a nationwide debate on productivity and work-life balance.
The backlash was swift and merciless. I had quoted a verse from the Thirukkural on love, which reminds us that for those truly bound together, even a lifetime is not enough to gaze at one another.
Months later, I came across an interview given by the same chairman, where he reflected with humility: “In hindsight, I could have answered differently. But what happened, happened and I cannot withdraw it now. If the same question comes again, I would answer differently now.”
In a digital age where a single phrase can erase decades of hard work, this acceptance was refreshing.
Cancel culture has become a defining feature of our times. A sentence pulled out of context or a misplaced gesture can ignite fury and can define a person’s entire being. You wake up in the morning with a faint hope that the storm has passed, only to feel your heart sink when notifications pour in: outrage, ridicule, anger. You scroll through, and it feels as if the entire world is pointing fingers at you. Colleagues avert their eyes. Friends grow silent. Even familiar spaces feel strange. The house you return to is the same, yet somehow it feels emptier, because the noise outside has entered your heart.
And yet, this is where dignity must be preserved—not by denial or defiance, but by quiet acceptance. To whisper, “yes, I stumbled” and stand up again is courage in its purest form. It is the kind of courage that cleanses, the kind that turns defeat into resurgence.
Very recently, there was a contentious statement made about Kamaraj. Here was a man of unimpeachable integrity, the very embodiment of selflessness in public life. He gave up power, lived without wealth or privilege, and left behind nothing but his honesty. And yet, he too faced defeat—not at the hands of a giant, but a little-known newcomer in an election. For a leader of his stature, it was not just loss, but heartbreak.
Cho Ramaswamy, in his book I Met Kamaraj, recalls a poignant meeting with the leader soon after. Kamaraj lay quietly in his bed in his humble home. When asked how his followers could be expected to stand by him after such an electoral set-back, he replied with dignity: “I have fallen in a manner that I cannot fall any lower. I can only get up. If true followers still wait at my gate in this hour of defeat, why would they leave when I rise again?”
Defeat had not diminished him; it had only deepened his greatness.
The true test of courage is not in how one wins, but in how one handles defeat. To reflect, to recognize one’s fault, to apologize when needed—and then, to rise again.
Thiruvalluvar called this the acid test of greatness:
Saalbirkku Kattalai Yaadhenil Tholvi
Thulayallaar Kannum Kolal.
“What is perfection’s test? To accept defeat
Even at the hands of those less worthy.”
The world often glorifies victory, putting it on pedestals and writing songs in its name. But the truest measure of character is revealed when defeat comes from someone far less in stature or merit. To bear such a fall without anger, to bow to the outcome without bitterness, and to rise again without scorn — that is dignity in its highest form.
Motivational speaker, author and diversity champion Bharathi Bhaskar explores the masterpiece.
The Chairman of L&T’s casual comment, “How long can you stare at your wife?” in connection with working on Sundays was recorded—without permission— and circulated online, which soon exploded into a nationwide debate on productivity and work-life balance.
The backlash was swift and merciless. I had quoted a verse from the Thirukkural on love, which reminds us that for those truly bound together, even a lifetime is not enough to gaze at one another.
Months later, I came across an interview given by the same chairman, where he reflected with humility: “In hindsight, I could have answered differently. But what happened, happened and I cannot withdraw it now. If the same question comes again, I would answer differently now.”
In a digital age where a single phrase can erase decades of hard work, this acceptance was refreshing.
Cancel culture has become a defining feature of our times. A sentence pulled out of context or a misplaced gesture can ignite fury and can define a person’s entire being. You wake up in the morning with a faint hope that the storm has passed, only to feel your heart sink when notifications pour in: outrage, ridicule, anger. You scroll through, and it feels as if the entire world is pointing fingers at you. Colleagues avert their eyes. Friends grow silent. Even familiar spaces feel strange. The house you return to is the same, yet somehow it feels emptier, because the noise outside has entered your heart.
And yet, this is where dignity must be preserved—not by denial or defiance, but by quiet acceptance. To whisper, “yes, I stumbled” and stand up again is courage in its purest form. It is the kind of courage that cleanses, the kind that turns defeat into resurgence.
Very recently, there was a contentious statement made about Kamaraj. Here was a man of unimpeachable integrity, the very embodiment of selflessness in public life. He gave up power, lived without wealth or privilege, and left behind nothing but his honesty. And yet, he too faced defeat—not at the hands of a giant, but a little-known newcomer in an election. For a leader of his stature, it was not just loss, but heartbreak.
Cho Ramaswamy, in his book I Met Kamaraj, recalls a poignant meeting with the leader soon after. Kamaraj lay quietly in his bed in his humble home. When asked how his followers could be expected to stand by him after such an electoral set-back, he replied with dignity: “I have fallen in a manner that I cannot fall any lower. I can only get up. If true followers still wait at my gate in this hour of defeat, why would they leave when I rise again?”
Defeat had not diminished him; it had only deepened his greatness.
The true test of courage is not in how one wins, but in how one handles defeat. To reflect, to recognize one’s fault, to apologize when needed—and then, to rise again.
Thiruvalluvar called this the acid test of greatness:
Saalbirkku Kattalai Yaadhenil Tholvi
Thulayallaar Kannum Kolal.
“What is perfection’s test? To accept defeat
Even at the hands of those less worthy.”
The world often glorifies victory, putting it on pedestals and writing songs in its name. But the truest measure of character is revealed when defeat comes from someone far less in stature or merit. To bear such a fall without anger, to bow to the outcome without bitterness, and to rise again without scorn — that is dignity in its highest form.
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