Yesterday, I attended a memorial meeting of a man who spoke softly but left deep impressions—Mr. Noronha. Ninety-five years old.

The gathering was held in the garden where he once walked each morning, nodding at the trees, stopping to pat a stray, and sometimes humming under his breath. The weather was unforgiving—hot, humid, no fans, not even a struggling pedestal fan in the corner. And yet, people came. Not out of obligation. But affection.

What struck me was how full the place was. No elaborate invite, no fanfare. Just word of mouth, and yet every seat taken. Why? Because Mr. Noronha had lived a life that spoke volumes—without shouting.

He had never held a post in the garden group. He wasn’t part of any official committee, and certainly didn’t lobby for roles or titles.

But…

…when something wasn’t right, he stood up. Calmly. Firmly. And without delay.

He believed justice wasn’t the job of just leaders—it was everyone’s responsibility.

But it was how he stood up that stayed with me. He didn’t scream, or belittle. He spoke. And how! He articulated his thoughts with such clarity that even those on the other side of the argument found themselves quietly reconsidering.

His words didn’t sting—they stirred.

He believed in the power of reasoning, not rhetoric. He didn’t try to win arguments; he tried to win understanding. And when the occasional debate turned heated—because they did—he was the first to forgive. You could be red-faced with passion one moment, and find yourself joking with him, the next. He never carried bitterness beyond the bench in the garden where the disagreement took place.

That, to me, was the essence of the man.

Stand for justice. Speak with conviction. Forgive with grace.

Now contrast that with what we see around us. Today, if you disagree with someone, you’re labeled. Instantly. “Pseudo-nationalist!” shouts one. “Anti-this! Anti-that!” screams another. The name-calling begins before the conversation does. The art of persuasion has given way to the science of provocation.

But not with Mr. Noronha. Under the shaded pergola where the memorial was held, I saw people from every faith and background. Because when you speak with fairness, you’re heard across barriers. He didn’t just speak to people—he connected with them.

And perhaps that’s what we need today. Fewer slogans, more sentences. Less shouting, more substance. Less branding, more bridging.

As the gathering dispersed, someone whispered, “What a man!”

Yes, indeed. He reminded us that real change doesn’t always come from stages and microphones. Sometimes, it walks quietly in a garden, speaks when it must, and forgives before the sun goes down.

May more of us have learned the wisdom of his words—and even more, the humility with which he used them…!

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