Even when I was in Dubai, I used to host small birthday parties

Host: The night lay quiet over the city, broken only by the soft hum of neon lights and the distant rhythm of traffic. A small rooftop café overlooked the endless grid of streets below. Wind brushed against strings of light bulbs, making them sway like tiny stars caught in a human net. Jack sat by the edge, a cup of black coffee cooling between his hands, his face half hidden in the shadow of his coat collar. Jeeny sat across from him, her hair catching the city glow, her eyes deep with dreams and defiance.

Host: The air between them vibrated with a question — the kind that divides those who believe from those who merely survive.

Jeeny: “You know what I read today? Rithvik Dhanjani once said he hosted small birthday parties and events in Dubai just to make his own money — because he didn’t want to take a single rupee from his parents to chase his dream of becoming an actor.”

Jack: (smirks) “That’s… admirable, sure. But also kind of naïve. Not everyone gets to chase dreams without a safety net, Jeeny. Most people are just trying not to drown.”

Host: The smoke from Jack’s cigarette curled upward, a grey ribbon against the blue of the night. Jeeny watched it dissolve, like a hope too fragile for the wind.

Jeeny: “It’s not about privilege, Jack. It’s about ownership. About wanting to say, ‘I earned my path.’ That kind of self-respect builds character.”

Jack: “Character doesn’t pay rent. You think he’d still be saying that if his events didn’t pay off? You can romanticize struggle all you want, but passion doesn’t always feed you.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But it feeds the soul. Isn’t that worth something?”

Host: A pause. The lights flickered as a gust of wind brushed past, scattering napkins across the floor. A train horn echoed from afar, a reminder of motion, of journeys both literal and unseen.

Jack: “Let’s be real, Jeeny. Most dreamers end up broken. The world runs on money, not morals. You think Dhanjani’s story proves anything? For every one of him, there are a thousand who fail quietly.”

Jeeny: “But at least they tried. At least they didn’t live someone else’s life. That’s more than I can say for most of us — you included.”

Host: Her voice cut through the cool air, and Jack’s jaw tightened. For a moment, his eyes betrayed something — not anger, but memory.

Jack: “You think I didn’t try? I used to believe that too — that if you just worked hard, kept your heart pure, the world would somehow reward you. I learned better.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you just stopped believing too soon.”

Jack: “No, Jeeny. I started seeing. Look at the actors sleeping on footpaths, the painters selling their souls for ad jingles, the writers ghosting for influencers. The world doesn’t care how pure your intentions are. It only cares if you can sell them.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s not the world we need to change, but how we choose to stand in it.”

Host: Jeeny’s words hung in the air, trembling like flame. The city’s pulse continued below — horns, sirens, shouts — the soundtrack of human survival.

Jack: “You really think one person’s honesty can fight a whole system built on compromise?”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s how every revolution started. Gandhi didn’t have an army when he began. Rithvik didn’t have a studio. They just had belief — in their own hands, in their effort.”

Jack: (laughs softly) “You’re comparing hosting birthday parties to a revolution?”

Jeeny: “Every act of self-reliance is one. Because it says — ‘I will not beg. I will not wait. I will build.’ That’s freedom, Jack. Even if it’s small.”

Host: The wind grew gentle, carrying the scent of rain. Somewhere, a radio played an old Hindi song, its melody melting into the city’s hum.

Jack: “Freedom’s overrated. People chase it like it’s salvation. But it’s exhausting — having no one to blame but yourself.”

Jeeny: “That’s the point. When you earn something on your own, even your failures are dignified. You can look in the mirror and say, ‘This is mine.’”

Host: Jack leaned back, his eyes reflecting the streetlights below. For the first time, his smile faded — not in sarcasm, but in reflection.

Jack: “You talk like dreams are pure. But most people’s dreams are just disguised needs — for approval, fame, love. You think self-earned money makes those desires noble?”

Jeeny: “No. But it makes them real. It means you didn’t buy your identity with someone else’s credit.”

Jack: “So it’s pride.”

Jeeny: “It’s integrity.”

Host: The silence that followed was thick, like the air before rain. Jack stubbed his cigarette, and the tiny ember died in a faint sizzle. Jeeny watched, her hands wrapped around her cup, the steam fading slowly — like a dream letting go.

Jack: “You think he ever got scared? Dhanjani — or anyone like him? Hosting parties, scraping through nights, chasing auditions in a city that doesn’t care?”

Jeeny: “Of course. But he still did it. That’s what makes it courage, not fantasy.”

Jack: “Courage or desperation — hard to tell the difference sometimes.”

Jeeny: “Does it matter? The outcome defines the label. If he made it, it’s courage. If he failed, it’s foolishness. But either way, it’s human.”

Host: The rain finally began — soft at first, like whispers between forgotten gods. The drops fell onto the table, darkening the wood, dotting Jeeny’s hair with tiny sparks of water.

Jack: “You really think this world still rewards authenticity?”

Jeeny: “I don’t think it rewards it. I think it remembers it. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “And that’s enough for you?”

Jeeny: “It has to be. Otherwise, what are we even living for — imitation?”

Host: Jack looked away, his eyes tracing the rain trails down the glass railing. In that moment, something in him yielded — a crack in his well-built armor of cynicism.

Jack: “You know, when I was twenty, I wanted to be a musician. Saved for months to buy a cheap guitar. Played at bars for free. Thought I’d find meaning there. But one day, I just… stopped. I couldn’t keep justifying the hunger.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Maybe it wasn’t failure, Jack. Maybe it was pause. Not every silence is surrender.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “You make it sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “Maybe poetry is the only way to make truth bearable.”

Host: The rain came harder now, a steady rhythm like drumming hearts. The lights blurred into halos through the wet air, and the city shimmered — alive, tired, beautiful.

Jack: “So you’d rather struggle with pride than live comfortably in dependence?”

Jeeny: “Every time. Because comfort kills creation. A caged bird sings only what it’s taught. A free one sings what it feels.”

Jack: “And sometimes dies in the storm.”

Jeeny: “Then it dies alive.”

Host: Her words struck him like thunder, and for the first time, Jack didn’t reply. The sound of rain filled the space, a symphony for two souls divided by belief but united by fire.

Host: Minutes passed. The rain softened, turning into a mist. Jack reached for his cup, now filled with cold coffee, and said quietly—

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe there’s a kind of… peace in earning your scars.”

Jeeny: “There is. Because when you do, every wound tells a story — your story.”

Host: The city below glowed, as if listening. A neon sign flickered back to life, casting a warm red light on their faces — a fragile, human illumination.

Jack: “Then maybe we all have our own Dubai — a place where we start small, desperate, stubborn — hosting our own little parties just to stay in the game.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The stage doesn’t matter, Jack. The courage does.”

Host: The rain stopped. Steam rose from the streets, wrapping the city in a thin veil of hope. Jack and Jeeny sat in silence, watching the lights flicker back into motion — two souls, both still searching, but now, no longer alone.