I believe in an India of pluralism and diversity, not of

Host: The morning haze hung over the river, golden with the first touch of sunlight, carrying the scent of chai, smoke, and a quiet melancholy that seemed older than the city itself. From the balcony of a narrow apartment overlooking the ghats, the world moved in layers — saffron robes, school uniforms, beggars’ bowls, and smartphone cameras — each a fragment of the same living mosaic called India.

Host: Jack stood there, leaning on the rusted railing, watching a man release a small boat of flowers and candles into the slow current. Beside him, Jeeny sat cross-legged on a low charpoy, a newspaper folded in her lap, her eyes thoughtful, her voice quiet — like someone reading a prayer rather than a headline.

Jeeny: “Shashi Tharoor once said, ‘I believe in an India of pluralism and diversity, not of religious bigotry and caste politics. I believe in an India that is secure in itself and confident of its place in the world, an India that is a proud example of tolerance, freedom and hope for the downtrodden.’”

Jack: “He’s describing a dream that’s being rewritten.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. He’s describing the original idea — the one we keep betraying and trying to find again.”

Host: A rickshaw bell rang below, mingling with the distant call to prayer and the clang of temple bells — a living orchestra of contradiction.

Jack: “Pluralism, diversity, tolerance — they sound poetic until you try to live them. People don’t want harmony; they want power. Caste isn’t just politics here, it’s DNA. Religion isn’t faith, it’s identity. We say ‘unity in diversity,’ but we mean ‘diversity, as long as it agrees with us.’”

Jeeny: “That’s the cynic in you talking. India isn’t perfect — it never was — but it was built on the idea that contradiction could coexist. Look around you: a mosque next to a temple, a church beside a gurdwara. Where else in the world does faith sit so close to its opposites without burning?”

Jack: “You mean without burning yet. You forget the riots, Jeeny. Gujarat. Delhi. Bhagalpur. Every time someone whispers hate, the streets catch fire. Diversity becomes ammunition.”

Jeeny: “And yet, every time hate wins for a while, love returns stronger. The same people who fight also rebuild together. After the bombings in Mumbai, who cleaned the blood? Muslims, Hindus, Christians — everyone. That’s India too, Jack.”

Host: The sun climbed higher, its light spilling into the narrow lane below. Children’s laughter echoed against cracked walls painted with half-faded political slogans.

Jack: “You make it sound like the nation has a soul.”

Jeeny: “It does. And it’s tired — not broken.”

Jack: “You talk as if ideas can save countries. But democracy’s not faith, Jeeny. It’s a contract — and this one’s full of loopholes. The poor stay poor. The powerful preach nationalism while hoarding Swiss accounts. Freedom becomes a luxury product.”

Jeeny: “And yet, it still breathes here. Freedom. Do you know how rare that is? We can still argue like this, out loud, in our own country. People die for that privilege elsewhere. Maybe that’s what Tharoor meant — that belief in India isn’t blind optimism. It’s endurance.”

Host: A vendor walked past, his voice rising through the air: “Chai garam! Chai garam!” The sound blended with the distant rumble of trains — that endless pulse of Indian life, moving from slums to skyscrapers, temples to tech parks.

Jack: “You think endurance is enough? We endure corruption. We endure division. We endure politicians who weaponize gods for votes. Maybe endurance isn’t pride — maybe it’s paralysis.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Endurance is survival when idealism isn’t fashionable. You want India to be perfect. But perfection never built civilizations. Persistence did.”

Jack: “Tell that to the farmer who kills himself because his debts outweigh his harvest.”

Jeeny: “And yet his daughter studies under a streetlight because she believes tomorrow might be different. That’s the India I believe in — the one Tharoor speaks for. The India that falls but doesn’t surrender its hope.”

Host: Her words hung in the air like smoke — fragrant, aching, undeniable.

Jack: “Hope’s a dangerous thing to sell. Especially when it’s all that’s left.”

Jeeny: “It’s not all that’s left. There’s intellect, art, rebellion, compassion. Look at Kerala after the floods — strangers saving strangers. Look at protests where students hold the tricolor with one hand and the Constitution in the other. The system may be corrupt, but the soul isn’t.”

Host: A gust of wind lifted a torn poster from the wall — a politician’s smiling face flapping like a ghost of promises.

Jack: “You think quoting Tharoor can fix centuries of division?”

Jeeny: “No. But remembering voices like his reminds us what we’re supposed to be protecting. Pluralism isn’t a decoration; it’s the foundation. Without it, India’s not a nation — just geography.”

Jack: “You really think we can still be that India? The one confident, secure, tolerant? That sounds like a myth from a history textbook.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we need to rewrite the myth until it becomes real again.”

Host: Jack leaned against the railing, the river’s shimmer reflected in his tired eyes.

Jack: “You know, my grandfather used to tell me stories about the Partition. He said he saw men who’d been neighbors all their lives turn on each other overnight. But he also said — when it ended — those same men helped rebuild the houses they burned. He said forgiveness wasn’t weakness. It was the hardest kind of strength.”

Jeeny: “That’s the India Tharoor’s talking about — the one that keeps trying, even when it fails. The one that never lets cynicism win completely.”

Host: The light shifted again — brighter now, reflecting off the river, off their faces, as if the city itself was listening.

Jack: “Pluralism sounds beautiful on paper, but it’s chaos in practice. How do you keep peace when everyone’s version of truth is different?”

Jeeny: “By respecting that difference isn’t division. You don’t build unity by making everyone the same. You build it by allowing everyone to belong.”

Jack: “Belonging’s a fragile illusion.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s a deliberate act.”

Host: She stood, folding the newspaper carefully, as if handling something sacred.

Jeeny: “Tharoor isn’t describing what we are. He’s describing what we could be — if we stop mistaking tolerance for weakness and diversity for danger. An India that’s confident doesn’t need enemies to prove its strength.”

Jack: “And if it’s too late?”

Jeeny: “Then we build again. From the ruins. Like we always have.”

Host: The sound of a conch shell rose from the ghats below — a call of worship, a signal of beginning. Jack watched as more small boats floated into the river, candles flickering like fragile dreams refusing to drown.

Jack: “You ever notice how those candles always drift apart?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But they all move in the same direction.”

Host: The sun was full now — fierce, unapologetic. The city came alive in its light: shop shutters rising, vendors shouting, prayers merging with horns and laughter. Life resumed — unfiltered, unedited, and unafraid.

Host: Jack turned to her, his voice low but softened, his cynicism melting at the edges.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe believing in that India is the most radical thing we can still do.”

Jeeny: “Not just believe, Jack. Defend.”

Host: A temple bell rang — long and resonant. Somewhere, a muezzin’s call overlapped with a child’s laughter.

Host: And in that improbable harmony — part chaos, part grace — the city seemed to breathe as one, proving, for at least a moment, that Shashi Tharoor’s India was not a memory…

Host: It was still alive, stubborn, and shimmering like a thousand lights floating down a timeless river —
each one whispering the same prayer:

“Let us not forget what we are capable of — when we remember to belong.”