I follow the faith of all religions. My mother gave me abundant

Host: The evening sky burned with a crimson glow, casting long shadows over the Ganges riverbank. The air was thick with incense smoke, chanting voices, and the flutter of prayer flags tangled in the breeze. A lamp flickered near the steps, its flame trembling like a fragile heartbeat. Jack and Jeeny sat on a stone bench, the river’s reflection dancing over their faces. Around them, pilgrims murmured prayers — Hindu, Muslim, Sikh, Christian — all mingled into one ancient hymn of humanity.

Jack leaned back, his grey eyes studying the crowd with detached curiosity. Jeeny sat upright, her hands clasped, her eyes glistening in the holy light. The sound of bells echoed faintly from a nearby temple, as if the world itself were breathing in faith.

Jeeny: “Jack… when Jackie Shroff said, ‘I follow the faith of all religions. My mother gave me abundant love when I was a child. She taught me the ways to lead life, and I have been a firm believer in all religions since then,’ I felt something stir inside me. Isn’t that beautiful? To belong to every faith… to see love as the common language?”

Jack: “Beautiful, yes. But also… naïve. You can’t follow all religions, Jeeny. They contradict each other — in doctrine, in ritual, even in morality. You can’t be a Christian who believes in resurrection and also a Buddhist who believes in reincarnation. Logic collapses somewhere.”

Host: A bird rose suddenly from the water, its wings scattering ripples of light. The river shimmered, like a mirror cracking under truth.

Jeeny: “Logic isn’t everything, Jack. Faith is not a formula; it’s a feeling — a way of seeing. When Jackie said his mother taught him love, he didn’t mean dogma. He meant that love transcends boundaries. Haven’t you ever felt that — something larger than yourself, something that doesn’t fit into reason?”

Jack: “Of course I’ve felt something larger — pain, maybe. Chaos. But not divine order. Look at history. Religion’s been the cause of wars, not peace. The Crusades, Partition, the Thirty Years’ War. People died screaming ‘In God’s name.’ How can anyone say they follow all religions when religion itself divides mankind?”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying with it the distant cry of a conch shell. Jeeny’s hair brushed against her cheek, a strand glinting in the firelight. Jack’s voice was steady, but his hands trembled slightly — as if the skepticism he carried weighed like iron in his chest.

Jeeny: “And yet… those same religions built cathedrals, temples, mosques, and gurudwaras — places where people found meaning, healing, forgiveness. Don’t you see? It’s not religion that divides us; it’s our egos clinging to it. Faith itself is innocent — like a child taught love before being taught fear.”

Jack: “You make it sound so simple. But love doesn’t erase contradiction. You can’t light a diya and take communion at the same time.”

Jeeny: “Why not? The flame and the bread both symbolize life. They both honor existence. When I light a candle, I don’t ask whether it’s Catholic or Hindu — I just light it. Maybe that’s what Jackie meant: to see the essence beyond the structure.”

Host: The river carried a small paper boat, its tiny candle flickering in the darkness. The boat drifted past the temple, past the mosque’s minaret, past the church tower that stood beyond the ghats. For a moment, all symbols blurred into one glowing reflection.

Jack: “You’re poetic, Jeeny. But the world isn’t built on poetry. It’s built on borders and systems. Try telling a hardline priest that you believe in every religion — you’ll be branded a heretic. People want certainty, not harmony.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s exactly why we suffer, Jack. Because we crave certainty more than understanding. Because we fear ambiguity — even though life itself is ambiguous.”

Host: A pause hung between them. The evening chants began to fade, replaced by the sound of water lapping against the stones. A dog barked in the distance, and the sky deepened into indigo.

Jeeny: “You know, my grandmother once told me a story. During the riots of 1947, a Sikh family sheltered a Muslim child in their home. They risked death to protect him. When soldiers came, they hid him in the granary. She said that day, faith wasn’t a label — it was love in action. Isn’t that religion too?”

Jack: “That’s humanity, Jeeny. Don’t call it religion.”

Jeeny: “But humanity is religion, Jack. Or at least, it’s what religion was meant to be before we twisted it.”

Host: Jack’s eyes flickered, a faint shadow crossing them. The firelight etched lines of conflict on his face — the battle between reason and yearning. He exhaled slowly, as if releasing memories he never wanted to confront.

Jack: “You talk about love like it’s a compass. But love can mislead too. Love for one’s own religion has justified hate for another. Faith, when unchecked, becomes tyranny.”

Jeeny: “So does reason. Stalin, Mao — they worshipped ideology, not God. And millions died under that faith — the faith of disbelief. It’s not belief that destroys us, Jack. It’s the lack of compassion within belief.”

Host: A gust of wind swept through, scattering ashes from a nearby pyre into the air. They floated, soft and luminous, like ghosts of old souls listening to their argument.

Jack: “You really think compassion can bridge doctrines that contradict at their core?”

Jeeny: “It already has. Look at the Dalai Lama meeting the Pope. Look at people celebrating Eid and Christmas in the same city. You think the world’s harmony is an illusion — but maybe it’s just fragile, waiting for us to believe in it.”

Jack: “Belief won’t feed the hungry or stop a bullet.”

Jeeny: “No, but it makes people want to. Every movement for justice — Gandhi’s, Martin Luther King’s — began with faith, not logic. Logic told them to stay silent. Faith told them to rise.”

Host: The fire burned lower, casting gold shadows on their faces. The night grew cooler, and a mist began to rise from the river, wrapping the world in a thin veil of stillness.

Jack: “You make me wonder sometimes… whether I lost something I didn’t even notice — some faith my mother tried to give me. Maybe that’s what Jackie was saying. Maybe his mother didn’t teach him religion, but the language of love.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The first prayer any of us ever learn isn’t spoken — it’s felt, in a mother’s touch. That’s where all religions begin: in tenderness.”

Host: A silence settled — deep, almost sacred. The river’s murmur softened, and the lamplight flickered gently on Jeeny’s face, illuminating a quiet smile.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe faith isn’t about gods or temples. Maybe it’s about the way we choose to see each other. A kind of shared reverence.”

Jeeny: “Yes… reverence. That’s the word. To live with reverence for all life — isn’t that the real religion?”

Host: Jack leaned forward, his voice low, almost a whisper.

Jack: “Then perhaps, for once, I’d like to believe in that.”

Host: The camera of dusk panned slowly across the riverbank. The chants faded into crickets, the lamps into stars. Two figures sat in quiet communion, no longer divided by thought, but joined by the humble gravity of understanding. The river flowed on, endless, carrying in its currents the whispers of a thousand faiths — all melting into the same infinite sea.