I was at New Delhi’s Indira Gandhi International Airport, on my way back to New York City. I walked through the X-ray security scanner at the airport without a beep, but the security guard still decided to stop me.
“Please go back, take off your shoes and put them on the belt for scanning carry-on baggage.”
I complied, but I was confused. Two young men had gone just before me, all wearing walking shoes not unlike mine. He hadn’t asked them to take their shoes off.
I asked him why he’d told me to do so.
The security guard gave me a hint of a smile. But I wasn’t looking for a smile—I was looking for logic.
I persisted. “These two young men are wearing shoes and you let them go. And me? You’re treating me like a terrorist.”
This caught the guard’s attention. “Oh, let’s not use language like that.”
“Yes, sorry,” I said, catching myself. “But I am just trying to understand your logic.”
“Come,” he said. “Stand here by me.”
Can’t he just explain? Or did he do the wrong thing in letting them go?
“Why do you want me to stand here?” I asked.
“Just look at the X-ray scanner from my position. See this next person come through.”
I did.
“Notice the light at the top of the scanner is green. Now look at this next person who is coming through. He’s wearing a bracelet.”
This time, the light turned red.
“This is a signal that I should check for any metals on him. This is what happened, when you crossed. That’s why I asked you to place your shoes in the scanner.”
“I see! I now understand. Thank you.” I realized I was wearing a bracelet, too.
How interesting, I thought. Rather than just give me an explanation, he made me see things through his eyes. As soon as I did, my question was answered through my own experience.
“You are a natural teacher,” I said.
He paused. And sighed.
“Oh, I so wanted to be a teacher.”
His shoulders slumped.
“But look at me now, this is where I have ended up—a security guard.”
Instantly, I felt his pain. The pain of life aspirations left unfulfilled, dreams left unmaterialized, compromises struck, realities confronted.
You can’t just walk away now, Hitendra!
“But you are a teacher, even here in this role. You just taught me, so well.”
He shrugged.
“Do you have children?” I asked.
“Yes, two.”
“There you go. You can’t be a good parent without being a teacher.”
That made him smile.
“How long have you been in this job?” I asked.
“One year,” he replied.
“So, if you stay in this job a few years, you’ll get promoted?”
“Yes, that is going to come,” he replied.
“Then you will be a teacher to those who report to you! A mentor, a guide.”
He glanced at me between checking passengers. Something was shifting.
“If you carry the spirit of a teacher in your soul,” I continued, “that gift never leaves you. Just keep expressing it, wherever life places you. Like you did so beautifully with me today.”
He stopped scanning for a moment and turned toward me, visibly stirred. His face was softer now, as if something long-lost had returned. “Thank you,” he said, his voice deep and sincere. It was as though he was telling me, I knew this all along, but the world had tried to teach me otherwise. Now you’ve given me permission to believe.
I poured all my encouragement into his eyes.
And then, just like that—it was over.
As I walked toward my gate, I reflected on the irony of what had just happened. Here I was, a teacher by profession, and he, a security guard. Yet, it was he who had just taught me something essential about teaching. Don’t just explain the truth. Let people experience it.
All I could do in return was to remind him of the riches of his own soul.
Is there a soul-quality in you—a gift, a calling, a part of yourself—that’s gone quiet? Something life hasn’t always given you space to express?
Perhaps you do not have to wait for the perfect role or title. Perhaps you, too, can let that part of you shine right where you are. A teacher, an artist, a healer, a leader, a poet. These are not just professions. They are ways of being.
Your soul is always waiting to be lived.
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