Although you may spend your life killing, You will not exhaust

Host: The temple stood on a mountain ledge, carved from ancient stone, weathered by centuries of wind and silence. The air was thin, laced with the scent of pine and incense, and the distant sound of a bell echoed through the valley — a note so clear it seemed to hang between heaven and earth.

Jack sat on the temple steps, his head bowed, his hands clasped around a small, unlit candle. His breath rose in faint clouds, merging with the mountain mist. Beside him, Jeeny stood near the edge, watching the sunrise bleed into the sky — slow, deliberate, inevitable.

Host: It was dawn — that fragile hour between darkness and forgiveness. The kind of light that asks nothing but honesty.

Jeeny: “Nagarjuna once said, ‘Although you may spend your life killing, you will not exhaust all your foes. But if you quell your own anger, your real enemy will be slain.’”
Her voice was low, the words falling gently, but carrying a weight as sharp as the cold mountain air. “Do you think he meant that literally, Jack? That every war is just a mirror of an inner one?”

Jack: He looked up slowly, his eyes hollow yet bright, like coals still smoldering. “If that’s true,” he said, “then I’ve been at war with myself for years — and losing.”

Host: The wind passed through the cedars, scattering leaves across the steps like fragments of forgotten thoughts. The temple bell rang again, its sound pure and merciless.

Jeeny: “What are you fighting?” she asked softly.

Jack: “Everything,” he said. “People. Regret. The past. Sometimes it feels like the world keeps sending enemies because it knows I need them.”

Jeeny: “Or because you keep creating them,” she said.

Host: He flinched slightly — not from her tone, which was gentle, but from the truth embedded in it. The candle in his hands flickered to life at last, trembling like a confession.

Jack: “You make it sound like I want to be angry.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not want, but need. Anger can feel like purpose when everything else falls apart.”

Jack: “So what, I should just forgive everyone? Forget what they did?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, her gaze fixed on the horizon. “Forgiveness isn’t amnesia. It’s clarity. It’s seeing the wound without worshiping it.”

Host: Her words drifted into the thin air, mingling with the rising light. The mountain woke slowly around them — the rustle of small animals, the faint hum of prayer flags moving in the wind.

Jack: “You sound like a monk,” he said bitterly. “Easy to talk about peace from a mountain top. But what about those who’ve been hurt beyond repair?”

Jeeny: “Even they have to face their anger,” she said quietly. “Because it’s not about the world anymore — it’s about what’s still burning inside. You think holding on protects you. But it’s the fire that’s killing you, not the enemy.”

Host: He stared at her for a long moment, the muscles in his jaw tightening. The rising sunlight reached the temple steps now, washing over the stone in shades of gold and ash.

Jack: “You know,” he said finally, “my father once told me, ‘The man who wronged you will live rent-free in your head until you forgive him.’ I told him forgiveness was weakness. He said hate was slavery.”

Jeeny: “Your father was wise,” she said. “Because Nagarjuna’s truth isn’t moral — it’s practical. You can kill a thousand enemies, but the war never ends until you disarm the one within.”

Host: The candle in Jack’s hand flickered again, a fragile flame dancing between his fingers. For the first time, he looked not at the horizon, but inward — as though the fire were a mirror.

Jack: “It’s strange,” he murmured. “Anger makes you feel alive. It’s like blood — hot, pulsing, righteous. But once it cools… all that’s left is emptiness.”

Jeeny: “That emptiness is peace,” she said. “It just feels strange because you’ve lived too long inside the storm.”

Host: The temple door creaked open behind them, and an old monk appeared — small, serene, eyes like polished stones. He nodded at them, then disappeared back inside, the scent of sandalwood following in his wake.

Jack: “You ever been so angry,” he said, “that you forget what started it? You just carry it around because it’s familiar?”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said. “It’s like a ghost you stop trying to exorcize because it’s the only company you trust. But ghosts fade when you stop feeding them.”

Jack: “And how do you stop feeding it?” he asked. “When it feels like it’s part of who you are?”

Jeeny: “By realizing it’s not your nature,” she said. “It’s your armor. You built it to survive. But the war is over, Jack. You just haven’t accepted the ceasefire.”

Host: The sunlight reached her face now, lighting her eyes until they seemed almost translucent — like the sky itself had stepped closer to listen. Jack looked away, his breath unsteady, his hands tightening around the small flame that danced between them.

Jack: “You know what scares me?” he said. “If I let go of the anger — what’s left? Who am I without it?”

Jeeny: “Free,” she said simply. “You’ll be free.”

Host: He laughed once — a broken, uncertain sound. The kind that comes when laughter and tears are indistinguishable.

Jack: “Freedom sounds emptier than I expected.”

Jeeny: “Because you’re still hearing it through the noise,” she said. “Silence always sounds hollow at first. But stay in it long enough, and you’ll realize — that’s where truth speaks.”

Host: The flame in his hand steadied. The wind, once fierce, softened to a whisper. The mountain was fully awake now — the light spilling down its slopes like slow revelation.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Nagarjuna meant,” he said quietly. “That the real enemy isn’t hate or pain, but the illusion that we need them.”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said. “The world outside us will always give us battles. But victory only happens here—” she touched her chest lightly, “—where the fire meets understanding.”

Host: He nodded, slowly, as though something deep inside him had unclenched for the first time in years. Then he placed the candle on the temple step beside him. The wind touched it — but the flame didn’t die.

Jack: “You know,” he said, “maybe killing anger isn’t a death at all. Maybe it’s the only kind of rebirth that matters.”

Jeeny: “Exactly,” she said, smiling faintly. “The war ends not with a sword, but with surrender.”

Host: The bell rang again, long and resonant, echoing across the valley like the heartbeat of the mountain itself. The last of the mist began to lift, revealing the vast world below — endless, intricate, and newly quiet.

Host: Jack closed his eyes, breathed deeply, and for the first time in a long while, did not feel the urge to fight. The candle’s glow flickered against the dawn — small, steadfast, eternal.

Host: And in that quiet, illuminated stillness, Nagarjuna’s words found their perfect shape —
that no number of slain enemies can equal one conquered self;
that the true battlefield is not the world, but the mind;
and that to extinguish anger is not to lose one’s fire —
but to finally become its light.