There’s a certain kind of magic in talking to ordinary people. Not the kind who wear capes, but the kind who wear aprons, helmets, or binoculars slung casually around their necks. They don’t ask for attention. Yet, they grab it—not by making noise but by making sense.

My hairdresser, for instance, lives with a quiet grace that reveals the wisdom in ordinary lives. In between snips and sprays, he shares thoughts sharper than his scissors. His adult kids are settled, but he keeps going. Responsibilities don’t tire him. Business has its ups and downs, but I’ve never seen his outlook twitch. He takes his work seriously but himself lightly, reminding me how much there is to learn from the ordinary.

Or take Shashikant, the paan seller in Matheran. A man who redefined priorities for me. He’s fully present during business hours. His paan is carefully crafted, perfectly folded, and handed over with a flourish. And the conversation that comes free with it? Better than anything money can buy. As he explained the balance between work and life, I found myself wondering if I had been chewing over the wrong priorities. Shashikant’s ability to delight customers while keeping his focus firmly on life outside work is a lesson I’m still learning. Proof, yet again, that wisdom in ordinary lives often arrives wrapped in betel leaves.

The Padma Shri award-winning photographer I once met was another revelation. You’d think a person with a national honour might carry it like a crown. Not him. He carried his photograph-laden presentation instead. No fuss. No airs. Just the weight of stories waiting to be told. His photographs spoke louder than he ever did, pulling you into their frame and making you linger. About people you’d rather not see. When he finally spoke, it wasn’t about awards but about angles and light and the sheer joy of capturing and bringing alive lives that are lived in obscurity. If wisdom in ordinary lives had a lens, he owned it—and he used it to focus on the world, not himself.

Khan, my newspaper guy in Madurai, is another example of this quiet brilliance. He delivers headlines about the world while quietly living a life worth a front-page story. Rain, heat, elections, pandemics—he has shown up. Every single day. Once, I asked him why. “Because I don’t want to depend on anyone,” he said. Then he pedalled off, leaving me to think about independence and its quiet power.

The goat herder in Satara offered lessons without meaning to. No TED Talk. No book deal. But his sheep-herding philosophy deserves its own stage. “Keep the herd moving, but don’t rush them,” he said. Then added, “Come to nature often,” as he wandered off into a winding road. I stood there, wondering if he realised the depth of what he had just said. Probably not. And perhaps that’s why his words stayed with me. They were free of pretence, rooted in the kind of clarity that only comes from experience. It’s another example of the wisdom in ordinary lives—steady, grounded, and honest.

And then there are the naturalists Anil Zachariah and David Raju. Men who have entire species named after them. But you wouldn’t know it unless you sat with them long enough—long enough for their humility to wear thin and their quiet brilliance to slip through. I spent hours talking to one, mistaking their silence for simplicity. Until, slowly, their stories unfolded—tales of forests explored, creatures discovered, and legacies etched in scientific journals. They chipped away at my expertise-led arrogance and left me feeling like a novice. It was humbling, to say the least. Proof that wisdom in ordinary lives often hides in plain sight, camouflaged by humility and patience.

The cab driver in Surat took this further. He taught me the essence of the Gita without ever mentioning it. He spoke of duty without expectations. And the fallacy of not putting in effort. It was a 35-minute ride, but it felt like a masterclass in doing what matters. I’m no Arjun. But that day, I felt like I’d met the Parthasarathy himself. Sometimes wisdom in ordinary lives comes wrapped in unexpected conversations. You just need to listen carefully enough to catch it.

And then there’s Mr Patwardhan. The man could out-think most think tanks and still stop to ask if you wanted chai. His curiosity could power a research lab, and yet it’s his interest in solving real people’s real problems that sets him apart. Every conversation with him feels like a spiral staircase—you keep going up, pausing now and then to catch your breath, only to realise he’s already a few steps ahead. Reinvention isn’t a buzzword for him; it’s a daily habit. Central to life and living. He doesn’t just collect knowledge. He questions it, reshapes it, and dares it to evolve—often dragging those around him along for the ride.

I met these people in 2024. They made my year—and the years ahead—better. I’ve been meaning to write about them before their words slip away. Next year, I plan to take better notes. Build a longer list. Because the list is endless. These are the unsung philosophers among us. They are reminders that wisdom in ordinary lives is everywhere—folded in a newspaper, shared in a cab, or handed over with a haircut and a smile.

May we talk to them more often. And may we listen.