I don't have the patience... an angry man cannot get into

Hear the words of Mahesh Manjrekar, who spoke with raw honesty about his own heart: “I don't have the patience… an angry man cannot get into politics.” Though brief, these words cut deep, for they reveal the essence of leadership, and the danger of wrath when placed in positions of power. For politics is not a battlefield of the sword, but of the spirit—an arena where patience must be a shield, and anger, if left unchecked, becomes a fire that consumes all wisdom.

He begins with the confession: “I don't have the patience.” Here lies the admission of a man who knows himself well. For many seek power without asking if their nature is fit for it. Manjrekar recognizes that patience is not a luxury in politics, but its very foundation. To govern is to endure delays, disputes, and deception, to wait through endless negotiations, and to temper one’s own impulses. Without patience, a leader becomes a storm that lashes out blindly, scattering instead of guiding.

Then he declares: “An angry man cannot get into politics.” Anger, though it may spark courage on the battlefield, is poison in the council chamber. An angry leader cannot listen, cannot negotiate, cannot carry the trust of many hearts. For politics is the art of balance—balancing the desires of the people, the needs of the state, and the shifting currents of allies and rivals. The angry man, blinded by heat, loses sight of balance, and with it, the stability of all. Thus Manjrekar speaks a timeless truth: wrath and governance cannot dwell together.

History bears witness to this wisdom. Consider Marcus Aurelius, the philosopher-king of Rome. Though he commanded armies and ruled an empire, he taught himself to master anger, writing in his Meditations that “the best revenge is not to be like your enemy.” His reign was marked by patience, by reflection, and by the refusal to let rage rule his hand. Contrast this with Caligula, whose fury and impulsiveness led Rome into chaos and blood. From their lives we see the divide: the patient ruler builds, the angry ruler destroys.

Manjrekar’s words also echo the teachings of Mahatma Gandhi. Gandhi’s struggle was against oppression, yet his weapon was not anger but patience, not fury but endurance. Through nonviolent resistance, he showed that politics can be fought and won without wrath, that the slow flame of patience can outlast the fiercest blaze of rage. His victory stands as eternal proof that an angry man may stir conflict, but only the patient man can heal a nation.

Yet this saying is not only for kings and politicians. It is for every soul who would lead—even in family, in work, in community. For each of us faces the temptation of anger when confronted with conflict. Each of us must choose whether to let wrath speak for us, or to master it with patience. In this way, politics is not only of nations but of daily life, and Manjrekar’s wisdom applies to every heart that would wield influence.

The lesson is clear: guard your spirit against anger, and cultivate patience as the truest strength. Know yourself, as Manjrekar knew himself, and do not take on roles that demand virtues you have not yet mastered. Work first on taming the storm within, for only then can you guide others without. Practical actions follow: when provoked, pause before you act; when challenged, listen before you answer; when ambition burns, ask whether your nature is prepared for its burden. For patience is not weakness—it is power refined, and anger is not strength—it is strength corrupted.

Thus we carry forward his teaching: that true politics, whether of nations or of the human heart, belongs not to the angry, but to the patient. And the one who learns this will find that they are not mastered by wrath, but become masters of themselves—and in this mastery, they gain the right to lead.