I have to ask Allah's forgiveness and not get angry, because they

Host: The mosque courtyard shimmered under the afternoon sun, its white marble reflecting a quiet brilliance that seemed almost sacred. Pigeons fluttered near the minaret, their wings slicing through the heat like whispers. The call to prayer had just ended, leaving behind a stillness so deep that even the breeze dared not intrude.

Beneath a shaded archway, Jack and Jeeny sat on a worn stone bench, the echo of prayer still lingering in the air. A faint scent of sandalwood drifted between them.

Jack’s eyes — cold grey, sharp — watched the courtyard, where an old man offered water to a group of poor children. Jeeny, in a light scarf, leaned forward, her hands folded, her face softened by something between peace and sorrow.

Jeeny: “He said, ‘I have to ask Allah's forgiveness and not get angry, because they come to me out of love.’ Do you understand how much strength it takes to say that, Jack? To face misunderstanding and still choose mercy?”

Jack: (exhales slowly) “Mercy is easy when you’re not the one being torn apart by expectation. Abdul Qadeer Khan — he built his name on power, not peace. To be revered and hated at once — that’s a crucible. I don’t buy that anyone can stay calm through that.”

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly what makes it divine. To be attacked, misunderstood, and still answer with forgiveness — it’s not human strength. It’s surrender. The kind that only comes from faith.”

Jack: “Faith or resignation, Jeeny? Because to me, it sounds like he’s making peace with contradiction. He created nuclear weapons — instruments of destruction — and yet he speaks of love and forgiveness. Isn’t that hypocrisy?”

Host: The light shifted as a cloud moved over the sun, the courtyard dipping briefly into shadow. The sound of a fountain murmured nearby, gentle but unceasing.

Jeeny turned to him slowly, her eyes dark and steady.

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s paradox, not hypocrisy. The man wasn’t just a scientist — he was a symbol. To his people, he represented power in a world that made them feel powerless. But power doesn’t erase humility. Even the ones who wield lightning can bow before it.”

Jack: “You sound like you’re defending contradiction with poetry.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because life itself is poetic. You think forgiveness cancels guilt, but sometimes it’s the only way to live with it.”

Jack: “So you think forgiveness absolves creation? That asking God’s pardon erases the consequences of building destruction?”

Jeeny: “No. Forgiveness doesn’t erase — it redeems. It doesn’t clean the slate; it cleans the heart.”

Host: The muezzin’s distant voice echoed faintly again — a child practicing the call, imperfect yet filled with devotion. The sound reached them, trembling like the edge of truth itself.

Jack looked toward the minaret, eyes narrowing.

Jack: “You talk about redemption as if it’s accessible to everyone. But what about accountability, Jeeny? A man builds bombs, and then says he must not be angry at those who love him. It sounds almost too polished, too clean. The world forgives too easily those who speak softly after doing harm.”

Jeeny: “You mistake forgiveness for forgetting. He didn’t say the world should forgive him — he said he must ask Allah’s forgiveness. That’s humility. That’s facing the mirror.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s just guilt dressed up as faith.”

Jeeny: “And what’s wrong with guilt, Jack? Maybe guilt is the doorway to grace.”

Host: The wind returned, lifting dust from the tiles, swirling between them like a restless spirit. Somewhere nearby, a boy laughed, chasing a pigeon that refused to be caught. The world continued in its small, beautiful indifference.

Jack rubbed his temples, the sunlight catching the sweat on his forehead.

Jack: “You talk about grace as if it’s some kind of cure-all. But look around — the world doesn’t run on forgiveness. It runs on vengeance, pride, and history repeating itself. You think a man’s prayer can wash away the fact that his work made destruction possible?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it doesn’t wash it away, but it keeps him human. Isn’t that what matters? To remember your sins and still choose not to hate those who misunderstand you?”

Jack: “You think that’s noble. I think it’s tragic.”

Jeeny: “Tragic, yes — but sacred too. Because he didn’t say ‘I will not be angry for my sake.’ He said, ‘They come to me out of love.’ That’s empathy, Jack. To see through the eyes of the ones who don’t understand you.”

Jack: “Empathy is rare, I’ll give you that. But I can’t help thinking — maybe people only start preaching forgiveness once they have something to be forgiven for.”

Host: The sun returned, flooding the courtyard in gold again. The pigeons rose in a sudden flutter, circling the dome like a living prayer. For a moment, the world seemed suspended between two breaths — one of faith, one of doubt.

Jeeny smiled faintly.

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe they preach forgiveness because they finally understand what it costs to withhold it.”

Jack: “What does it cost?”

Jeeny: “Everything. Anger corrodes the soul faster than any sin. When he said he must not turn to them in hatred, he wasn’t excusing himself — he was protecting what little light remained in him.”

Jack: “That’s a poetic way of saying he was tired, Jeeny. Tired of being the villain in his own story.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But tell me, Jack — don’t we all grow tired of being misunderstood?”

Host: The question hung in the air like incense, soft and fragrant but burning somewhere unseen. Jack didn’t answer. His face softened, and for the first time, the hardness in his eyes faltered.

Jack: “I suppose we do. But still, forgiveness feels like surrender.”

Jeeny: “Only if you think of it as defeat. Real forgiveness isn’t bowing to others — it’s bowing to something greater inside yourself.”

Jack: “And what if there’s nothing greater left?”

Jeeny: “Then you keep asking until there is.”

Host: The sound of footsteps broke the moment — an old man crossing the courtyard, his cane tapping rhythmically against the stone. He paused by the fountain, washed his hands, and lifted them to the sky in silent prayer. His face, lined with age, carried neither pride nor regret — only peace.

Jeeny watched him, her expression softening into stillness.

Jeeny: “That’s what I think forgiveness looks like. Not words, not performance — just quiet returning. A man and his God.”

Jack: “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s the hardest thing. To face love and hate in the same breath and still choose the one that hurts less.”

Jack: “And which one is that?”

Jeeny: “Love, Jack. It always hurts less — but only after it’s done hurting.”

Host: The breeze shifted again, carrying the faint sound of children’s laughter from outside the walls. Jack leaned back, closing his eyes for a moment, as if surrendering to something larger than the argument.

He spoke softly this time.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what he meant — not that he was beyond anger, but that he was learning to live with it without letting it speak for him.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Forgiveness isn’t about perfection. It’s about refusing to let pain dictate your prayer.”

Jack: “Strange. A scientist teaching the world about humility.”

Jeeny: “Not strange at all. The closer you are to creation, the more you realize how little control you truly have.”

Host: The sunlight fell across their faces now, warm and forgiving. The call to prayer began anew, echoing through the open sky, a sound both eternal and fleeting.

Jack stood, brushing dust from his hands, his gaze distant — not cynical this time, just thoughtful.

Jeeny rose beside him, her scarf fluttering in the breeze like a quiet vow.

Jack: “Maybe mercy isn’t weakness after all.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s the only kind of strength that survives.”

Host: As the final echoes of prayer rolled through the courtyard, the camera would linger — on the fountain, the pigeons, the sunlight glinting on marble. Two figures walking slowly toward the gate — shadows stretched long, side by side, silent but at peace.

And above them, unseen, forgiveness itself — vast, invisible, endless.