In the quiet town of Lalgudi, where school corridors and playgrounds often produced small offences—sharp words, unfair decisions, or careless remarks—young Krishnan had begun to feel the familiar heat of anger rise more quickly than he liked. A classmate’s taunt, a teacher’s seeming favouritism, or a friend’s broken promise would leave him vexed for hours. He wished for a steadier way to meet such moments.
One evening on the terrace he spoke of this to Uncle Venkatesh.
“Uncle, when someone offends me I feel disturbed for a long time. The anger stays and spoils the rest of the day. Is there a better way to face it?”
Uncle Venkatesh opened his copy of Marcus Aurelius and read a set of nine quiet considerations the emperor had written for exactly such occasions:
“When you feel that anyone has offended against you, follow these rules:
Consider that we are made for one another. You and every other person are parts of the same whole.
Consider what kind of people you sit with at the table of life—what compulsions, pride, and fixed opinions drive them.
Consider that if they have done wrong, they have done so involuntarily and in ignorance.
Consider that you yourself do many things wrong out of cowardice, concern for reputation, or some other mean motive.
Consider that you do not even fully understand whether they are doing wrong or not. Everything you hear is an opinion; everything you see is coloured by your own perspective.
Consider, when you are vexed or grieved, that a man’s life is only a moment.
Consider that it is not their acts that truly disturb you, but your own opinions about those acts. Take away the opinion by reflecting that no wrongful act of another can bring shame upon you.
Consider that the pain brought by your own anger and vexation is often much greater than the pain caused by the original act.
Consider correcting the person gently, if the moment allows: ‘Not so, my friend. We are made by nature for something better. I shall not be injured, but you are injuring yourself.’ And, if appropriate, quietly show the general principles that guide a better life.”
Krishnan sat in silence, letting the nine points settle.
The next day a small offence arrived, as they always do. During a group task a classmate spoke dismissively of Krishnan’s suggestion and took credit for an idea that was not his. The old heat of anger rose at once.
Instead of feeding it, Krishnan stepped aside for a moment and quietly moved through the nine considerations. He remembered that both of them were parts of the same school, the same human family. He saw the other boy’s need to appear clever. He admitted that he himself had sometimes spoken too quickly out of pride. He questioned whether the act was even clearly wrong or simply clumsy. He recalled how short a single school day—and a whole life—really was. He noticed that his own boiling opinion was causing more pain than the original words. And he chose, later, to speak to the boy calmly rather than sharply.
The anger did not vanish in an instant, yet it lost its grip. By evening the incident had become small again.
He continued the practice whenever offence arose. Sometimes he managed only three or four of the considerations before the feeling cooled. Sometimes he managed most of them. Each time, the disturbance grew shorter and lighter. He discovered that the real injury had rarely come from the other person’s act; it had come from the opinions he himself had piled on top of it.
Weeks later he sat again with Uncle Venkatesh as the sky turned deep blue.
“Uncle,” Krishnan said, “I still feel the first spark of anger when someone offends me. But when I walk through those nine considerations, the spark does not become a fire. I see that we are all parts of one whole, that most wrong is done in ignorance, and that my own opinion creates more pain than the act itself. The day remains more my own.”
Uncle Venkatesh smiled. “That is the practical wisdom Marcus Aurelius offers. Offences will continue to arrive. Your freedom lies in how you meet them. Keep the nine rules ready, like tools on a shelf. Use them, and anger will no longer be the master of your hours.”
In the soft dusk of Lalgudi, while many still carried small offences long into the night, young Krishnan walked home with a lighter heart. He had begun to meet the inevitable frictions of life with a set of quiet, powerful considerations. And in that steady daily practice, he found that no one else’s act need rob him of his calm—unless he himself handed it away.