My initiation into the delicate art of listening did not come from a book, but from a phone call during my early days in uniform. As a young officer, I briefed a senior on an urgent situation and hung up quickly, eager to act. Moments later, he called back, not irritated, but gracious.
“Always wait for the senior to hang up first,” he said. “He might still have something to say.” Almost as if to soften the lesson, he added, “Don’t take it to heart. I was taught the same way by my senior.”
That gentle correction echoed far louder than any reprimand could have. The call stayed with me, a reminder that listening is not instinctive; it is a form of inherited wisdom. It was not about etiquette. It was about attention, the kind that begins where speaking ends.
As I began practising this consciously, and observing it among colleagues and seniors, I realised that the finest officers I have known are those who pause before responding, who absorb the tone beneath the words, and who listen not only to the complaint, but also to the silence that follows it. The best leaders, across professions, are rarely the loudest voices in the room. They are the ones who can hold a pause, read what is not being said, and allow complainants, colleagues, and juniors alike to feel heard before deciding what to say next.
In a profession where words often carry the weight of law, learning when not to speak is a virtue. Patient listening, I came to understand, is a universal professional strength.
History echoes this truth. The Spartan king Agesilaus, famed for his brevity, once said, “I have often regretted speaking, but never listening.” It could well serve as a motto for anyone in uniform. A complainant who is given a patient hearing, without premature conclusions, is already halfway to resolution. Time and again, I have seen how people’s anxiety softens the moment they feel heard.
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Across rural and urban stations alike, I have often heard the words, “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).” There is deep wisdom in that trust. Listening does not merely resolve grievances; it restores faith.
This truth is not confined to policing. Earlier, as a medico, I had seen the same principle unfold at patients’ bedsides. We were taught that obtaining a patient’s history was not a formality, but an art. To reach the right diagnosis, one had to ask the right questions slowly, attentively, and with genuine curiosity. Patients often reveal more in pauses than in words, just as complainants do.
Not without pitfallsYet listening is not without its pitfalls. There are moments when it can drift from empathy into indulgence. Not every voice speaks in good faith, and not every grievance deserves equal space in one’s mind or calendar. Patience is sometimes mistaken for pliability, and silence for indecision.
True listening, therefore, is not about hearing everything. It is about hearing right. It requires discernment, the ability to separate the genuine from the motivated, the grievance from the grudge. The challenge lies in remaining open without being swayed, absorbing without losing clarity.
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Since that early phone call, I have come to see listening as a quiet strength that demands far more discipline than speaking. It requires stepping outside one’s certainties, resisting the 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 beginning of resolution.
In a world where everyone is speaking louder than before, listening has quietly become a leadership skill, a moral act, and perhaps the rarest form of respect.
(The writer is a Punjab-cadre IPS officer)