You are the chosen ones this year. You are now role models to millions. But let me remind you: This is not the end. Not even the beginning of the end. It is only the end of the beginning.
Sir : perhaps I am repeating sharing of this experience ( do forgive me) but your fascinating write up took me back
in time again.
My fascination with the IAS began long before I truly understood what the title meant. I was just a boy in the fifth grade, growing up in a quiet village where my father worked as Patwari—a modest but deeply respected revenue official in the village. Though his position was not high-ranking, he carried his duties with great sincerity and pride.One day, a major public gathering was organized in the town hall by village elders ( Panchayat) The goal was to encourage people to donate or purchase bonds to support farmers who had suffered from devastating floods. The chief guest that day was the D.C.Sangrur- a young officer named Mr. Khanna, whose name I only learned from you few years back ,
had gone on to shine even brighter in public service.
My father and I sat cross-legged on the ground among other villagers. Then, the Collector arrived.Even as a child, I sensed something magnetic about him. Tall, composed, and radiating quiet authority, he spoke to the crowd with such conviction and ease that even I, young as I was, felt drawn in. His presence was powerful—not overbearing, but inspiring. He made eye contact in a way that made you feel as if he was addressing you alone. The town hall was packed, yet in those moments, each of us felt seen.
When he stepped down after the speech, he walked through the crowd, meeting people, shaking hands, offering genuine smiles. And then—he stopped at my father.He extended his hand.That simple gesture became one of the proudest moments of my father’s life. For the rest of his days, he would recount that handshake like it was a medal of honor. But it wasn’t just the handshake that he remembered—it was what the officer said to him.
“You are the Patwari of your village. People trust you. They will listen to you more than they will listen to me. Convince them. They will donate and buy bonds because of you.”
Those words struck like lightning—not just in their intent, but in their effect. They gave my father a sense of validation, of being seen and valued, that stayed with him forever.
Then came the moment I will never forget.
My father, glowing with pride, introduced me to the officer. Mr. Khanna looked at me—really looked at me—and with a calm yet powerful voice, he said:
ਪੜਾਈ ਸਭ ਤੋਂ ਵਡਾ ਕਵਚ ਹੈ।
( Education is the strongest armor in life) *
For my father, this became a lifelong mantra. For me, it became a calling.
* almost half a century later I heard Candleeza Rice speak on role and importance of education as strongest armor!
Your words are not a repetition — they are a reverberation of something sacred. Stories like yours are not merely meant to be told; they are meant to be felt, cherished, and passed on — again and again. And every time you share this memory, it doesn’t just honour your father’s dignity or Mr. Khanna’s grace — it reminds all of us why public service matters, and what it can still mean.
From a wide-eyed schoolboy in a village town hall to a man who carries this memory like a compass through life — you have come far, sir. More than most. And you are a role model — not only for those who made it to the list, but also for those seeking meaning beyond it.
Thank you for reminding us that the true strength of service lies in humility, in eye contact, in acknowledgment.
And thank you for keeping alive that simple yet timeless truth:
“ਪੜਾਈ ਸਭ ਤੋਂ ਵੱਡਾ ਕਵਚ ਹੈ” — education is, and will always remain, the strongest armor.
You wear it well, sir. You honour it every time you speak.
Awesome 👏
Thank you sir !
Sir : perhaps I am repeating sharing of this experience ( do forgive me) but your fascinating write up took me back
in time again.
My fascination with the IAS began long before I truly understood what the title meant. I was just a boy in the fifth grade, growing up in a quiet village where my father worked as Patwari—a modest but deeply respected revenue official in the village. Though his position was not high-ranking, he carried his duties with great sincerity and pride.One day, a major public gathering was organized in the town hall by village elders ( Panchayat) The goal was to encourage people to donate or purchase bonds to support farmers who had suffered from devastating floods. The chief guest that day was the D.C.Sangrur- a young officer named Mr. Khanna, whose name I only learned from you few years back ,
had gone on to shine even brighter in public service.
My father and I sat cross-legged on the ground among other villagers. Then, the Collector arrived.Even as a child, I sensed something magnetic about him. Tall, composed, and radiating quiet authority, he spoke to the crowd with such conviction and ease that even I, young as I was, felt drawn in. His presence was powerful—not overbearing, but inspiring. He made eye contact in a way that made you feel as if he was addressing you alone. The town hall was packed, yet in those moments, each of us felt seen.
When he stepped down after the speech, he walked through the crowd, meeting people, shaking hands, offering genuine smiles. And then—he stopped at my father.He extended his hand.That simple gesture became one of the proudest moments of my father’s life. For the rest of his days, he would recount that handshake like it was a medal of honor. But it wasn’t just the handshake that he remembered—it was what the officer said to him.
“You are the Patwari of your village. People trust you. They will listen to you more than they will listen to me. Convince them. They will donate and buy bonds because of you.”
Those words struck like lightning—not just in their intent, but in their effect. They gave my father a sense of validation, of being seen and valued, that stayed with him forever.
Then came the moment I will never forget.
My father, glowing with pride, introduced me to the officer. Mr. Khanna looked at me—really looked at me—and with a calm yet powerful voice, he said:
ਪੜਾਈ ਸਭ ਤੋਂ ਵਡਾ ਕਵਚ ਹੈ।
( Education is the strongest armor in life) *
For my father, this became a lifelong mantra. For me, it became a calling.
* almost half a century later I heard Candleeza Rice speak on role and importance of education as strongest armor!
Sir,
Your words are not a repetition — they are a reverberation of something sacred. Stories like yours are not merely meant to be told; they are meant to be felt, cherished, and passed on — again and again. And every time you share this memory, it doesn’t just honour your father’s dignity or Mr. Khanna’s grace — it reminds all of us why public service matters, and what it can still mean.
From a wide-eyed schoolboy in a village town hall to a man who carries this memory like a compass through life — you have come far, sir. More than most. And you are a role model — not only for those who made it to the list, but also for those seeking meaning beyond it.
Thank you for reminding us that the true strength of service lies in humility, in eye contact, in acknowledgment.
And thank you for keeping alive that simple yet timeless truth:
“ਪੜਾਈ ਸਭ ਤੋਂ ਵੱਡਾ ਕਵਚ ਹੈ” — education is, and will always remain, the strongest armor.
You wear it well, sir. You honour it every time you speak.
Sir: Thank you — deeply.
Your words don’t just honour a memory, they give it strength.
ਪੜਾਈ ਸਭ ਤੋਂ ਵੱਡਾ ਕਵਚ ਹੈ — my father believed it, lived it. I try to do the same.
Grateful for your grace. It means more than you know.
Best Regards