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 call came late in the evening. It was Leila. Her voice was low. “I am okay, just okay.”
There are wounds that don’t heal easily. Leila was recovering from one such wound—the kind that does not come from strangers, but from those we trust enough to never question.
Her life had seemed almost perfect; a warm home, a loving husband, and a child. When she brought in a relative as a nanny—a woman abandoned by her husband—it felt like an act of kindness complementing an already generous life.
The nanny blended into their world with effortless grace. She was loyal, almost indispensable. There were small patterns, of course. The nanny started taking a couple of days’ off — sometimes for bereavement in the family, sometimes illness. Around the same time, Leila’s husband would be away on ‘official trips’. She was vaguely aware of these details but after all, we see only what we are willing to see, don’t we?
The truth arrived quietly. A chance discovery. A pattern that suddenly aligned. And in that moment, two pillars of her trust collapsed into one unbearable realization; she was betrayed.
She felt like a tree holding up the sky for her husband, even as he swung the axe at her roots. The two who betrayed her built a life for themselves out of stones carved from her pain.
Rage, grief and disbelief came in waves, exhausting in their persistence. It took years for her to step out of the shadow. Today, she lives in a new space with her child—quiet, dignified, a life rebuilt not from trust, but from clarity.
The Battle of Plassey did not start off in a moment of combat, but after long, silent preparation. Siraj-ud-Daulah stood against the British East India Company, unaware that within his own ranks, Mir Jafar had already shifted allegiance. When the battle unfolded, his forces did not fight. That stillness—more than any clash—opened the gates for British rule for two centuries.
In the sacred narratives of the Periya Puranam, we encounter a similar truth. Meiporul Nayanar, a king loyal to Shiva and his devotees, had built a life on unquestioned faith. His enemy, Muthanathan, understood this deeply. Disguised as a sivanadiyar, he entered the palace, moving past every guard.
He reached the king’s private chambers and struck. Even then, Meiporul Nayanar did not abandon his principles. He ordered that the assassin be allowed to leave unharmed. Across homes, kingdoms and history, betrayal follows a familiar design: hidden intent, borrowed identity, and the quiet misuse of trust.
It is no different in our times. In corporate takeovers, political realignments, boardroom negotiations, and personal relationships—betrayal rarely arrives as an outsider. It emerges from within, from those who understand the system well enough to move without suspicion. It looks more like loyalty than a threat.
Centuries ago, Thiruvalluvar distilled this truth in the Thirukkural:
“Thozhudakai Yullum Padai Odungum; Onnaar
Azhudha Kanneerum Anaiththu.”
In the hands that worship you, weapons may be hidden;
The tears they shed may be just as dangerous.
Perhaps the answer is not to withdraw from trust, nor to harden into suspicion, but to learn the quiet art of observing. To trust with awareness, not blindness. For betrayal begins, not when it breaks us; but when it quietly escapes our notice. And wisdom, perhaps, lies in that delicate balance—where the heart remains open, but the eyes, gently, stay awake.
Motivational speaker, author and diversity champion Bharathi Bhaskar explores the masterpiece.
The call came late in the evening. It was Leila. Her voice was low. “I am okay, just okay.”
There are wounds that don’t heal easily. Leila was recovering from one such wound—the kind that does not come from strangers, but from those we trust enough to never question.
Her life had seemed almost perfect; a warm home, a loving husband, and a child. When she brought in a relative as a nanny—a woman abandoned by her husband—it felt like an act of kindness complementing an already generous life.
The nanny blended into their world with effortless grace. She was loyal, almost indispensable. There were small patterns, of course. The nanny started taking a couple of days’ off — sometimes for bereavement in the family, sometimes illness. Around the same time, Leila’s husband would be away on ‘official trips’. She was vaguely aware of these details but after all, we see only what we are willing to see, don’t we?
The truth arrived quietly. A chance discovery. A pattern that suddenly aligned. And in that moment, two pillars of her trust collapsed into one unbearable realization; she was betrayed.
She felt like a tree holding up the sky for her husband, even as he swung the axe at her roots. The two who betrayed her built a life for themselves out of stones carved from her pain.
Rage, grief and disbelief came in waves, exhausting in their persistence. It took years for her to step out of the shadow. Today, she lives in a new space with her child—quiet, dignified, a life rebuilt not from trust, but from clarity.
The Battle of Plassey did not start off in a moment of combat, but after long, silent preparation. Siraj-ud-Daulah stood against the British East India Company, unaware that within his own ranks, Mir Jafar had already shifted allegiance. When the battle unfolded, his forces did not fight. That stillness—more than any clash—opened the gates for British rule for two centuries.
In the sacred narratives of the Periya Puranam, we encounter a similar truth. Meiporul Nayanar, a king loyal to Shiva and his devotees, had built a life on unquestioned faith. His enemy, Muthanathan, understood this deeply. Disguised as a sivanadiyar, he entered the palace, moving past every guard.
He reached the king’s private chambers and struck. Even then, Meiporul Nayanar did not abandon his principles. He ordered that the assassin be allowed to leave unharmed. Across homes, kingdoms and history, betrayal follows a familiar design: hidden intent, borrowed identity, and the quiet misuse of trust.
It is no different in our times. In corporate takeovers, political realignments, boardroom negotiations, and personal relationships—betrayal rarely arrives as an outsider. It emerges from within, from those who understand the system well enough to move without suspicion. It looks more like loyalty than a threat.
Centuries ago, Thiruvalluvar distilled this truth in the Thirukkural:
“Thozhudakai Yullum Padai Odungum; Onnaar
Azhudha Kanneerum Anaiththu.”
In the hands that worship you, weapons may be hidden;
The tears they shed may be just as dangerous.
Perhaps the answer is not to withdraw from trust, nor to harden into suspicion, but to learn the quiet art of observing. To trust with awareness, not blindness. For betrayal begins, not when it breaks us; but when it quietly escapes our notice. And wisdom, perhaps, lies in that delicate balance—where the heart remains open, but the eyes, gently, stay awake.
Read Comments
More Stories
‘Op Sindoor showed India’s new strategic DNA’ Kerala’s King Cong? Satheesan Did Trinamool fall harder where more voters were deleted? BJP is well on its way to creating a ‘regional party-mukt Bharat’ 1 month to go, 0 clarity on where Indians can watch the World Cup Can Mamata save TMC from splitting after losing Bengal?