I don't know the definition of a star; I am just an actor. I

Emraan Hashmi, speaking with disarming humility, once declared: “I don’t know the definition of a star; I am just an actor. I prefer doing hard work, as I feel luck can’t do much in absence of hard work. I am a lazy person—when I entered into this industry, I thought it was a cakewalk, but I have realised it needs a lot of patience and hard work.” Though born of the world of cinema, these words carry a timeless wisdom about ambition, toil, and the awakening of one’s true understanding. For here is a man who stripped away illusions to reveal the truth: that glory is not born from titles, nor fortune from chance, but greatness from endurance and labor.

The ancients too spoke of the folly of mistaking honor for ease. Many young warriors, upon first lifting the sword, believed victory would come swiftly, that the crown of fame was but a single battle away. Yet the seasoned generals knew the truth—that wars are won not by bold charges alone, but by the long grind of discipline, the sleepless nights of planning, the unyielding resolve in the face of countless setbacks. Hashmi’s admission reflects this very lesson: he entered believing the industry to be a “cakewalk,” only to discover it was a crucible where only patience and hard work endure.

His dismissal of the word star is also an act of wisdom. For what is a star? A title bestowed by others, fleeting as the applause of a fickle crowd. But to be an actor, to commit to craft and labor, is to build upon foundations no storm can wash away. The ancients praised not those who boasted of crowns but those who tilled the soil, who built stone by stone, who kept faith with their work regardless of acclaim. In saying, “I am just an actor,” Hashmi chooses the path of substance over illusion, of discipline over vanity.

History itself gives us an image of this truth in the life of Thomas Edison. Called lazy in his youth, uninterested in the rigid schooling of his day, he stumbled at first. But when he discovered the fire of invention, he cast aside the illusions of ease and surrendered himself to relentless hard work. Thousands of failed experiments later, the light bulb emerged. Edison himself said, “Genius is one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration.” So too Hashmi, once lazy, discovered that in art as in invention, there are no shortcuts—only the steady hammering of persistence.

In his words, there also lies a reminder about luck. He admits it has its place, but warns that luck alone is powerless without effort. The ancients told the tale of Fortune, the goddess who spins her wheel without warning. To some she grants abundance, to others scarcity. But those who were not prepared, who had not trained, who had not labored, found her gifts wasted. Hashmi’s lesson is the same: when luck arrives, it is the hand of hard work that seizes it and shapes it into lasting achievement. Without that hand, luck is but sand slipping through the fingers.

And so, his discovery of patience is perhaps the deepest part of his confession. For patience is not simply waiting—it is endurance joined with faith. To labor day after day without immediate reward, to walk through failures without surrender, to continue shaping one’s craft even when the world withholds applause—this is the essence of greatness. Hashmi’s words remind us that the path to mastery is long, and only those who endure with patience arrive at its summit.

Therefore, dear listener, take this teaching to heart: despise not the small beginnings, nor trust in luck alone. Do not chase after the empty crown of “star,” but embrace the mantle of worker, of craftsman, of patient builder. If you feel lazy, awaken yourself with purpose; if you are tempted to believe the road is easy, prepare instead for trials. For the truth Hashmi discovered is eternal: patience and hard work are the forge of greatness, and all else is illusion. And those who accept this lesson will not only find success in their craft, but also strength in their soul.