He who is overly attached to his family members experiences fear

Host: The monsoon rain fell in curtains, silver and ceaseless, against the corrugated roof of a small house on the outskirts of Delhi. The air was heavy with earth and smoke, the smell of wet clay and boiling chai mingling in a warm, restless symphony.

Through the open window, the sound of a train rumbled faintly in the distance—a reminder that movement and stillness were forever intertwined.

Inside, Jack sat on a wooden bench, hands wrapped around a cup, watching the steam rise and disappear. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against the wall, barefoot, dressed in a cotton sari, her eyes calm, serene, like someone who’d made peace with impermanence.

Between them, a small notebook lay open, the page marked with the words written in ink, almost washed by humidity:
“He who is overly attached to his family members experiences fear and sorrow, for the root of all grief is attachment. Thus one should discard attachment to be happy.” — Chanakya.

Jeeny: “It’s true, you know. Attachment is a chain—beautiful, perhaps, but still a chain.”

Jack: (quietly) “You sound like you’re quoting a monk, not a woman who loves.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I’m both.”

Host: A flash of lightning lit the room, and for a second, both their faces were etched in that brief, sacred light—his, tired and wary; hers, still, radiant, unshaken.

Jack: “You really think you can love without attachment?”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s the only kind of love that doesn’t hurt.”

Jack: “Then it’s not love. It’s apathy dressed as wisdom.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s clarity. Love without possession. Caring without clinging. Holding someone the way you hold the rain—you feel it, but you don’t try to keep it.”

Jack: (bitterly) “Easy to say until the rain stops.”

Host: The rain pounded harder, as if to argue with him. Thunder rolled, deep and distant, like the voice of some ancient truth that refused to be forgotten.

Jeeny: “You think attachment makes you stronger, but it makes you fragile. Because once the thing you’re clinging to is gone, you shatter with it.”

Jack: “And what’s your alternative? To float through life like a ghost, never loving anything enough to lose it?”

Jeeny: “To love fully and still let go. That’s what freedom means. That’s what Chanakya was trying to teach.”

Jack: (scoffing) “Easy for a philosopher. He didn’t have a daughter or a wife to bury.”

Jeeny: “Do you really think pain skips the wise? No, Jack. They just refuse to let pain own them. You’ve built your whole life around the fear of losing—and that’s why you’ve already lost.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, his hands trembled slightly as he set the cup down. The chai sloshed, staining the table, spreading like a small map of his unease.

Jack: “You talk like detachment is some kind of armor, Jeeny. But it’s just loneliness with better marketing. You start letting go of everyone, and you’ll wake up one day with nothing left.”

Jeeny: “And yet that’s the moment you’re truly free. When there’s nothing left to lose, there’s nothing left to fear.”

Jack: “That’s not freedom. That’s numbness.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Numbness is when you’re too afraid to feel without control. Freedom is when you can feel and still release.”

Host: The rain eased, falling now in gentle, rhythmic drops. Outside, a dog barked, a child laughed somewhere down the street—the world slowly returning to its pulse.

Jack: “You really believe the root of all grief is attachment? What about love? What about the grief that comes because you actually care?”

Jeeny: “That’s not grief—that’s gratitude misunderstood. When someone you love is gone, the pain you feel isn’t their absence, Jack. It’s your refusal to let them go.”

Jack: “You make it sound like letting go is a virtue.”

Jeeny: “It is. The highest one. Because when you can love without needing, you’ve finally understood what love really is.”

Host: She moved closer, kneeling by the bench, her voice soft, but her eyes piercing.

Jeeny: “Think about it. Every fear you’ve ever had—losing, failing, hurting—all of it comes from attachment. You’re not afraid of pain, Jack. You’re afraid of change.”

Jack: (whispering) “Because change means endings.”

Jeeny: “No. It means beginnings.”

Host: The light from the street filtered through the rain, falling across her face like a halo. Jack looked at her, and for a moment, his expression cracked—something soft, almost childlike, flashing through the armor.

Jack: “You know… when my mother died, I promised myself I’d never get close to anyone again. I thought that was wisdom. Maybe it was just cowardice.”

Jeeny: “It was fear pretending to be wisdom. The heart isn’t meant to be empty, Jack. It’s meant to flow. You can’t dam it without drowning.”

Jack: “So what do I do? Just love and lose, over and over?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Love and lose until you learn that nothing was ever truly yours to keep. Then you’ll stop losing, because you’ll stop clinging.”

Host: The storm had passed. The sky was clear, and the smell of wet soil was thick with life. The sound of crickets began again, their song rising like a gentle rebirth.

Jack stood, walked to the window, and watched the last of the raindrops slide down the glass—each one a tiny, brief, shining world.

Jack: “You make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s the hardest thing in the world—to love fully and let go completely. That’s why so few ever find peace.”

Jack: “And you?”

Jeeny: “I’m still learning to open my hands.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back, the rain-slick roof, the distant train, the two of them framed in the warm, golden glow of a lamp. The storm was gone, but its lesson remained—quiet, eternal.

Because in the end, as Chanakya knew,
it’s not loss that breaks us—
it’s the illusion that anything was ever ours to lose.