From the dawn of time, we have huddled around the fires of civilization, demanding stories. We want to know who to love, who to fear, and who to hate. And society gladly obliges. It gives us a pristine, gleaming champion—“the hero”—and it gives us a monster—“the villain.”
But do not be deceived by the ink on the page. The absolute, unvarnished truth of human nature is this:
“The villain will always be a villain if the hero is the one telling the story.
When the war is over, the victor does not just claim the land—they claim the truth. They dip their pens into the blood of the fallen, writing epics that turn their own cruelty into justice, and their rival’s agony into a well-deserved fate.
Look no further than the brilliant, paradigm-shattering world of Asura: Tale of the Vanquished by Anand Neelakantan. For millennia, a single narrative reigned supreme. But Neelakantan dared to do the unthinkable: he handed the microphone to the monster. He let Ravana speak. And in that terrifying, beautiful moment, the illusion shattered.
We did not see a demon; we saw a man. A king of unparalleled genius, bleeding, flawed, raging against a sky that had already doomed him. Asura stands as a haunting monument to the truth: when you listen only to the hero, you become blind to the tragedy of the vanquished.
Because we are trapped in a grand, cosmic illusion.
Centuries ago, the master playwright William Shakespeare peered deep into the abyss of our existence and whispered a sobering reality in the melancholy comedy-drama As You Like It :
“All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts.”
Think of the weight of those words. Merely players. You. Me. The people we fight. The enemies we despise. We are all just actors thrown onto a stage we did not build, standing under spotlights we cannot control, desperately reciting scripts handed to us by circumstance, by history, and by fate.
The man you call your enemy is not evil—he is simply an actor who was handed a different script. He is playing his tragedy, while you play your triumph.
And how agonizing that play can be.
Look back into the smoke of the Mahabharata. Listen to the solemn words attributed to Duryodhana, a man history branded as absolute darkness. In a moment of raw, shattering vulnerability, he confesses the ultimate human curse:
“I know what is Dharma (righteousness), yet I have no inclination to follow it. I know what is Adharma (unrighteousness), yet I cannot refrain or withdraw from it. O Lord, the divine power seated in my heart, I act as I am impelled.”
That is the struggle of a soul trapped in the prison of its own nature, chained to a script it cannot break. He knew the light, but the gravity of his darkness pulled him under. How many times have you stood at the edge of your own moral battlefield, knowing the right path, yet feeling entirely powerless to take the first step?
Tear up the pre-written script. Step out of the spotlight.
The next time you are ready to condemn, the next time you are ready to cast someone into the shadows as the villain of your life, remember that they are fighting a war you cannot see.
Have the courage to look past the hero’s golden lie. Listen to the silence of the vanquished. Understand the player before you judge the role. Because the ultimate truth belongs only to those brave enough to look into the dark.