Two speeches. One I was invited to give. The other, I invited myself to speak at.
Both occasions ended with a smattering of applause—polite, appreciative, and perhaps even a little relieved that I had finished.
But that’s where the similarity ended.
At the first one, held in a quiet, wood-paneled hall of a prestigious Mumbai club, I spoke on a subject close to my heart. The audience listened with nods and the occasional thoughtful murmur. As I ended, a gentleman stood up. And then, without warning, he launched into an angry tirade—at me, at the organisers, even at the concept of the gathering itself. Then, in a strange twist, he began to talk about his ministry, his accomplishments, and why he thought the whole event should have revolved around him.
The air grew heavy with discomfort. Eyes darted to the chairman, who tried to intervene, but could hardly silence the gentleman.
I sat still, hands clasped, listening. Not responding.
Afterwards, the chairman, a seasoned man with far more public engagements under his belt than I, came up to me.
“I must say,” he said, “I appreciated your restraint. You could have easily answered him back—and you would’ve been justified.”
I smiled, not out of modesty, but because I was remembering something that had happened years ago—an incident I’ve never forgotten.
It was in my younger days. I was, at that time, a hopeful amateur in the world of table tennis. I had challenged my friend Tunak—our society champion—to a match. I knew he was a master of spin, the kind that could make the ball do things that defied physics.
But when we played, I noticed he didn’t use any tricks. No spin. No speed. Just a calm, deliberate return of every shot I hit.
Of course, I lost. Badly. Most of my returns went into the net, or off the table, or even out of the room. After the game, panting and puzzled, I asked him, “Why didn’t you use your special moves?”
He shrugged and said, “I didn’t need to.”
He didn’t win because he outplayed me. He won because I outplayed myself.
That day, I learned something deeper than anything my textbooks could offer. You don’t always need to strike back. Sometimes, the best response is no response. The opponent’s aggression, ego, or insecurity will often expose itself far more effectively than your words ever can.
It’s what I’ve come to call Ping-Pong Wisdom.
There’s a time to speak. There’s a time to defend. And there’s a time to simply hold your peace and let the noise echo into silence.
Because silence, used wisely, doesn’t show weakness. It shows strength under control.
And in a world addicted to instant reactions, sometimes the most powerful thing you can do… is not react at all…!
The Author conducts an online, eight session Writers and Speakers Course. If you’d like to join, do send a thumbs-up to WhatsApp number 9892572883 or send a message to bobsbanter@gmail.com
