I hail from a middle class educated family and now that God is

Host: The evening light poured softly over the hills of Bangalore, turning the air into a gentle haze of gold and dust. Somewhere far below, the city pulsed — a sprawling sea of movement, honking, and human sound. But up here, in a quiet courtyard behind an old temple, all was calm.
A breeze carried the scent of sandalwood and rain-soaked earth. The bells from the temple chimed softly in the distance.

Jack sat on the low steps, his shirt sleeves rolled up, his hands marked faintly by the traces of labor — the kind not from war or business, but from life’s quieter struggles. Jeeny stood near a small lamp, lighting a wick with careful precision, her fingers trembling slightly in the breeze.

Jeeny: softly “Sudha Murty once said, ‘I hail from a middle class educated family and now that God is kind to me by giving me enough money, I want to share it with others.’”

Host: Her voice carried gently, like the light from the flame she’d just kindled — small, warm, sincere.

Jack: without turning his head “That’s a nice sentiment. But I’ve never trusted the word ‘share’ when it comes from the rich.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “You think kindness is a mask?”

Jack: “I think generosity has a price tag. Nobody gives without gaining something — respect, peace of mind, control, maybe even redemption. People share because it feels better than guilt.”

Host: The flame flickered between them, casting thin shadows across their faces. Jeeny looked at Jack the way one looks at an old wound — not to hurt it, but to understand it.

Jeeny: “You mistake gratitude for guilt, Jack. Murty’s not buying redemption. She’s remembering where she came from — that’s the difference.”

Jack: shrugging “Memory doesn’t make people moral. Everyone remembers being poor, but not everyone gives back. Maybe she’s the exception, sure. But it doesn’t change the rule: money changes people. It always does.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe she’s proof that it doesn’t have to.”

Host: The sky began to darken — a deep violet, scattered with the first stars. The faint hum of the city below grew softer, replaced by the chirp of crickets and the low, steady murmur of temple chants.

Jeeny: “You know, Sudha Murty once spent her entire bonus building a toilet in a remote village. Not for fame, not for photos — just because she saw women walking miles in the dark for something no one should be ashamed of. That kind of giving isn’t about image. It’s about dignity.”

Jack: snorts “Dignity’s expensive these days. People like her — they’re rare. But the world doesn’t run on kindness, Jeeny. It runs on ambition. You can’t feed the poor on philosophy.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can feed them on humanity. And maybe that’s rarer than ambition.”

Jack: “You really think money and kindness can coexist? That you can stay pure after holding power?”

Jeeny: “Yes. If you remember that power was never yours to begin with.”

Host: The wind picked up, rustling through the trees, scattering petals from the temple gate. Jeeny turned toward Jack, her eyes alive with quiet conviction.

Jeeny: “People like Murty remind us that money isn’t the end of a story — it’s just a tool. The difference lies in the hands that hold it.”

Jack: leaning forward “Tools cut both ways, Jeeny. For every Murty who builds, there’s a dozen who destroy. Generosity becomes vanity the moment you talk about it.”

Jeeny: “But she lived it. She didn’t build empires on charity — she built classrooms, libraries, hospitals. Do you know what it means to walk into a slum school and see children holding new books, their eyes bright with wonder? That’s not vanity. That’s hope.”

Jack: quietly “And yet the slums are still there.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But so is the hope. And that’s what matters.”

Host: The lamp between them burned lower now, its flame steady and calm. Jack’s expression softened — not in agreement, but in thought. He looked out toward the hills, where the faint lights of the city shimmered like constellations.

Jack: “You ever notice how people from middle-class families never stop feeling poor? Even after they’ve made it?”

Jeeny: nodding “Because poverty leaves a scent that never washes off. It teaches humility — and hunger. Some turn that hunger into greed. Others, like her, turn it into compassion.”

Jack: “You think compassion is stronger than greed?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But only if it’s remembered daily, like prayer. The moment you forget what it felt like to need something, you stop deserving what you have.”

Host: Her words fell slowly, like drops of rain into a still pond. Jack’s hands stilled on his knees. For the first time that evening, the anger in him eased.

Jack: “You always talk about kindness like it’s easy. But it’s not. People betray, deceive, exploit. You give them something — they take it twice. The world doesn’t thank kindness, Jeeny. It uses it.”

Jeeny: “That’s why kindness must be stronger than expectation. True giving expects nothing. It doesn’t depend on applause or gratitude — only on conscience.”

Jack: smiling faintly “You sound like you belong in scripture.”

Jeeny: gently “No. I just believe in remembering where we come from.”

Host: A bell rang in the distance — slow, rhythmic, sacred. The night had deepened into a velvet quiet. Only the faint hiss of the lamp remained.

Jack: after a long silence “When I was younger, my mother used to say, ‘If you ever make more than you need, find someone who needs more than you.’ I laughed at her. Told her the world didn’t work like that. Now… I’m not so sure.”

Jeeny: “She was right, Jack. The world doesn’t work like that — but people can.”

Host: The moonlight spilled across the courtyard, painting the worn stones silver. A soft breeze lifted Jeeny’s hair; Jack’s eyes followed it for a moment, his voice low.

Jack: “You know, I think Murty’s real wealth isn’t her money. It’s that she never let it rewrite her story.”

Jeeny: smiling “Exactly. That’s what makes her different. Money magnifies who you are. It doesn’t change your soul — it reveals it.”

Jack: “And you think mine’s still worth revealing?”

Jeeny: “If it wasn’t, we wouldn’t be here talking.”

Host: The flame flickered one last time, then steadied — small but unyielding. The air was cool, touched by both silence and something like peace.

Jeeny: “Sudha Murty didn’t give because she could. She gave because she remembered what it felt like not to be able to. That’s the kind of wealth no bank can hold.”

Jack: softly “Maybe that’s the kind I want.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, her eyes glowing in the light. Behind them, the city shimmered — imperfect, alive, yearning.

The lamp burned on, quiet and unwavering, as if to remind them both that generosity, like light, loses nothing by being shared.

And in that fragile space between the hills and the city, between memory and hope, two souls — one hardened, one gentle — understood that wealth, in its purest form, was not what you kept, but what you chose to give away.