The Surgeon in the Mutton Market

Today I went to the fish and mutton market. Crowded lanes, loud voices, and that familiar mix of smell and smoke. Everyone was busy, doing their job. But one man made me stop. He stood behind his table with two tools — a cutter knife and a hammer. No gloves. No measuring scale. No extra words. The way he was cutting — fast, neat, and confident — it looked like art. Every movement had rhythm, accuracy, and balance. It felt like he had rehearsed this for years — not for performance, but for perfection. I just stood there watching. And for a moment, I felt a little jealous. Jealous of his focus. Jealous of his calm. That rare stillness which only comes when body and mind move as one. Then a man came and said, “Give me two kilos of mutton — each piece should be fifty grams.” The mutton man didn’t speak. He took two kilos of meat to one side and started cutting. No weighing, no counting aloud. Just cutting — clean and steady. When he finished, he said, “Forty pieces.” The customer doubted it. He took five pieces and weighed them — exactly two hundred and fifty grams. He looked up but said nothing. And I… I felt nothing in front of him. Because what I saw wasn’t just skill. It was mastery without applause. He had no degree, no tag, no recognition. But he had something most of us lose while chasing everything else — clarity, focus, and pride in work. Walking out of that market, I smiled. Sometimes the surgeon stands in a mutton market. And he doesn’t even know it.