I am a straight, non-alcoholic, non-partying guy who speaks

Host: The night sky above the city shimmered like a sequined jacket — bold, unapologetic, alive with the pulse of neon signs and distant bass. The rooftop bar was nearly empty, long after the crowd had gone. The music had quieted to a hum, the lights dimmed to amber, the glasses left sweating on tables like abandoned trophies of the night.

Jack sat near the edge of the terrace, elbows resting on the cold railing, the glow of a cigarette tracing his silhouette against the skyline. His jacket was unbuttoned, tie loose, eyes half-lidded with the kind of tiredness that comes after too much thinking disguised as drinking.

Across from him, perched on a high stool, Jeeny stirred her mocktail idly, the clinking of ice cubes cutting through the low hum of a city too awake to rest. Her dark hair caught the reflection of billboard lights — pink, green, gold — like thoughts flickering in motion.

Jeeny: softly, reading from her phone, her tone both amused and contemplative
“Yo Yo Honey Singh once said, ‘I am a straight, non-alcoholic, non-partying guy who speaks straight. I have no knowledge of literature. This is my language of communication, and what I see, what I observe, I reflect.’”

Jack: chuckling under his breath, flicking ash off the railing
“Now there’s a poet who’d never admit to being one.”

Jeeny: grinning faintly
“That’s exactly what makes it poetic, Jack. He’s not dressing truth in metaphor. He’s serving it raw — no garnish, no intellectual flair. Just reflection.”

Host: The wind picked up, carrying the faint scent of rain mixed with city smoke. Below, the street buzzed with scooters and laughter, a living symphony of contradiction — grime and glitter, noise and sincerity.

Jack: leaning back, squinting at the skyline
“You know what I like about that quote? It’s honest. He’s not pretending to be what he’s not. No fake humility, no fake sophistication. Just—‘this is me.’”

Jeeny: nodding, her tone thoughtful
“It’s rare, isn’t it? People are always trying to sound clever, to sound cultured. But Singh doesn’t apologize for simplicity. He turns it into identity.”

Jack: half-smiling
“Simplicity’s a revolution these days. Everyone’s fluent in pretense but tongue-tied in truth.”

Host: The sound of a passing train rumbled faintly through the night, its distant whistle cutting through the fabric of their conversation like punctuation — long, haunting, final.

Jeeny: quietly
“‘This is my language of communication.’ That’s such an important line. He’s not trying to impress. He’s just saying — this is the way I see the world. You don’t have to like it, but you can’t deny it’s real.”

Jack: softly, nodding
“Yeah. You don’t have to speak Shakespeare to be honest. Some people’s poetry lives in beats, in slang, in the rhythm of their city. Honey Singh’s Delhi is his Dostoevsky.”

Jeeny: smiling, tilting her head
“You’d never say that about yourself.”

Jack: grinning faintly, shaking his head
“Because I’m too busy trying to sound like I read Dostoevsky.”

Host: The city lights reflected in their glasses, tiny constellations of civilization — artificial stars made by people who still craved the natural ones.

Jeeny: after a pause
“I think what he’s saying is deeper than it sounds. He’s saying art doesn’t need education — it needs observation. That truth is democratic. Anyone with eyes can tell it, if they have the courage not to decorate it.”

Jack: leaning forward now, voice low but engaged
“That’s the thing, isn’t it? The world confuses polish with depth. But rawness — rawness is where authenticity hides. Singh doesn’t quote philosophers — he embodies one.”

Jeeny: softly
“Exactly. He reflects what he sees — no moralizing, no filter. Just mirror and microphone.”

Host: The rain began in thin, hesitant drops, speckling the steel railing. The air felt cooler now, fresher, as though even the city was exhaling.

Jack: gazing out at the skyline, voice softer now
“I envy that kind of freedom. Saying exactly what you see, without trying to sound smarter than you are.”

Jeeny: gently
“Freedom like that takes guts. We hide behind sophistication because honesty feels naked.”

Jack: smiling faintly
“Yeah. And nakedness terrifies people more than lies ever did.”

Host: The rain thickened, the sound of it joining the hum of the city — a percussive beat that matched the rhythm of their words. The street below gleamed like a mirror of neon and wet asphalt — the world reflected back in fractured truth.

Jeeny: quietly, her voice almost blending with the rain
“Sometimes I think people like him — Honey Singh, street poets, rappers — they do the philosopher’s work better than academics. They capture life in motion, not on paper. They say what the world looks like when no one’s grading it.”

Jack: nodding slowly, voice low
“They speak in heartbeat instead of theory.”

Jeeny: smiling
“Exactly.”

Host: The raindrops hit their empty glasses, small ripples forming, overlapping — like thoughts colliding gently but refusing to drown each other.

Jack: softly
“I think there’s something sacred in that. Not needing polish to have purpose. Not needing literature to make meaning.”

Jeeny: nodding
“That’s what I love about that quote. It’s not anti-intellectual. It’s anti-pretense. He’s saying — life itself is language. Observation is enough.”

Jack: quietly, after a pause
“Then maybe the truest artists aren’t the ones who invent beauty — they’re the ones who reflect it before anyone else dares to look.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly
“Even if what they reflect isn’t pretty.”

Host: The rain slowed, the droplets now lazy, rhythmic. The sky had gone black except for the neon glow from the streets — red, green, yellow, alive.

And in that luminous quiet, Yo Yo Honey Singh’s words seemed to hum between them —
not as confession, but as declaration:

That art doesn’t require approval — only authenticity.
That truth spoken plainly has more poetry than any verse dressed in artifice.
And that to reflect what you see, without fear or polish, is to honor the world exactly as it is.

Jeeny: softly, pulling her coat tighter
“Maybe that’s the kind of honesty the world’s missing — the kind that doesn’t try to impress.”

Jack: smiling faintly
“Yeah. Honesty that rhymes with reality.”

Host: The rain stopped, leaving only the soft drip of water from the edges of the awning. The air smelled new, raw, alive.

They sat in silence — two observers, two mirrors —
reflecting the beauty, the chaos, and the truth of the world that didn’t need translating.