In the quiet town of Lalgudi, where boys still measured one another by ranks in class, scores on the cricket field, and the occasional new possession, young Krishnan had begun to fear the word “loss.” When a classmate was made class monitor and he was not, he felt the sting of lost position. When another boy received a finer cricket bat, he felt the ache of lost prosperity. These external things seemed to define winning and losing, and the fear of losing them coloured many of his days.
One evening on the terrace he spoke of this to Uncle Venkatesh.
“Uncle, I keep worrying about losing marks, places, or things. It feels like real damage when they go.”
Uncle Venkatesh opened a small volume of Epictetus and read slowly:
“If you had lost power, position, or prosperity, would you think of it as damage? And then if you lost modesty, moderation, and gentleness, would you think that loss as nothing? And yet the first things are lost by some cause external and independent of the will, while the second are lost by your own fault. As to the first, neither to have them nor to lose them is shameful. As to the second, not to have them or to lose them is shameful—a matter of reproach and misfortune.”
Krishnan sat in silence, turning the words over.
“So the real loss,” he said at last, “is not the external things, but the inner ones we give away ourselves?”
“Exactly,” his uncle replied. “Power, position, and prosperity can be taken by circumstances beyond our control. Their presence or absence carries no shame. But modesty, moderation, and gentleness depend on us. To lose them through our own carelessness or choice is the true misfortune.”
In the days that followed, Krishnan began to watch himself more carefully. When he was overlooked for a team, the old feeling of loss arose. He acknowledged it, yet reminded himself that the position was external. What mattered was whether he remained gentle in disappointment or became resentful. When a friend received praise that he himself had hoped for, he practised moderation in his reaction—neither pretending indifference nor letting envy speak. When he won a small success, he guarded his modesty and did not boast.
One afternoon a sudden rain spoiled an important match. Many boys complained loudly about their lost chance at victory. Krishnan felt the disappointment too, but he chose not to add harsh words. He helped gather the stumps and walked home without bitterness. That evening he realised he had kept something more valuable than the match result.
Weeks later he sat again with Uncle Venkatesh as the sky turned deep blue.
“Uncle,” Krishnan said, “I still feel the sting when external things go. But I am learning that the greater loss would be if I myself gave away modesty, moderation, or gentleness. Those I can protect. The others were never fully mine to keep.”
Uncle Venkatesh smiled. “That is the clear-sighted view Epictetus teaches. Guard what is truly yours—the qualities of character. The rest may come and go without shame. The real misfortune is only the loss we cause by our own fault.”
In the soft dusk of Lalgudi, while other boys still counted their gains and losses in marks and prizes, young Krishnan walked home with a steadier heart. He had begun to distinguish between what could be taken from him and what he alone could give away. And in that quiet daily watchfulness, he discovered that the only loss worth fearing was the one that lay within his own power to prevent.