Raghavan uncle was the kind of man who didn’t talk much, but always smiled. He had been working at a Supermarket for almost thirty years. Everyone in the store, from the cashiers to the delivery boys called him “Uncle.” He came in early, worked quietly and never complained. But what most people didn’t know was that after work, he rushed home to take care of his wife, Meena. She had dementia. Some days, she didn’t even recognise him. Some nights, she would wake up crying, asking where her parents were. It broke his heart every time — but he stayed patient. She had taken care of him once. Now it was his turn. That morning, Raghavan uncle was stocking shelves in the noodles section. His hands moved slower these days, and his eyes strained to read the small print on the price labels. He had a long sheet of stickers in his hand and was doing his best to finish before the store got busy. He had just finished the row when he heard two boys laugh nearby. “Bro! This big packet says ₹10. That can’t be right!” one of them said, waving a jumbo-size noodles pack. Raghavan uncle turned and looked. He was shocked. He double checked hastily in disbelief and realized that He had made a huge mistake. All the labels were wrong. He had accidentally used the wrong sheet of stickers. Large family packs were marked with the price of small ones. Small packets were marked double. It was all mixed up. “Oh no,” he whispered, his hands beginning to shake. He checked the entire shelf. It was the same everywhere. And then he remembered — Mr. Anbu, the floor supervisor, was about to make his morning rounds. Anbu was young, only 35 but already known for being very strict. Sharp eyes, straight walk. He was fair but very firm. He didn’t smile much and he didn’t let mistakes slide easily. Raghavan uncle felt a lump in his throat. He sat down on near the shelf with hands on his head. “I can’t afford a warning,” he whispered. “Meena’s medicines… we still have to pay this month’s bill.” Just then, he heard the sound of footsteps. “Uncle Raghavan?” came Anbu’s voice. Raghavan stood up slowly, his head low. “Sir… I made a mistake. The price labels are wrong. I will fix everything. Please… I’m sorry,” he said, both hands shaking as he apologized. There was a pause. Anbu looked at the shelf. Then at the old man. And something softened in his face. “It’s okay, Uncle,” he said quietly. “It happens.” Raghavan blinked. “You’re… really not angry?” Anbu chuckled. “May be not today. You want to know why? I was playing with my son this morning. He accidentally fell down after stepping on the ball I had thrown. You know what he said after getting up, seeing my worried face? ‘Don’t worry, Daddy. I got this.’” He paused, then added, “So today, I learned something. And I promised myself — I will try to be kind today. No shouting, no stress. I’m going to handle things like my son did.” He looked back at the noodle packets and said, “They’re just noodles, not gold. We’re just stackers, not surgeons. We can afford a mistake.” Raghavan uncle didn’t say anything at first. His eyes began to fill — not because he was in trouble, but because he wasn’t. “Thank you, sir,” he said softly, voice thick with emotion. “Thank you.” Anbu gently patted his shoulder. “Take your time, Uncle. You have taken care of this store longer than I have had a job. I trust you.” Uncle smiled and replied, “Okay, sir… now I got this. And don’t worry.” Anbu smiled softly in return, gave a little wave and walked away to start his day at the supermarket — still smiling. Later that day, as Raghavan carefully replaced the labels, he looked more alive than he had in weeks. Anbu passed by again, watching from a distance. It’s easy to be nice,” Anbu said. Raghavan uncle looked up and nodded, a quiet smile on his face. “And it makes life lighter,” he replied. Hereby, Gowtham