The Dignity of Work: What an Illiterate Worker Taught Me About Integrity

A quiet lesson in loyalty, dignity, and why no job is ever small

Yesterday—the last day of 2025—I found myself doing what age teaches you to do naturally: looking back.

Not with regret.Not with bitterness.But with a quiet sorting of memories.

I have a habit. My mind works like a sieve.

I let the bitterness drain away. I hold back the good.

Some people collect grievances as proof of life lived. I collect moments that taught me how to live.

That habit has given me something invaluable over the years—positivity. And today, when my body is slower and my steps more careful, I live off its interest.

One such memory returned to me yesterday.Uninvited.Unforgettable.

“Some people leave jobs behind. Others leave lessons that follow you for life.”

Decades ago, I had just done something reckless—or brave, depending on who was watching.

I walked away from a lucrative, stable job and chose the harder road: starting my own manufacturing unit.

There were no guarantees. Only sleepless nights, borrowed confidence, and the stubborn belief that something honest would emerge if I stayed the course.

It was during those early, fragile days that Jeet Bahadur entered my life.

He was short—as most Nepali men are—and young, though with Gurkhas, age is always a mystery. Their faces carry both youth and centuries of endurance.

A well-wisher brought him to me.

“No interview,” he said.“Just give him work.”

I asked a few questions. Every answer came back the same.

“Ji saab.”

Jeet was illiterate. He couldn’t sign his name. A thumb impression replaced ink.

Previously, he had worked in a poultry farm, where he culled chickens.

That was his résumé.

“Illiteracy hides nothing from determination. It only delays its discovery.”

When Jeet started working, I watched him—not suspiciously, but attentively.

And what I noticed first were his eyes.

They were not wandering eyes. They were probing eyes. Eyes that absorbed, measured, remembered.

He was married. He had a small child back in Nepal. Every rupee he earned carried distance, duty, and longing.

Whenever an outsourced maintenance engineer came to repair our sophisticated machines, Jeet would appear silently beside him.

He wouldn’t interfere. He wouldn’t ask questions. He would just stand and watch.

For hours.

Day after day, month after month, year after year.

Machine after machine.

Soon, I realised he wasn’t just observing—he was learning.

One day, I discovered that Jeet could dismantle our 110 KVA diesel generator, replace piston rings, reassemble it, and bring it back to life—all within a professional time frame.

I was hesitant. Terrified, actually.

Handing over expensive equipment to someone without formal training goes against every business instinct.

But his determination overruled my fear.

And he never failed me.

In fact, he saved me and my company money.Time.Downtime.

I gave him a generous raise. Then put him in charge of a shift.

I learnt an important thing in life - the dignity of work

.

“Confidence is not taught. It is earned quietly, while no one is applauding.”

Then came the difficult phase.

Every entrepreneur knows it.

On paper, money exists. In reality, it doesn’t.

Debtors everywhere. Liquidity nowhere.

I didn’t even have enough cash to pay salaries.

So I borrowed money from a friend.

In those days, I paid salaries in cash—my workers preferred it. It saved them a day’s leave, a bank queue, and unnecessary hardship.

One by one, I called out names.

Envelopes changed hands.

When I called Jeet’s name, he didn’t respond.

I called again.

Nothing.

Annoyed, I stepped out of my office to confront him.

He stood there, head bowed.

Silent.

I asked why he hadn’t come to collect his salary.

He said nothing.

My irritation rose. I almost shouted.

Then—slowly—he lifted his head.

His eyes were moist.

And in a soft, steady voice, he said:

“Saab… you borrowed this money. It is not good for the company. I will not take it.”

“Integrity does not negotiate with poverty.”

I was stunned.

Here was a man who earned little. Who sent most of his salary back home to his family. Who had every reason to accept that envelope.

And he refused—because the money was borrowed.

I didn’t know what to say.

So I did what words could not.

I pulled him close and hugged him—tight. Then I shoved the envelope into his shirt pocket.

Some lessons are not taught by books. They arrive in silence. They stay forever.

“Loyalty is not loud. It shows up when you least expect it—and when you need it most.”Over time, Jeet became more than an employee.

He became family.

My younger son was six then and often accompanied me to the factory.

No matter how busy he was, Jeet always found time for him—bringing soups, small treats, ice creams, and little joys from a nearby restaurant.

Not because it was expected.Because it felt right to him.

 “No job is small. Only belief in oneself can be.”

From Jeet, I learned what no management book ever taught me:

• That dignity doesn’t depend on designation

• That loyalty is a form of intelligence

• That love for work can transform lives

• And that character often lives where privilege does not

Today, I am older.

Jeet is no longer around. But somewhere in this world, his fierce loyalty and quiet dedication are still at work—and that thought brings me peace.

He lives on—in my memory, in my values, in the quiet standards I still hold myself to.

Some people pass through our lives briefly.

Others leave behind a compass.7

Jeet Bahadur was one of the latter.

And I miss him.

---