About ten years ago, while visiting home after working in Singapore for a few months, I went to see my uncle at his village near Paramakudi.
I happened to be wearing a Seiko watch that I had recently bought. It was special to me because it was one of the first things I had purchased with my own earnings.
I did not expect anyone to notice the brand. In fact, I had learned about watch brands such as Seiko and Tissot only after I began working. But my uncle noticed it immediately.
He pronounced “Seiko” correctly and asked, “This must be expensive, right? How much did it cost?”
When I told him it was around ₹20,000, he was not surprised. He simply nodded and said, “Yes, that sounds right.”
Then he recalled, “When one pavun of gold—eight grams—cost ₹300, this watch cost ₹400.”
He asked if he could see the watch. He held it, looked at it closely for a few moments, and then carefully returned it to me.
It was a short and simple conversation, but it stayed with me.
My uncle did not have the opportunity to receive a formal education. Yet his knowledge extended far beyond what anyone might have assumed. He knew the Seiko name, understood its value, and even remembered its price from a time when gold cost less than the watch.
What impressed me most was how naturally he carried that knowledge. He was not trying to prove anything or impress anyone. He simply knew.
That moment taught me something I have never forgotten: education and knowledge are not always the same. Knowledge is not limited to classrooms, degrees, cities, or workplaces. It can come from curiosity, observation, experience, and a genuine interest in the world.
My uncle had that kind of knowledge—quiet, unexpected, and deep.
Today, he is no more. But whenever I see a Seiko watch, I will remember that brief conversation and the remarkable man who recognised mine.
I will miss him deeply.
- Jeyabalaji
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