I did my BMS from Bhavan's College in Mumbai and a post-graduate

Host: The afternoon light filtered through the tall windows of a quiet university café, painting streaks of gold across the chipped tables and half-open notebooks. Outside, the campus hummed with the soft chaos of youth — voices, footsteps, laughter, and the distant strum of a guitar carried on the wind.

Jack sat by the window, his hands wrapped around a cup of lukewarm coffee, watching the students pass — full of ambition, anxiety, and that intoxicating belief that the world was waiting just for them. Across from him sat Jeeny, her hair pulled back, her eyes alive with that same energy the world seemed to feed her.

On the table between them lay a single sheet of paper — a printed interview with Kirti Kulhari. One line was underlined in pencil:
“I did my BMS from Bhavan’s College in Mumbai and a post-graduate diploma in journalism and mass communication.”

Jeeny: “It’s such a simple sentence,” she said, tracing the underlined words with her finger. “But it feels like a lifetime tucked inside one breath.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing an academic résumé.”

Jeeny smiled. “I’m romanticizing effort.”

Host: The fan above them turned lazily, stirring the air with a soft hum. The smell of chai, books, and rain-soaked dust blended into something familiar — something that felt like nostalgia before it had a reason to exist.

Jeeny: “Think about it, Jack — a girl from Mumbai, studying business management, then journalism, then becoming an actor. Every degree, every choice — a different version of herself being born. Education isn’t just about learning. It’s about becoming.”

Jack: “Or about not knowing what you want.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s how becoming starts.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his grey eyes scanning the paper. His voice, when he spoke, was pragmatic but not unkind.

Jack: “You make it sound like destiny. But people change careers every day. Some do it out of passion, others out of confusion. The world doesn’t care where your diploma came from.”

Jeeny: “The world doesn’t care — but you do. That’s the point. You study to understand not just the subject, but yourself. Every field teaches you a different language for your thoughts.”

Jack: “Or maybe we just collect degrees the way people collect trophies — proof we tried, even if we never figured anything out.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Proof that we dared to keep trying.”

Host: The rain began outside, light at first, then steadier — a percussion of nature that seemed to match the rhythm of their conversation. Jeeny watched the droplets slide down the windowpane.

Jeeny: “When I read her line, I didn’t hear education. I heard transformation. A business student learning logic, then diving into journalism — the world of stories, voices, perspectives. And then, into acting — empathy made flesh. It’s all one long journey from numbers to souls.”

Jack: “And maybe from order to chaos.”

Jeeny: “Exactly! That’s growth.”

Host: The thunder rolled softly, and the café lights flickered once. The students nearby spoke in whispers, their faces illuminated by laptop screens and restless ambition.

Jack: “You think degrees define a person’s meaning?”

Jeeny: “No. I think pursuits do. A degree is just a map — the journey’s still yours.”

Jack: “Maps don’t show the terrain.”

Jeeny: “No. But they prove someone believed there was land beyond the horizon.”

Host: Her words floated between them, quiet but firm. Jack glanced at the printout again, at the neat black letters that spelled a stranger’s story.

Jack: “It’s funny, though — how we define ourselves by what we’ve studied. As if identity is just a sequence of disciplines.”

Jeeny: “It’s not the sequence that matters. It’s the connection between them. Business teaches structure. Journalism teaches curiosity. Acting teaches truth. When they meet, you get depth — a kind of wisdom you can’t fake.”

Jack: “So you think knowledge multiplies meaning?”

Jeeny: “No — it reveals it. Layer by layer, until who you are starts to make sense.”

Host: A waiter passed by, setting a plate of samosas between them. The scent of fried pastry mingled with the rain — the world’s simplest comfort.

Jeeny broke one in half and handed it to him. “Here,” she said. “Eat something before your logic devours you.”

Jack smirked. “You know, Jeeny, not everything has to be philosophical. Sometimes people study because it’s practical. Because it’s expected.”

Jeeny: “And yet, somehow, it always ends up being personal. Even the most practical choice becomes emotional once it changes you.”

Jack: “Or disappoints you.”

Jeeny: “Even disappointment teaches. It’s a kind of degree too — one life hands you when you weren’t looking.”

Host: The rain intensified now, drumming against the glass like the city’s heartbeat. Jeeny looked out the window, her reflection faint against the world outside.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about her quote? It’s modest. It doesn’t boast. It’s just — ‘I studied. I learned. I grew.’ There’s dignity in that simplicity. It’s the quiet kind of courage.”

Jack: “You mean the courage to admit you’re still becoming.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what most people forget — education doesn’t end with a diploma. It ends when you stop being curious.”

Host: Jack took a sip of his now-cold coffee, his gaze distant. “Maybe that’s what makes some people extraordinary,” he said. “They never stop being students — of everything.”

Jeeny: “That’s it. That’s the whole secret.”

Host: The café filled with the sound of rain and thought. Outside, the students ran across the quad, books over their heads, their laughter bright against the storm. Inside, Jack and Jeeny sat in the golden dimness — two philosophers disguised as ordinary souls sharing samosas and silence.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, I think the real post-graduate degree life gives us is in humility — realizing how little we actually know.”

Jack: “And how much there still is to taste.”

Jeeny: “Taste?”

Jack: “Knowledge. Experience. Life. Maybe curiosity is the only hunger that never ends.”

Host: The rain began to ease, leaving a soft mist that blurred the edges of the world. The café’s lights grew warmer, richer — as if the storm had washed everything clean.

Jeeny smiled, folding the paper and tucking it into her notebook. “See? Even you learned something today.”

Jack: “Maybe.” He paused, eyes flicking toward the fading light. “Or maybe I just remembered what it feels like to learn again.”

Host: Outside, the clouds broke open, and the evening sky glowed with the fragile promise of renewal. The city below was alive again — wet, luminous, infinite.

In that small café, surrounded by rain, words, and the scent of tea, Jack and Jeeny sat quietly — two students of the same invisible lesson:

That learning isn’t a chapter — it’s a pulse.
That education doesn’t end with a title — it begins with wonder.
And that somewhere between a Mumbai classroom and a dream too big for a syllabus,
someone found the courage to keep becoming.