Write about a random act of kindness you’ve done for someone.

It wasn’t a random act of kindness, nor would I call it particularly noble. It was just something I did—a small effort to reach out in a remote corner of the world. This is a story from my past, a memory that lingers like the Himalayan mist.

A Young Man in a Quiet Village

Decades ago, in my early twenties, I found myself posted in a remote village nestled deep in the Himalayan mountains. I worked for a Central Government organization, where, on paper, I oversaw a vast stretch of the state. In reality, I was just a young man, alone in a world far from home. My office staff consisted of five locals who rarely showed up, leaving me to manage a near-empty office.

Every month, I’d make a week-long trek to the state capital to collect salaries in cash—yes, cash, along with supplies. This was a time before the internet, smartphones, computers, or ATMs. The staff would appear briefly to collect their pay, then vanish again. To fill the silence, I read novels, newspapers, anything I could get my hands on. I also took up walking, morning and evening, not for exercise but to escape the oppressive quiet of the house I lived in.

The Village and the Struggling Shop

The village had seven shops, all lined up in a row, all owned by locals. Some thrived; others barely survived. One, a rundown tea shop—more a shack than a hotel—caught my eye because it was almost always closed. On a whim one day, I stepped inside and asked for a cup of tea.

The owner, Vijay, was about my age, with a quiet demeanor and weary eyes. His wife helped in the shop, serving snacks and tea, though “serving” felt generous—they had few customers. Over steaming cups of chai, I learned Vijay was a graduate who’d dreamed of a government job but faced repeated rejections. This shop was his last-ditch effort to make a living. Yet, he seemed weighed down by despair, the shop’s emptiness mirroring his own.

A Small Effort to Help

I started visiting Vijay’s shop regularly, not just for tea but to give him a reason to keep it open. We’d talk—about life, the village, his struggles. I encouraged him to see the shop as a challenge, an opportunity to carve out a future. I even persuaded some soldiers from a nearby army camp to stop by, hoping their visits would spark more business. Slowly, the shop felt less like a ghost town, though Vijay’s sadness never lifted.

A Shocking Loss

A couple of months later, after returning from a trip to the capital, I found Vijay’s shop shuttered. Another shopkeeper approached me, his voice low. “Vijay is gone,” he said. “He took his own life.” His wife had left the village. The words hit me like a stone. I stood there, stunned, unable to process the news. I hadn’t expected this. I hadn’t seen it coming.

Reflections That Linger

To this day, I wonder if I could have done more. Could I have listened better, pushed harder, or noticed the signs I missed? My efforts, well-intentioned but small, feel insignificant against the weight of what happened. Vijay’s story is a reminder of how fragile hope can be and how, sometimes, even our best intentions fall short.

I share this not for pity or praise but because stories like these shape us. They remind us to reach out, to connect, and to keep trying—even when we don’t know the full impact of our actions.