March 18, 2026

I walked toward Mall Road in Shimla, opening the umbrella I had brought to protect myself from the snow. It was January, and the snowfall was heavy. I lived in a rented house near the Town Hall, where a stage drama had been performed that evening, and I had just stepped out of the hall.

A small smile crossed my face as I thought of Harish. He had come to my residence two days earlier to check on my health. Seeing my hand wrapped in a heavy bandage, I told him I was fine. Hesitantly, he invited me to his play, performed by a prestigious theatre group led by the legendary director A K Datta.

"Steve sir, please come," he had said. "Your presence will definitely boost my morale."

As his senior at the office, I had supported Harish through most of his promotions. Seeing the spark in his eyes, I decided I needed a change from the month-long bed rest I had been going through since my accident.

The drama was excellent — a mature family story with deep emotional scenes. When it ended, Harish’s eyes were bright with pride; working under a director like Datta was a career-defining opportunity for him.

"How was my part, sir?" Harish asked as I came out of the theatre.

I hugged him and patted his back. He smiled widely, taking it as high appreciation.

What made me smile more was the nature of his role. He played a minor villain who held the lead actress at knifepoint before being shot in the leg by the police and taken away. It made me laugh for a moment, but then I realized that for Harish, it was a performance to remember.

I walked to a nearby stall to sip some Kangra tea, a Shimla specialty. As the steam rose from the cup, my mind drifted back to how I had come to Shimla and to the recent accident that had shattered my left hand.

Years ago, while working in Bangalore, I saw a newspaper advertisement from a Mangalore-based company that was planning to expand its plant in Shimla. They were looking for a professional with a mechanical background. I attended the interview and got a better salary than what I was earning there, so I moved north to work under Mr Rodriguez. Those were my early days after graduation. I was young, curious, and attentive, watching how experienced men handled every situation.

Working with Rodriguez, however, involved more yelling than teaching. He was experienced, but his rigid and unbending attitude had frustrated the owners so much that they transferred him to this far place just to move him away.

Still, I learned a lot from Rodriguez, especially about his prayer life. He was not a foolish man. He led community prayers and had a good reputation in Shimla society. Our professional relationship slowly extended into his personal time, and I became a regular guest at his prayer meetings.

Things changed when I went through a financial crisis. In an urge to make quick money, I lost fifty thousand rupees in the stock market in one shot. When I asked Rodriguez for help to get through the month, he refused, saying such money matters were not moral. My growing friendship with a colleague named Tony irritated him even more.

Tony was the office bad boy. He enjoyed life fully and sometimes misbehaved, but he had a brave heart, and his carefree style helped us forget our stress.

"Steve, we are here only for four days," Tony used to say, leaning on his bike.

"All we leave behind is a memory. People should remember us for our good work. The rest of this talk is useless."

Slowly, Rodriguez started keeping his distance from me.

Then there was Mrs Stella, the widow of an army officer and an important client of our company. She had survived a terrible accident and had dedicated her life to teaching others how to live the right way.

One day, she stopped her car near me.

"Are you Steve? I have seen you with Mr Rodriguez. Come, I will drop you."

On the way, she asked many questions about my family and my income and later invited me to her prayer meetings. She motivated people to live the right way. But when she saw me talking to Tony — whom she considered a bad influence — she too started keeping her distance from me.

Later, I realized that she had been thinking of me as a possible match for her daughter, but that thought changed because of Tony’s influence and the negative opinion given by Mr Rodriguez.

Then came the test.

One evening, while riding back in a hurry from the company on a winding hilly road, my bike hit the edge of the road. I was thrown nearly twenty feet down into a gorge. I hit a rock hard and somehow held onto a small tree while my bike rolled further down.

In terrible pain, bleeding heavily, and losing consciousness, I tried to reach my phone. The screen was already broken from the fall, and I could hardly see. The first person who came to my mind was Rodriguez. He was my boss and a man known for good character. The phone kept ringing, but he did not pick up.

With the little strength left in my hand, I thought of Tony. I was not sure if I would survive. I tried to shout, but my jaw was shaking, and I could not even hear my own voice. With my last hope, I called Tony.

He picked up immediately.

I somehow told him I was losing consciousness…

The next thing I remember was waking up in the hospital.

Today, after a month of recovery, was my first day out.

As I sipped the tea, watching the steam rise from the cup, I slowly drifted into my thoughts.

Life has been a learning journey for me. I have met many kinds of people, and I began to feel that we are all like artists on a stage, just like Harish that evening. If he had not played the villain, how would the hero have been understood?

In this wide stage of life, each of us seems to be given a different role. Some appear as heroes, some look like villains, but maybe everyone is only trying to do justice to the part given to them. Things go wrong not because the role is wrong, but because we forget the purpose behind it. Good people can become too rigid, and those who look careless can sometimes show unexpected goodness.

A criminal fires a bullet, and a border soldier fires a bullet. The action may be the same, but the intention inside the heart makes the difference. Maybe that is what truly matters.

Is that how God sees us? I feel He looks more at the heart than at the image we show outside. We think we are right and want everyone to be like us, yet each person tries to do good in his own way. Tony could never be like Rodriguez, but when I needed help, Tony did what even Rodriguez could not do.

Sometimes I wonder — if Rodriguez had been in my place, would he have called Tony?

Maybe not.

But I did… because somewhere I had accepted Tony as he was.

The tea was finished. I stood up and started walking home, remembering that I still had to take my medicine for the pain in my hand.