Generally speaking, if a human being never shows anger, then I

Host: The mountain monastery sat like an ancient thought carved into the stone of the Himalayas. The air was thin, clean, and edged with the quiet weight of altitude. The sky stretched endless and white above, and the wind carried with it the low, haunting echo of a prayer bell.

Inside, the monastery’s main hall glowed with the soft light of a hundred butter lamps. Incense curled upward, twisting into patterns like invisible calligraphy.

Jack sat cross-legged on the cold floor, his hands resting on his knees, his eyes half-open, fixed on a single dancing flame. Jeeny sat beside him, her posture graceful, calm — but her gaze was on him, not the flame.

Between them, an old radio whispered softly, broadcasting a rare interview with the Dalai Lama. The monk’s laughter filled the air — warm, honest, unforced. Then came the line that broke their silence:

"Generally speaking, if a human being never shows anger, then I think something’s wrong. He’s not right in the brain."

The flame flickered. Jeeny smiled. Jack didn’t.

Jack: (dryly) “Well, that’s one Buddhist principle I can actually agree with.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “You like that one because it excuses your temper.”

Jack: “No — because it tells the truth. Everyone preaches peace like it’s a moral trophy. But anger’s the one honest emotion we’ve got left.”

Jeeny: “Honest, yes. But honesty without direction burns everything down.”

Jack: “And suppression builds the lie.”

Jeeny: “The Dalai Lama isn’t saying we should live in anger. He’s saying we should acknowledge it — that it’s natural, not evil.”

Jack: “Tell that to the politicians, the priests, and the therapists who keep telling people to ‘breathe through it.’”

Jeeny: (softly) “Maybe they’re scared of what happens when someone finally stops breathing through it.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the prayer flags outside. The lamps trembled, their tiny flames bowing but not breaking. Somewhere deep in the monastery, a bell chimed — the sound long and low, like the heartbeat of the mountain itself.

Jack: “You know, when I was in the city, I used to see people walking around like bottled volcanoes. They smiled, bowed, did yoga, practiced mindfulness — all while swallowing fire. And one day, they’d explode. Usually on someone who didn’t deserve it.”

Jeeny: “Because they mistook denial for discipline.”

Jack: “Exactly. We’re all trained to be polite prisoners of our own rage. Society calls it maturity.”

Jeeny: “And you call it hypocrisy.”

Jack: “Don’t you?”

Jeeny: “No. I call it evolution.”

Jack: (scoffs) “Evolution? Containing emotion until it kills you?”

Jeeny: “No. Refining it until it transforms you.”

Jack: “You sound like a monk.”

Jeeny: “Maybe monks are just people who finally learned to speak kindly to their anger.”

Host: Jack chuckled, shaking his head. His voice dropped lower, more thoughtful.

Jack: “You ever actually feel your anger? Not just name it, but let it move through you? It’s pure. Clean. Like lightning. In that moment, you know exactly who you are and what you won’t tolerate.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But lightning can burn a village as easily as it lights a path.”

Jack: “So what — you think we should smother it?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think we should aim it.”

Jack: “At what?”

Jeeny: “At truth. At justice. At compassion that refuses to be quiet.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Anger in service of compassion. That’s poetic. And impossible.”

Jeeny: “It’s the only kind worth keeping.”

Host: The sound of chanting drifted in from another room — a low, rhythmic hum. It was both peace and resistance, ancient and new.

Jack leaned back, resting his head against the stone pillar behind him. His voice softened, losing its sharpness.

Jack: “You know what’s strange? When I was younger, I thought anger was strength. It made me feel alive. But after a while, it stopped moving me forward. It just... kept me awake. Like a fever that never broke.”

Jeeny: “That’s because anger isn’t strength. It’s the signal before strength.”

Jack: “And if the signal never ends?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you’re listening to the wrong pain.”

Host: Silence fell again. The flame between them steadied, bright and still.

Jeeny closed her eyes briefly, then spoke in a low, thoughtful tone.

Jeeny: “The Dalai Lama’s right — a person who never feels anger is broken. Because anger is awareness. It means you still notice injustice, still care enough to be disturbed by it.”

Jack: “Then why do people treat it like poison?”

Jeeny: “Because it’s easier to fear emotion than to face what it reveals.”

Jack: “And what does it reveal?”

Jeeny: “Where we still hurt.”

Host: Her words hung in the air like smoke from the candles. Jack’s eyes flicked toward her, his jaw loosening.

Jack: “So you’re saying anger’s just grief in disguise.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Grief with teeth.”

Jack: (half-laughs, half-sighs) “You’ve got a way of making everything sound beautiful, even pain.”

Jeeny: “Pain’s always been beautiful. It’s the only proof that our hearts still feel.”

Jack: “And anger?”

Jeeny: “Anger’s the heart remembering its worth.”

Host: Outside, the storm began. Rain hammered the stone roof, and the wind rushed through the cracks like the breath of an impatient god.

The monks’ chanting grew louder now, almost defiant against the storm — not as protest, but as prayer.

Jack stood and walked toward the window, watching the flags thrash wildly.

Jack: “You ever wonder how the Dalai Lama can talk about anger and peace in the same breath?”

Jeeny: “Because he understands they’re not enemies. Anger’s the shadow peace casts when the light hits something true.”

Jack: “That’s... heavy.”

Jeeny: “Truth usually is.”

Host: Jack turned back, watching Jeeny as she gathered the brushes and papers scattered on the floor. Her movements were unhurried, graceful — the kind of grace that comes from understanding both the storm and the stillness.

Jack: “So what do we do with it, then? With anger?”

Jeeny: “We listen to it. Then we let it lead us — not into rage, but into resolve.”

Jack: “Resolve.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The difference between a fire that destroys and a fire that forges.”

Jack: (quietly) “You think I could ever get there?”

Jeeny: “You’re already on the path, Jack. Anger brought you here. The rest is what you do with it.”

Host: The rain eased. The candles flickered gently again, and one by one, the monks’ voices quieted until only the sound of dripping water remained.

Jack sat back down beside her. Together they watched the single flame dance — wild, alive, refusing to die.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe the Dalai Lama’s right. A man without anger isn’t enlightened — he’s empty.”

Jack: “And a man consumed by it?”

Jeeny: “He’s blind.”

Jack: “So balance, then.”

Jeeny: “No. Awareness. Balance implies control. Awareness means acceptance.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You always make the impossible sound simple.”

Jeeny: “That’s because the truth usually is simple — it’s our resistance that makes it hard.”

Host: Outside, the sky began to clear. The storm passed, leaving the air sharp and new. A single ray of moonlight slipped through the window, catching the flame and splitting it into gold and silver.

Jack watched it quietly, then spoke, his voice almost reverent.

Jack: “Maybe anger’s not a flaw, after all. Maybe it’s the body’s way of reminding the soul that it still believes in justice.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Anger means you still believe the world can be better.”

Host: The flame steadied, the night settled.

And for the first time in a long time, Jack’s expression softened — not with peace, but with permission.

Permission to feel. To fight. To forgive.

Because as the Dalai Lama once said — and as the mountain wind now seemed to whisper —

A person who never shows anger isn’t peaceful.
He’s numb.

And tonight, under the quiet glow of flickering candles and the hum of a vanishing storm,
Jack and Jeeny sat together —
angry, alive, and utterly human.