Anger is the enemy of non-violence and pride is a monster that

Host: The temple courtyard shimmered in the faint gold of a dying sunset. The air smelled of incense and dust, of old stone and warm earth. Bells echoed softly from within, their sound carrying a vibration of peace that trembled through the trees. A small breeze moved through the marigolds, scattering orange petals across the worn steps where Jack sat, his hands clasped loosely, his eyes shadowed with thought.

Across from him, Jeeny knelt before a small stone fountain, the water reflecting the dimming light. She dipped her fingers into it, then brushed them over her forehead, her movement slow, deliberate — like someone trying to remember what calm felt like.

Jeeny: “Gandhi once said, ‘Anger is the enemy of non-violence and pride is a monster that swallows it up.’”

Jack: (dryly) “And yet the world’s run by both.”

Host: A bird called from a distance, its cry slicing through the stillness like a reminder that even peace has an edge.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why the world keeps breaking. We mistake our anger for strength, and our pride for purpose.”

Jack: “You talk like anger’s a disease. Sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps people alive.”

Jeeny: “It keeps them alive, yes. But it doesn’t keep them human.”

Host: The light shifted, sliding across Jack’s face — a face both stern and weary, carved by years of biting back words sharper than truth.

Jack: “Tell that to the oppressed. Tell it to those crushed by silence. You think Gandhi’s patience would’ve survived Twitter? Or pride-fed politics? Non-violence sounds noble until you’re the one bleeding for it.”

Jeeny: “Non-violence isn’t weakness, Jack. It’s control. It’s the hardest fight — the one against your own fire.”

Jack: “Easy for saints to say. They get remembered. The rest of us get burned.”

Jeeny: (gently) “Gandhi burned too. Just differently. He turned his pain into resistance, not rage.”

Host: The sun sank lower, spilling red light across the courtyard — a crimson hue that blurred the line between serenity and blood.

Jack: “You ever been so angry your body shook?”

Jeeny: (pausing) “Yes.”

Jack: “And did your peace help you then?”

Jeeny: “Not at first. But peace isn’t absence of anger, Jack. It’s what you build after the anger passes.”

Host: A soft wind stirred the petals at her feet, swirling them around like small, fragile flames.

Jeeny: “Gandhi understood that anger starts wars, but pride keeps them burning. The moment you feed your ego, your cause becomes about you — not truth.”

Jack: “So we’re supposed to swallow our anger and starve our pride? That’s not peace, that’s submission.”

Jeeny: “No. That’s transformation. You take your anger, you purify it. You let it drive your action, not your vengeance.”

Host: The fountain’s water rippled as she spoke, catching the last fragments of light, each wave distorting her reflection — as though even calm water could not hold still the image of truth.

Jack: “You think anger’s that simple? It’s instinct. You can’t tame it with philosophy.”

Jeeny: “No one tames fire with denial, Jack. They contain it. Use it. Gandhi didn’t erase anger; he disciplined it.”

Jack: “Discipline,” he muttered, his jaw tightening. “Another word for self-denial. I tried that once. It just made me colder.”

Jeeny: “Then you didn’t let go of pride — you just froze it.”

Host: Her voice was soft, but it struck him like truth often does — not loud, but undeniable. The bells chimed again, their tone low and haunting.

Jack: “You sound like you’ve never been proud.”

Jeeny: “Of course I have. Pride’s seductive — it pretends to be dignity. But it always asks for more than it gives.”

Jack: “And without pride, what are we? Humble servants waiting for fate to kick us again?”

Jeeny: “Without pride, we’re free. Pride builds castles and calls them prisons. The humble can walk away.”

Host: The sky dimmed further, turning violet, then deep blue. The temple lamps flickered on — small golden flames rising one by one, like stars remembering their purpose.

Jack: “You really think a world without anger or pride could survive? No revolutions, no rebellion, no art?”

Jeeny: “Anger can birth rebellion, yes. But it can’t sustain it. Pride can start art, but it can’t finish it. The truest revolutions come from love — fierce love — not fury.”

Jack: “You talk like love’s a shield.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s a weapon sharpened by mercy.”

Host: The wind picked up again, scattering petals across the stones, the colors glowing faintly in the lamplight. For a moment, the scene looked almost divine — yet painfully human.

Jack: “You know, Gandhi’s words sound good on parchment. But in the real world, peace doesn’t get headlines. Fury does.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But fury fades. Peace echoes.”

Jack: “You think non-violence would’ve stopped Hitler?”

Jeeny: (quietly) “Maybe not. But it stopped a nation from becoming him.”

Host: Silence. The kind that carries weight. The kind that feels like confession.

Jack: “So what then? You’re saying we fight without fighting?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because the moment your enemy makes you violent, they’ve already won.”

Jack: “And pride?”

Jeeny: “Pride’s worse. It turns victory into vanity.”

Host: Jack leaned back against the stone pillar, his hands folded loosely. He looked up — at the darkening sky, the stars beginning to flicker alive.

Jack: “You think Gandhi ever got angry?”

Jeeny: “Of course he did. But he turned it inward, like a blacksmith — tempering steel.”

Jack: “And what about pride? Surely even he had some.”

Jeeny: “He did. But he didn’t feed it. That’s the secret — you can’t kill pride, but you can starve it.”

Host: The lamplight caught Jeeny’s face — half in glow, half in shadow — and for a moment, she looked like a sculpture of serenity carved from breath itself.

Jeeny: “Pride whispers that you’re the center of the story. Peace reminds you that you’re part of a larger one.”

Jack: “And anger?”

Jeeny: “Anger forgets there’s a story at all.”

Host: The bells rang once more — distant, echoing, final. The sound rolled through the courtyard, as if the temple itself agreed.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? I came here tonight because I was angry.”

Jeeny: “At what?”

Jack: “At myself.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s the right kind of anger — the kind that cleanses, not destroys.”

Host: A small smile flickered across his face — tired, human, sincere.

Jack: “You think there’s redemption in restraint?”

Jeeny: “Always. Because restraint isn’t silence. It’s strength without noise.”

Host: The camera would rise then — pulling upward, away from the temple, from the two figures sitting in the soft light of peace rediscovered. The wind carried the last of the petals into the night, glowing faintly before vanishing into the dark.

Below, the fountain still rippled, endlessly — water in motion, yet always returning to stillness.

And as the scene faded, Gandhi’s words remained — whispered, not preached:

“Anger is the enemy of non-violence, and pride is a monster that swallows it up.”

But in that small courtyard, neither anger nor pride survived — only two hearts learning that peace is not the absence of fire, but the art of mastering its flame.

End.