14

It was a regular train journey — Bengaluru to Pune — the kind that invites you to settle down with a book, watch the countryside blur by, and guard your quiet little bubble. I had just visited my son and was easing into the long ride back, book in hand, eyes halfway into another world.

Seated opposite me was an old man in his mid-80s. He looked alert, observant, and full of conversation. I replied to his initial attempts at talk in polite monosyllables, nodded occasionally, and arranged my bedding, preparing to relax and catch some sleep.

Morning came with that familiar, comforting refrain: “Chai, chai garam, garam chai!”
I love my morning tea. So did he. We shared a warm smile over our steaming cups. I didn’t say much — didn’t want to encourage long talks — but there was a certain peace in that shared silence.

After some tea and a few biscuits, I opened a philosophical book about life and lay down reading, while others in the compartment were still fast asleep. The train rocked gently, and the world outside slipped by. That’s when, in the most matter-of-fact tone, the old man asked, “How can you learn anything about life in a book?”

That one question opened the floodgates. He was chatty, curious, and eventually persuasive — so much so that I closed my book and sat up. We talked. Not the kind of idle chatter you exchange with a stranger, but slow, thoughtful conversation. About cities, the weather, families, and growing old. Somewhere along the way, we veered into psychology and how his profession as a gemologist helped him understand people.

He told me he was a johari. He had worked in a jeweller’s shop as a boy, sharpening his eye and instinct until he became one of the most trusted in his field. There was pride in his voice, but also humility — the kind of quiet dignity that comes from years of working with beauty and truth.

At one point, I asked him, “Why did you choose to talk with me? There are so many people in this compartment.”

He paused, and then said something that made me go still:
“You have such a pleasing personality — there’s a quiet composure about you that’s really attractive. Your aura radiates calm and trust.”

The words landed with a weight I wasn’t prepared for. He wasn’t flattering me for my looks or tossing a casual compliment about my smile. No, this was different. This was about presence — about who I was. He said it with quiet conviction and disarming sincerity, and for the first time, I felt seen at a level deeper than appearances.

At home, I just sat with that compliment — from a Johari in the truest sense. With the warmth of conversation lingering, a small smile on my face, and gratitude in my heart. We often define ourselves through our worst moments, but others, with no history to weigh us down, may see our essence with surprising clarity. When someone sees something beautiful in you — something you didn’t quite believe was there — you owe it to yourself to accept it, at least a little.

Years later, a team member’s compliment reminded me of that train journey: “Madam, you walk with such grace and dignity. Looking here, nodding there, observant and calm — you authoritatively throw a look around.”

This time, I handled the compliment better. Again, it wasn’t about appearance — it was about presence, the calm I didn’t even know was visible. I thanked him and smiled, recalling the Johari, and realizing that sometimes life places mirrors in our path — first a stranger, then a colleague — until we learn to believe what they reflect back to us.

Sometimes, it takes another’s eyes to reveal the truth we’ve overlooked in ourselves. When we dare to accept those reflections, even just a little, we grow into the people we were always meant to be.

Perhaps that is what the Johari Window really teaches us — that the parts of ourselves we cannot see are sometimes revealed through the kind eyes of others. When we accept those reflections, even a little, we begin to live more fully into who we truly are.