A great man is different from an eminent one in that he is ready

Host: The night hung heavy over the city, its streets slick with rain, its lights bleeding like wounds into the puddled asphalt. A dim lamp flickered inside a small café, tucked between forgotten alleys where the scent of coffee mingled with the ghost of thunder. Jack sat by the window, his coat draped loosely over his shoulders, a faint smoke curling from the cigarette that burned slowly between his fingers. His eyes, grey and distant, traced the movement of the rain, as if the world outside were a mirror he could not bear to face.

Jeeny entered quietly, her hair damp, her scarf clinging softly to her neck. She slid into the seat across from him, her hands wrapped around the warm cup, her eyes bright yet shadowed by thought. For a moment, they said nothing. The sound of the rain became the only voice in the room.

Host: Between them lingered the echo of a sentence, spoken earlier that day at a lecture they had both attended — a quote that now stirred the silence like a quiet challenge:

“A great man is different from an eminent one in that he is ready to be the servant of the society.”
— B. R. Ambedkar

Jack: (exhales smoke) So that’s what greatness is now — servitude. Funny how philosophers romanticize submission as if it were heroism.

Jeeny: (softly) It’s not submission, Jack. It’s service — the kind that rises from strength, not from fear.

Host: Jack leaned back, his eyes narrowing. The light caught the angle of his jaw, sharp as a blade. Jeeny’s voice, though calm, carried a quiet flame, like candlelight resisting the wind.

Jack: Service sounds noble until it becomes obedience. History is full of “great men” who served — but whom did they serve, Jeeny? Kings? Systems? Themselves under the disguise of duty?

Jeeny: True greatness isn’t about serving power; it’s about serving people. There’s a difference between being a tool and being a bridge.

Jack: (snorts) A bridge still gets walked on.

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) And yet, it’s the only thing that connects two worlds.

Host: The rain pressed harder against the glass, a rhythmic murmur that seemed to echo the pulse between their words. Jack’s hand trembled slightly as he stubbed out his cigarette, leaving a small trail of smoke rising like an unfinished thought.

Jack: Tell me then — if greatness means serving society, who decides what society needs? The same masses that cheer one idol today and destroy him tomorrow?

Jeeny: (leans forward) Maybe greatness isn’t about what society wants, but what it needs — even when it doesn’t know it.

Jack: That’s arrogance. To believe one knows better than everyone else — that’s not service, Jeeny, that’s self-deception wrapped in virtue.

Jeeny: (firmly) No. It’s courage. The courage to stand for something bigger than yourself. To fight not for your image, but for your principle.

Host: Her eyes gleamed — dark embers beneath stormlight. Jack looked away, his reflection broken by raindrops running down the windowpane.

Jack: You talk like the world rewards selflessness. But look around — the ones who rise are the eminent, not the great. The world crowns those who shine, not those who serve.

Jeeny: (quietly) Maybe the crown isn’t the reward. Maybe it’s the weight.

Host: Jack’s jaw clenched, his fingers curling into a fist on the table. The café’s clock ticked with slow, heavy beats, like a heart remembering old wounds.

Jack: (low voice) I’ve seen what service does. It breaks people. They give everything — and the world takes it like it’s owed. No applause. No memory. Just silence.

Jeeny: (gently) Maybe greatness doesn’t need applause. Maybe silence is its applause — the kind that echoes in those who were helped, not in those who watched.

Host: A pause filled the air. The rain softened, and the light from a passing car brushed across their faces — fleeting, tender, then gone. Jeeny’s voice became almost a whisper, as if she were speaking to his hurt, not his logic.

Jeeny: You confuse greatness with glory, Jack. They’re not the same.

Jack: (bitterly) Easy to say when you’ve never had to choose between survival and idealism.

Jeeny: (eyes steady) I have. We all do. Every time we decide whether to act for ourselves or for others — that’s the choice. That’s where greatness begins.

Host: A gust of wind slipped through the small crack of the window, scattering the smoke and stirring the faint smell of coffee. The tension between them pulsed like a violin string — thin, vibrating, close to breaking.

Jack: (quietly) Tell me, Jeeny — what’s the point of being a servant if no one ever listens?

Jeeny: You serve not because they listen, but because it’s right.

Jack: (grimly) Right. That old ghost. Everyone chases what’s “right” until it breaks them.

Jeeny: Maybe that’s the price of greatness — to be broken for the sake of something whole.

Host: Her words struck him like thunder, quiet but absolute. He turned away, his eyes wet with the faint reflection of streetlights, though whether from emotion or exhaustion, none could tell.

Jack: (after a long silence) You really believe that a man’s worth is measured by what he gives?

Jeeny: Yes. Because everything else fades — beauty, fame, intellect — but what you give to others becomes the part of you that doesn’t die.

Jack: (softly) Then maybe I’ve already died.

Jeeny: (reaches out, her hand trembling) No. You’re just waiting to be reborn in what you give.

Host: Their hands almost touched — almost — like two planets caught in opposing orbits. The sound of the rain returned, softer now, like forgiveness descending upon the city.

Jack: (leans back, exhaling) So greatness is servitude, after all. Not to men, but to meaning.

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) To meaning, yes. To humanity. To the invisible thread that ties one life to another.

Jack: (nods slowly) And eminence — that’s the illusion. The man on the pedestal sees less than the one in the crowd.

Jeeny: Exactly. Because the one who kneels to serve stands taller than any throne.

Host: The rain ceased entirely. The clouds parted, and a pale light from the moon spilled across the table, washing over their faces with quiet grace. The steam from the forgotten cups rose like ghosts of unspoken thoughts.

Host: For a moment, they both looked beyond the window, watching the world glisten — fragile, renewed, imperfectly whole. In that silence, something like understanding passed between them, as though both had glimpsed the same invisible truth: that greatness is not found in the roar of recognition, but in the stillness of giving.

Jeeny: (softly) The world remembers the eminent. But it lives because of the great.

Jack: (with a faint smile) Then maybe it’s better to live in its memory than in its applause.

Host: The moonlight caught the edge of his smile, turning it to silver. Jeeny returned it — a quiet acknowledgment of victory not over each other, but over the distance between their hearts.

Host: Outside, the streets gleamed. The city, once drenched in rain, now shimmered beneath the gentle light — as if the world, too, had listened, and understood.