In every civilisation, there are two measures of success. One is public and noisy—titles, awards, positions, headlines, and the temporary glow of importance. The other is almost invisible: the quality of a human being. History remembers the first for a moment and the second forever. The tragedy of modern life is that we have learned to celebrate achievers and forgotten how to recognise gentlemen.

Worldly success has a remarkably brief half-life. Today’s titan becomes tomorrow’s emeritus, gracefully presiding over empty ceremonies, applauded by people who no longer rely on him. His power has vanished; only his manners remain—if he ever had any. Yet manners, ethics and inner stature are exactly what determine whether a person’s life develops into dignity or withers into bitterness.

Hollywood once tried to explain this distinction in its own way. The 1982 film, An Officer and a Gentleman, tells the story of a man who earns his stripes not through privilege but through discipline, loyalty and inner transformation. The title itself suggests something profound: that rank alone does not make one worthy—character does. In real life, however, such gentlemen are not forged on parade grounds but in the quiet spaces where no one is watching.

I learned this not from philosophers but from a scientist.

My personal journey unfolded under the long, blessed shadow of Dr. A. P. J. Abdul Kalam. For thirty-three years, I followed that rare blend of visionary and ascetic, learning how greatness can coexist with humility. Under his watchful guidance, I developed from a mechanical engineer into a missile scientist—from working with titanium for high-pressure air bottles, to designing thick-walled magnesium control bays and aluminium-alloy airframes, wings and fins, and ultimately to handling delta-ferrite-free austenitic steels for coronary stents. These were not just material changes; they represented expansions of imagination. Dr. Kalam had a profound passion for civilian spin-offs of defence technology. To him, a missile was never merely a weapon—it was a bridge to healthcare, energy and national dignity.

Through him, I encountered many remarkable minds. Yet among them all, one distinguished himself—not because he was louder, but because he was quieter. That man is Dr. Chandrasekhar Srivari.

We often assume that great scientists must be socially distant, even emotionally detached. Their minds are so immersed in abstractions that ordinary human gestures seem trivial. Like deep-sea divers, they operate below the waves, unaffected by surface noise. I expected Dr. Chandrasekhar to be like that—brilliant but removed, organised like elements in a periodic table.

Instead, the first thing he did was walk to a small fridge in his office and fetch me a bottle of water himself when I visited him for the first time in his Director’s office at the Indian Institute of Chemical Technology in Hyderabad. He did not ring a bell. He did not summon an assistant. He stood up and served. That simple act changed everything.

In that moment, I realised that I was in the presence of a different species of greatness. Not the kind that feeds on hierarchy, but the kind that dissolves it. The gentleman is not someone who expects service; he is someone who offers it.

As our meetings grew more frequent, I came to recognise the scale of Dr. Chandrasekhar’s scientific work. His approach to organic synthesis—particularly of marine natural products—was distinguished by extraordinary originality. These compounds were not merely academic curiosities; they were potential life-saving solutions for the developing world, addressing diseases like tuberculosis and malaria that continue to afflict the poor long after the rich have found cures.

His development of polyethylene glycol (PEG) as a green solvent was a quiet revolution. PEG is non-toxic, biodegradable, inexpensive, recyclable, and has low vapour pressure. In an era when chemistry is under scrutiny for its ecological footprint, this was a profound contribution. It made high-end synthesis compatible with environmental ethics.

His total synthesis of Eribulin—one of the most complex anticancer drugs ever created—was a tour de force of human intellect. It has immense commercial and medical value. And yet, outside specialist circles, almost no one knows his name. When COVID-19 shook the world, he quietly delivered a crucial adjuvant for Covaxin, contributing to one of India’s proudest scientific responses. Again, no parade followed.

Who recognises the flour-mill worker? Only the chefs are celebrated. The world observes the meal, not the milling process. It applauds the performance, not the preparation. It reveres what is visible, not what is essential. This is where the significance of the gentleman becomes vital.

A gentleman is not defined by applause. He is defined by indifference to it. His self-worth is not tethered to public recognition but to private standards. He does not ask whether he is being noticed; he asks whether he is being useful.

When I once gently asked Dr. Chandrasekhar how he felt about his work not receiving wider acclaim, he smiled—not with resignation, but with freedom. That smile told me everything. He had already transcended the marketplace of vanity. He knew that history’s truest rewards are not medals but meanings.

The gentleman lives in alignment. His actions, values and intellect are not at war with one another. He does not need to shout because he has nothing to prove. He does not hoard power because he does not fear losing it. He does not exploit people because he does not measure life in terms of extraction.

Shakespeare understood this long before modern academia. In King Lear, when the king asks his daughters to declare their love, Goneril and Regan perform eloquently. Cordelia refuses spectacle:

“I cannot heave my heart into my mouth.

I love your Majesty according to my bond; no more nor less.”

In our age of relentless self-promotion, Cordelia’s restraint is revolutionary. Dr. Chandrasekhar Srivari’s life gives that truth a scientific form. In chiral chemistry, two molecules can be mirror images—identical in structure yet opposite in effect: one healing, the other harmful. He lives that lesson. His brilliance is tempered by humility, so that knowledge is transformed into grace.

A scientist and a gentleman—this is the highest calling. In a civilisation of movers and shakers chasing visibility as a form of immortality, Dr. Chandrasekhar remains a gentleman by choice. Science, at its highest, is not merely about discovery; it is about character. A scientist who lies, plagiarises, intimidates, or exploits may produce papers, but he can never produce trust. Dr. Chandrasekhar’s ethics are not added to his intellect; they are embedded in it.

Whenever I meet him, I feel the quiet presence of Dr. Kalam—of that rare fraternity for whom knowledge is never a ladder to climb, but a light to hold for others. In such men, science does not merely advance; it acquires a soul. And in their company, one is reminded that to be a great scientist is admirable, but to be a scientist and a gentleman is a form of grace.