In the cacophony of modern professional life, where everyone strives to be heard, a Punjab-cadre IPS officer offers a counterintuitive insight: the most effective leaders are often not the loudest voices in the room. They are the ones who master the quiet, disciplined art of listening. This lesson, far from being mere etiquette, is a form of inherited wisdom that builds trust and drives resolution.
A Phone Call That Changed a Perspective
The officer's initiation into this delicate art came not from a book but from a simple phone call during his early days in uniform. As a young officer, he briefed a senior on an urgent matter and promptly hung up, eager to act. Moments later, the senior called back. His tone was not one of irritation but grace. "Always wait for the senior to hang up first," he advised. "He might still have something to say." To soften the lesson, he added, "Don't take it to heart. I was taught the same way by my senior."
That gentle correction resonated more powerfully than any reprimand. It underscored that listening is not instinctive but a cultivated skill. It was about attention—the kind that truly begins where speaking ends. As the officer began practicing this consciously, he observed that the finest officers he knew were those who paused before responding, absorbed the tone beneath the words, and listened not just to complaints but also to the telling silences that followed.
The Universal Strength of Patient Hearing
This principle, the officer realized, transcends the world of policing. In a profession where words carry the weight of law, learning when not to speak is a supreme virtue. History provides a powerful echo. The Spartan king Agesilaus, known for his brevity, once said, "I have often regretted speaking, but never listening." This could serve as a motto for any professional.
The impact of patient listening is profound. A complainant given a full, patient hearing without premature conclusions is already halfway to resolution. Across rural and urban police stations, the officer has heard people say, "Tusi saadi gal sun layi; hun jivein tusi faisla laonge, asi tuhade naal haan (You have heard us out; now, whatever decision you take, we stand with you)." This statement embodies deep wisdom. Listening does not merely address grievances; it actively restores faith in systems and authority.
The officer had witnessed this same dynamic earlier in his career as a medico. Medical training emphasized that taking a patient's history was an art, not a formality. Reaching the right diagnosis required asking questions slowly, attentively, and with genuine curiosity. Patients, like complainants, often reveal the most in their pauses, not just their words.
Discernment: The Critical Companion to Listening
However, the officer cautions that listening is not without its pitfalls. It can sometimes drift from empathy into indulgence. Not every voice speaks in good faith, and not every grievance demands equal mental space. There is a risk that patience is mistaken for pliability and silence for indecision.
Therefore, true listening is not about hearing everything indiscriminately. It is about hearing right. It demands discernment—the ability to separate the genuine concern from the motivated complaint, the legitimate grievance from a personal grudge. The real challenge lies in remaining open and receptive without being swayed, in absorbing information without losing one's own clarity of thought.
Since that formative phone call, the officer has come to view listening as a quiet strength that demands more discipline than speaking. It requires stepping outside one's own certainties, resisting the immediate urge to react, and holding space for another person's truth. Whether it is a complainant across the table, a colleague seeking clarity, or a citizen in distress, truly hearing them is often the very beginning of a resolution.
In a world where the volume of voices only increases, the act of listening has quietly emerged as an essential leadership skill, a moral act, and perhaps the rarest form of respect one can offer.
