As far as the public is concerned, India is amazingly secular.

Host: The evening light had begun to fade over the old part of the city, spilling molten orange across a mosaic of rooftops and temple domes, the faint call to prayer weaving through the air like smoke. The smell of roasted corn and diesel mingled in the streets, where vendors packed away their stalls and children chased each other barefoot through the narrow lanes.

Inside a small tea house, the kind where the walls remembered more than they revealed, two figures sat across from each other — Jack and Jeeny. The ceiling fan turned lazily above, whispering the rhythm of a country both old and endlessly young.

Jack stirred his tea — absentminded, deliberate — while Jeeny watched the light on his face flicker between dusk and thought.

Jeeny: “You were quiet during the film.”

Jack: “It was worth being quiet for. Shah Rukh said something near the end — ‘As far as the public is concerned, India is amazingly secular.’ I’ve been thinking about that.”

Host: Outside, the evening deepened. A mosque glowed green in the distance, a temple’s bells chimed faintly nearby, and somewhere unseen, a church clock struck seven.

Jeeny: “You think he’s right?”

Jack: “I think he’s half right.”

Jeeny: “Half?”

Jack: “Yeah. The idea of India is secular — brilliantly, almost miraculously so. But the practice of India… that’s more complicated.”

Jeeny: “Complicated doesn’t mean false, Jack.”

Jack: “No. It means human. We’re all walking contradictions. The country just makes them louder.”

Host: Jeeny smiled faintly, tracing a circle on the wooden table with her fingertip — slow, thoughtful.

Jeeny: “I think that’s what he meant — not perfect secularism, but public coexistence. The fact that, somehow, despite everything — riots, politics, fear — people still share space, water, and laughter.”

Jack: “And cinema.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You’ve seen how it works — in a single theatre, Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Sikhs all sit together, cheering for the same hero. For three hours, there’s no division, only story.”

Jack: “That’s the tragedy, though, isn’t it? That it takes fiction to unite reality.”

Host: The light dimmed, slipping toward blue. A waiter passed by, refilling their glasses with steaming chai. The steam curled upward, carrying whispers of cardamom and memory.

Jeeny: “You sound like you don’t believe in people anymore.”

Jack: “I believe in individuals. I just don’t trust crowds.”

Jeeny: “But the ‘public’ is a crowd — and he said the public is secular. That means something, doesn’t it? When the majority chooses coexistence, even while politicians choose division?”

Jack: “Maybe. But I think the public’s tolerance is fragile — like glass. We keep celebrating our unity until someone drops it.”

Jeeny: “And yet it keeps being remade, doesn’t it? Every time it shatters, someone mends it — a neighbour helping another, a stranger stopping a fight, a film that reminds people to hope again.”

Host: Her eyes glowed softly in the amber light; conviction flickered there like a small, steady flame.

Jeeny: “You know, I once read about the Bombay train blasts in 2006 — how ordinary people, regardless of religion, rushed to help the wounded. No one asked who believed what. That’s what secularism looks like when the cameras aren’t watching.”

Jack: “And yet the same city burned years before that. The same people who helped, once turned on each other. How do you explain that?”

Jeeny: “Because love and hate aren’t opposites here — they’re neighbours. They share a wall, and sometimes, they trade windows.”

Host: Jack’s eyes flickered toward the window. Outside, a young boy in a skullcap was buying sweets from an old man wearing a red tilak. They laughed together — unbothered, unobserved.

Jack: “You think that’s enough? A few kind gestures in a sea of suspicion?”

Jeeny: “It’s not about enough, Jack. It’s about persistence. The miracle isn’t that India is secular — it’s that it keeps trying to be.”

Jack: “And what happens when the trying stops?”

Jeeny: “Then it won’t be India anymore.”

Host: The room seemed to grow quieter. Even the fan slowed its rhythm, as though the air itself was listening.

Jack: “It’s strange — I’ve lived here for years and still can’t decide whether we’re naïve or resilient.”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. Naïve enough to hope, resilient enough to survive disappointment.”

Jack: “You sound like the Constitution.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “It’s the one book in this country that believes in everyone equally. Someone has to.”

Host: The electricity flickered, then steadied. The tea house now glowed in a halo of amber, the only pool of light in the darkening street.

Jack: “You think people still believe in secularism — genuinely, not politically?”

Jeeny: “I think they believe in their neighbour’s humanity, even if they don’t say the word ‘secular.’ It’s not ideology here; it’s instinct. The farmer who shares his well, the family who breaks fast together in Ramadan even if they’re Hindu, the shopkeeper who puts both Ganesh and Allah on his counter.”

Jack: “So you think the people carry what the politicians forget.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And that’s what Shah Rukh meant. He wasn’t talking about laws or speeches. He was talking about us — the quiet majority that refuses to hate.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his face half in shadow, half in lamplight. The noise of a distant train filled the pause between their thoughts.

Jack: “You know what’s ironic? The same public that celebrates a Muslim superstar can also cheer a leader who divides them in his name.”

Jeeny: “That’s not irony, Jack. That’s complexity. Humans are walking paradoxes. They love symbols more than sense. But somewhere deep down, they still know how to love.”

Host: The rain began again, softly tapping on the tin roof — a rhythm both mournful and alive.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what amazes him — that despite every reason to fall apart, we keep sitting next to each other, watching the same movie, laughing at the same lines.”

Jeeny: “Because shared stories are stronger than shared fears.”

Jack: “And yet, stories end.”

Jeeny: “But the telling never does.”

Host: Silence settled between them — warm, contemplative. The kind of silence that doesn’t end conversations, but deepens them.

Jeeny: “Do you know what I think secularism really means here?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “That a Muslim actor can play a Hindu god, a Christian girl can sing bhajans, and a Sikh kid can dance to qawwali — and no one in the audience leaves.”

Jack: “And yet, somewhere, someone will still object.”

Jeeny: “Of course. But they’ll be outnumbered — not by votes, but by applause.”

Host: Jack’s lips curved into a faint smile. He looked around — at the old walls, the painted gods fading into plaster, the waiter humming a Bollywood tune from another age.

Jack: “You’re right. The public is amazingly secular. Maybe not always in mind, but definitely in heart.”

Jeeny: “And the heart is the only place where coexistence truly begins.”

Host: Outside, the rain eased into drizzle. The temple bell rang again, followed by the evening azaan. The two sounds overlapped — not in conflict, but in conversation.

Jeeny: “Listen to that.”

Jack: “Yeah. Harmony disguised as noise.”

Host: They sat there until the light dimmed completely, two figures framed against the hum of a city that refused to give up its contradictions. And as the camera slowly panned outward — over rooftops, temples, mosques, neon lights, and rain-slicked streets — one truth seemed to hum beneath it all:

That for all its chaos, pain, and history, this land still found ways to sing in unison — not perfectly, but amazingly.