As a human being, anger is a part of our mind. Irritation also

Host: The night hung heavy over the city, its lights flickering like dying stars in a misty sky. A soft rain whispered against the windows of a small tea house, where steam curled gently above two cups. The room smelled of jasmine and wet earth. Outside, the streets glistened with the silver reflections of passing cars, but inside, silence reigned — the kind of silence that holds words before they’re spoken.

Jack sat near the window, his face half-shadowed by the dim lantern light. His hands were wrapped around a cup, not for warmth, but for control. Across from him, Jeeny’s eyes were calm, but beneath them simmered a sadness he couldn’t quite name.

Jeeny: “Do you ever feel it, Jack? That burn that rises inside — the anger that wants to take over everything?”

Jack: “Feel it? I live with it.” (He lets out a sharp laugh, the kind that hides pain.) “You think people survive this world by being calm? You think the Dalai Lama’s words fit in a world where everyone’s out to take something from you?”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier, drumming softly on the roof. Light flickered through the window, scattering across Jack’s grey eyes — cold, alert, but deeply tired.

Jeeny: “He said — ‘Anger is part of our mind. Irritation too. But you can let it come, and let it go.’ I think he meant we don’t have to become it. We can watch it pass, like clouds.”

Jack: “Watch it pass?” (He leans forward, his voice low.) “Tell that to a man who’s just lost his job, or a mother who can’t feed her child. Anger isn’t a cloud then, Jeeny. It’s fire — and sometimes that fire keeps you alive.”

Host: Jeeny’s fingers trembled slightly as she lifted her cup. The steam veiled her face like fog hiding a mountain.

Jeeny: “But fire also burns, Jack. It leaves ashes. You say it keeps us alive, but for how long before it consumes what’s left of us?”

Jack: “And what’s the alternative? To smile through the hurt? To pretend injustice doesn’t exist? Anger built revolutions, Jeeny. Without it, we’d still bow to kings and call it peace.”

Jeeny: “You’re right — some anger awakens change. But the quote isn’t about erasing anger, Jack. It’s about not letting it live inside you. Look at Mandela — twenty-seven years in prison, and he walked out without bitterness. He said, ‘As I walked out the door toward the gate that would lead to my freedom, I knew if I didn’t leave my bitterness and hatred behind, I’d still be in prison.’”

Host: Jack’s eyes flickered, as if a flame inside him dimmed for a moment. The rain eased into a drizzle, and the sound of distant traffic hummed like a soft pulse.

Jack: “Mandela was a saint. Not all of us can carry that kind of forgiveness.”

Jeeny: “No, he wasn’t a saint. He was human. That’s the point. He got angry, too. He just didn’t keep it. That’s what the Dalai Lama means — ‘Never keep it in your inner world.’ Because when you do, it turns into distrust, suspicion, and worry. And then it eats your peace from the inside.”

Host: The air between them tightened, filled with the smell of tea and storm. Jack’s jaw flexed, as if the weight of every unspoken word pressed against his throat.

Jack: “Peace doesn’t pay the bills, Jeeny. Anger, fear, pressure — they keep the engine running. That’s the world we live in. You think a CEO, a soldier, a politician can survive by meditating their emotions away? No. They use their rage to build, to dominate, to win.”

Jeeny: “And in doing so, they build walls — around themselves, around everyone. Look at how we live now — so connected, yet so suspicious of each other. Anger became our language. We argue before we understand. We destroy before we heal.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, but her eyes held fire. Jack leaned back, watching, his fingers tracing the rim of the cup. Outside, a bus passed, splashing puddles onto the sidewalk.

Jack: “You sound like you’re preaching peace to a world that doesn’t listen.”

Jeeny: “I’m not preaching. I’m remembering. Because if we forget how to be still — even for a moment — then we lose the part of us that’s truly human.”

Jack: “Stillness doesn’t stop pain, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No. But it stops pain from becoming your identity.”

Host: The words lingered between them, heavy and soft. For a moment, neither spoke. The lantern above them flickered, casting shadows that danced like ghosts on the walls.

Jack’s breathing slowed. He looked toward the window, where the rain had thinned into a gentle mist.

Jack: “You know… when I was younger, I used to think anger made me strong. My father always said, ‘Never let them see you weak.’ So I held it in — every insult, every betrayal. I thought it made me tougher. But after he died… I realized I’d become just like him — hard, cold, and always ready to fight.”

Jeeny: (softly) “It’s hard to let go of what feels like armor.”

Jack: “Yeah. Because without it, you feel naked.”

Host: A single drop of water fell from the edge of the roof, landing on the windowpane. The sound echoed like a heartbeat.

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s the beginning of real strength — when you can stand there, bare and honest, without needing to strike back.”

Jack: (quietly) “And what if they strike first?”

Jeeny: “Then you stand firm — not with anger, but with clarity. There’s a difference.”

Host: The room filled with a long silence, as though the world itself had paused to listen. Outside, a faint light broke through the clouds, touching the wet street with a thin silver glow.

Jack looked at Jeeny — really looked at her — and something inside him softened, like ice melting at the first touch of spring.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the point isn’t to kill the fire, but to keep it from burning the house.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Exactly. Let it come, let it go. But don’t build your home in its flames.”

Host: The lantern flickered one last time, then steadied. The rain stopped completely. The city outside hummed with quiet life, as if taking a deep, collective breath.

Jack reached for his cup again, this time not to hold back his tremor, but simply to feel the warmth.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, for someone who talks about letting go, you sure know how to hold onto hope.”

Jeeny: “Hope doesn’t weigh much, Jack. It fits easily — even in tired hands.”

Host: And as they sat there, two souls adrift in the quiet hour before midnight, the world outside began to glow — soft lights flickering against the wet pavement, reflections shimmering like a promise.

In the stillness, their hearts understood what words could not: that anger, though born of the human mind, need not be its master — and that to let it pass is not weakness, but a profound act of freedom.

The scene closed with the faintest echo of laughter, like the sound of rain returning — gentle, cleansing, and real.