Change is a continuous process. You cannot assess it with the

Host: The monsoon rain drummed softly against the tin roof of a small, dimly-lit tea shop on the outskirts of Kolkata. The air was thick with the scent of wet earth, ginger, and boiling chai. Through the half-open door, the streets glimmered, slick with puddles that caught the neon signs and bent them into liquid light.

At the corner table, Jack sat — his shirt damp, collar folded, eyes shadowed with fatigue. He stirred his tea without drinking, his movements slow, mechanical. Across from him, Jeeny watched, her elbows resting on the table, fingers wrapped around a warm clay cup. The fan above creaked, turning lazy circles, scattering the smell of cardamom and steam.

On the radio, a voice rose, clear and steady — Mamata Banerjee, in an old interview, saying:
"Change is a continuous process. You cannot assess it with the static yardstick of a limited time frame. When a seed is sown into the ground, you cannot immediately see the plant. You have to be patient. With time, it grows into a large tree. And then the flowers bloom, and only then can the fruits be plucked."

The words seemed to hang in the air, mixing with the rain, seeping into the silence between them.

Jeeny: “Do you hear that, Jack? Change is a continuous process. You can’t measure it in days or months. It’s like she said — a seed takes time to grow.”

Jack: (He chuckles, low and dry.) “Easy to say when you’re not the seed, Jeeny. Ever wonder what the seed feels while it’s buried in darkness, drowning in mud, waiting for a miracle?”

Host: Jeeny tilted her head, watching him. The rain beat harder now, a steady rhythm that matched the restless tapping of Jack’s foot under the table.

Jeeny: “Maybe the seed doesn’t feel the darkness as punishment, Jack. Maybe it’s preparation. The roots form before the stem rises. It’s the same with people — we grow unseen, in pain, in silence.”

Jack: “You sound like every motivational poster I’ve ever ignored.” (He smiles, but there’s sadness in it.) “I’ve been trying to change, Jeeny. For a year now. Nothing’s different. I still wake up tired, still doubt everything. If change is happening, it’s got a damn good way of hiding.”

Host: A rickshaw passed outside, its wheels splashing through water, muting the words for a moment. Inside, the light flickered, casting shadows across Jack’s face, dividing him between light and dark, as if his own doubt was visible.

Jeeny: “You’re measuring change the wrong way. You think it’s supposed to announce itself — like a new job, or a relationship, or a fresh beginning. But sometimes change just means you didn’t break today, even when you wanted to.”

Jack: (He looks up, meeting her eyes.) “So just surviving counts as growth now?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it’s the only kind that matters. The tree doesn’t compare itself to the forest, Jack. It just keeps growing.”

Host: Jack laughed, short, sharp, almost bitter. He reached for his cup, took a sip, and winced — it was cold. The vendor, a gray-haired man with soft eyes, watched them from the counter, listening, but saying nothing.

Jack: “You talk like patience is easy. But tell that to the guy who’s lost his job, his direction, and his confidence — all while the world keeps moving without him. How long should he wait for his flowers to bloom?”

Jeeny: “Until they do.”

Host: Her voice was quiet, but it cut through the noise like a bell. Jack’s jaw tightened; he looked away, out at the street, where a boy ran barefoot through the rain, laughing as if the storm was a game.

Jeeny: “Look at him. He’s soaked, cold, probably poor. But he’s laughing. Why do you think that is?”

Jack: “Because he doesn’t know any better?”

Jeeny: “No. Because he doesn’t need a reason. He trusts the moment. You and I — we’ve forgotten how to do that.”

Host: The rain slowed, softening to a whisper. Outside, the smell of wet flowers rose, mixing with smoke from a nearby stall where bread was toasting over charcoal. Time seemed to stretch, elastic, tender.

Jack: “You really think change is still coming for me?”

Jeeny: “It’s not coming, Jack. It’s happening — right now, in the questions you’re asking, in the anger you’re feeling, in the fact that you’re still here, still trying. That’s the seed breaking its shell.”

Host: Her words hung there, gentle, but strong — like roots seeking the earth. Jack leaned back, his eyes fixed on the rain, his mind moving through memories — the failures, the mistakes, the lonely nights when nothing made sense.

Jack: “You know… my father used to plant mango trees. He’d spend weeks tending the soil, watering, checking, and there was nothing. Just mud. I’d mock him — say it was a waste of time. But one summer, three years later, the first green fruit appeared. He just smiled, like he’d been waiting all along.”

Jeeny: “See? That’s exactly it. You can’t see what’s growing until it blooms. Change doesn’t announce itself, Jack. It arrives quietly — like spring after a long winter.”

Host: A flash of lightning lit the room, white and sudden, and for a moment, both of them froze, bathed in its glow. Then came the thunder, deep, rolling, powerful — a reminder that storms, too, are part of growth.

Jack: (He nods, slowly.) “Maybe I’ve been too impatient. I wanted results, not roots.”

Jeeny: “Roots are results, Jack. You just can’t see them.”

Host: The vendor approached, smiling, placing two fresh cups of tea on their table. The steam rose, curling like spirit, softening the edges of the night.

Jeeny: “So… what will you do now?”

Jack: (He looks at the tea, then at her.) “Wait. But not idly. I’ll keep working, keep planting, even if I don’t see the tree yet.”

Jeeny: “That’s all change ever asks of us.”

Host: The rain had stopped now. Outside, the air was clear, cool, and alive with the scent of wet earth. A streetlight flickered, revealing a tiny sapling near the door, its leaves trembling, green, and new.

Jack noticed it, smiled, and murmured, “Guess even the mud can bloom.”

Jeeny nodded, her eyes shining.

Jeeny: “It always could, Jack. It just needed time.”

Host: And as they sat there — two souls in the afterglow of rain, the sound of life slowly returning to the street — the truth of Mamata Banerjee’s words echoed quietly around them:
That change is not an event, but a continuum — a breath, a root, a seed that waits, silently, until it finds its moment to become a tree.

And in that moment, even the darkness seemed to grow a little lighter.