Countless gurus walk past us daily, yet we remain blind to their presence. The rickshaw driver’s mind contains blueprints of the city’s bloodstream—which arteries jam when, which veins flow freely. Universities don’t teach this knowledge, yet its value proves infinite.

The vegetable vendor functions as botanical philosopher. Eyes closed, he determines which tomato harbors sweetness, which offers only color’s deception. His touch reads fruit biographies.

Our civilization’s cruelest arrogance lies in creating knowledge hierarchies. We assume degree holders mean wisdom, the uneducated mean ignorance. Truth: every person represents a specialized university of experience.

The housemaid knows cooking’s secret chemistry absent from cookbooks. Security guards read humans’ internal language—envy hidden in eye corners, intent concealed in walking rhythms.

Street children understand survival techniques missing from management theories. How to create something from nothing, how to find hope within despair.

An invisible university surrounds us. Each person embodies a department. Bus drivers know human psychology—which passengers won’t pay, when people turn irritable. Flower sellers know seasonal poetry—which blooms express specific emotions.

Yet we walk past these gurus without curiosity. Ego blinds us. We assume nothing to learn from those not “educated” like us.

The question: can we hear wisdom hidden outside formal education? Can we humble ourselves before teachers we consider “inferior”?

Perhaps true learning begins when we realize every person on Earth can teach us something.