We often know only one version of the story... the version

The Indian actor and storyteller Puneet Issar spoke with penetrating wisdom when he declared: “We often know only one version of the story... the version portrayed by the person who wins a war and lives to tell the tale, and the one who loses a war is always remembered as the ‘Antagonist,’ making the victor the ‘Protagonist.’” These words remind us of the ancient truth that history is not the pure voice of the past, but the crafted tale of those who survived and triumphed. Victory does not merely crown the head with laurel—it shapes memory, it bends narrative, it molds the world’s judgment of good and evil.

For the story of the world is written not on stone tablets by impartial hands, but by men and women filled with ambition, fear, and desire. The victors, seated upon thrones, command the scribes, and thus their version becomes the canon. The vanquished, whose voices are silenced in exile, in chains, or in the grave, cannot speak their truth. And so, generation after generation, the conqueror becomes the Protagonist, draped in honor, while the defeated are cast as the Antagonist, clothed in shame. Yet wisdom bids us to remember: the roles of “hero” and “villain” are often but masks, chosen not by justice but by fortune.

History provides many examples of this. Consider Carthage, Rome’s great rival. In the Punic Wars, Rome emerged victorious, and the Roman historians told the tale: Hannibal, though brilliant, was the enemy of civilization, while Rome was the shining beacon of order. Yet to Carthage, it was Rome that was the aggressor, the destroyer, the conqueror. Who, then, was truly the Antagonist? We know only Rome’s version, for Carthage was burned to ash, and her libraries, her voices, her memories—were lost. Thus Issar’s words remind us that the truth of a war is not single but manifold, though only one version survives.

Or reflect upon the Mahabharata, that vast Indian epic where Issar himself once portrayed the fallen Duryodhana. To many, the Pandavas are the righteous Protagonists, and Duryodhana the arrogant Antagonist. Yet when viewed with other eyes, Duryodhana becomes not a monster, but a man driven by his own sense of justice, his own grievances, his own claim to honor. The tale, like history itself, shifts with the teller. Issar’s insight flows from this ancient truth: the victor’s virtue is often magnified, while the defeated’s humanity is forgotten.

What then is the lesson? It is that we, the inheritors of these stories, must listen with discernment. We must remember that every war, every conflict, every triumph of one over another, contains not one truth but many. The Protagonist and the Antagonist are roles assigned, not eternal realities. If we wish to be just, we must seek to hear the silenced voices, to imagine the world through the eyes of the defeated, the displaced, the forgotten. Only then can wisdom rise above the narrow vision of power.

For in our own lives, too, conflicts arise, and each side tells a tale that makes themselves the hero and the other the villain. How often do we cling to our own narrative, casting ourselves as the Protagonist, and those who oppose us as the Antagonist? Yet the truth, as Issar reminds us, is never so simple. To find peace, to build understanding, we must learn to see beyond the single version of the story, to hear the hidden voices, and to honor even those who have fallen.

Therefore, let this wisdom be carried forward: never accept history—or even your own quarrels—at the surface of the victor’s tale. Seek out the voices silenced, the truths forgotten, the humanity hidden in the shadows of defeat. For in doing so, you honor not only the past but also the living, ensuring that justice is not the prize of power but the light of truth. And in this way, you will learn that both Protagonist and Antagonist are but fragile masks, and that beneath them, all are simply human.