Dear Readers,
Few people in this life enter quietly, learn silently, work faithfully, and leave behind such a presence that even time bows in respect.
Last night, Rohidas came to see me.
It had been a while. Life has a way of dragging people into their own circles, tying them up with bills, jobs, marriages, and pain. But not Rohidas. Somehow, even time couldn't change the goodness in that boy. He came by, smiling like he always used to, the same quiet humility in his eyes.
We sat down, like two old men, though only one of us really was. No agenda. No hurry. Just memories. Reminiscing. And for a few hours, I forgot that life had moved on. We talked about the days when we were still working side by side, sweating it out in the warehouse, teaching and learning together. Computers, forklifts, clampers, cameras, electrical, you name it. I taught him everything I knew, and he took it all in like a sponge. Never once did he pretend to know more than he did, and always, he said, “Sir, I’ll try again.”
Back then, there were ten of us, our little army of laughter and grit. We’d go eat together after a long day, share food, jokes, and dreams. He always reminded me, “Sir, you’ve never kept us hungry. You always made sure our pockets were full and our hearts fuller. I’ve never enjoyed working anywhere else more than with you.”
And you know what? That hit me last night.
He looked at me with the same respect he always had and said, “Given the opportunity, sir, I’d work with you again in a heartbeat.”
I didn’t say much at first. What could I say? My eyes were tired, not just from age but from the weight of loss, disappointment, and watching the years take more than they gave. I told him quietly, “Rohidas… my life is over, son. I’m just counting the days now.”
He didn’t argue. He didn’t protest. He just sat beside me with that silence that speaks louder than pity.
Later that night, we went to eat at my favourite spot, the Saligao food carts. Same place, same soul: Daya, the lady who cooks with nothing but love and keeps her food clean, simple, and tasty. She saw me and gave me a big smile. But before I could pay, Rohidas went up to her and said, “Please don’t take money from sir tonight. I will pay.”
She snapped, “If I take money from you, Rohidas, sir will scold me!”
That little back-and-forth filled my chest with something warm. That boy, humble, kind, and still so full of love.
As we ate, he told me he was thinking of getting married. I smiled. “Don’t rush,” I told him. “Wait for the right moment. Wait for someone who makes your spirit rest easy.” He nodded like a good student. Like the boy who never stopped listening.
You know, this wasn’t just a reunion. This was grace visiting me in human form. Because years ago, when my father was sick and my world was collapsing, it was Rohidas who came, who sat by my father, looked after him like his own blood. Not once. Not out of duty. Just because he could.
He never left my side, even when the world did.
People think being a boss means power. But they’re wrong. Being a real boss means love. Loyalty. It means being someone others remember, not for shouting or ruling, but for how you made them feel safe, respected, and seen.
Rohidas didn’t just come back to visit me.
He came back to remind me that I was never forgotten. That in all my brokenness, I had helped build something beautiful, people like him.
Last night, the world didn’t feel so dark.
It felt like the good old days.
And for once, I didn’t feel like I was just waiting for my end.
I felt remembered.
And I felt grateful.
To a boy who learned everything I had to teach… and still had more to show me.
To Rohidas, my co-worker, my friend, my family.
I don’t know how much longer I’ll be here, but if anyone asks me what I did right in this life…
I’ll say this:
“I fed ten men. I taught them well. And one of them came back, just to make sure I ate again.”
JacobM