I love to sing. I also had a band during my college days in Saudi

Host: The night sky over Mumbai shimmered with neon lights and the haze of monsoon steam rising from the streets. In a small rooftop café, perched above the hum of traffic and the sound of honking taxis, two figures sat facing each other — Jack, his grey eyes reflecting the city’s pulse, and Jeeny, her brown eyes soft but unwavering under the flickering glow of a hanging lantern.

The rain had stopped just minutes ago, leaving the air dense with smell of wet earth and coffee. Somewhere below, a band was rehearsing — the distant beat of drums and a voice carried faintly upward, alive, imperfect, human.

Host: Jack leaned forward, the steam from his cup curling between them like a restless spirit.

Jack: “You know, Karan Singh Grover once said, ‘I love to sing. I also had a band during my college days in Saudi Arabia called Thousand Decibels. If not an actor, I would have become a singer... I’m very passionate about work. I’m a fitness freak: I go to gym before shooting. I also do yoga.’”

Jeeny: “Hmm.” She smiled faintly, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. “That quote — it’s so full of energy. You can feel how much he lives his passions.”

Jack: “Or how much he’s obsessed with self-discipline,” he said, half-smiling, half-skeptical. “All this talk about passion and fitness — it’s just another version of control. People don’t even rest anymore; they just optimize their rest.”

Host: The lantern light swayed as a breeze crossed the terrace, stirring their hair, their thoughts.

Jeeny: “Control? No. I think it’s about harmony — about taking care of what carries your soul. Singing, acting, working out — they’re all forms of expression. He’s saying that passion doesn’t belong to one thing. It’s a way of living.”

Jack: “But isn’t that the trap? Everyone’s selling passion now. Gym routines, morning affirmations, ‘rise and grind’ videos — they all pretend to be authenticity, but it’s just performance. Passion used to mean losing yourself. Now it means posting about how well you’ve found yourself.”

Jeeny: “That’s unfair.” Her voice sharpened slightly, but still gentle. “Maybe the world just needs reminders to keep the flame alive. Not everyone gets to live a poetic life. Some people need structure to breathe.”

Jack: “Structure? Or addiction to self-improvement?”

Host: Jack’s tone carried that familiar edge — the one that cut through pretension but also through warmth.

Jeeny: “You always reduce beauty to systems,” she murmured, leaning back. “Maybe for him, the gym and yoga aren’t about control — they’re about rhythm. Like music. Like the body becoming an instrument.”

Jack: “An instrument for what? Performance? Vanity? You really think doing yoga in the morning makes someone closer to truth?”

Jeeny: “No. But it can make someone closer to stillness. And that’s where truth begins.”

Host: The city hummed beneath them — car engines, laughter, a distant radio playing a Bollywood tune. The music rose just enough for a melody to brush the air between their sentences.

Jeeny: “You’ve forgotten the joy in small things, Jack. People like Karan — they remind us that discipline can be devotion. That sweating, striving, breathing — all of it can be prayer if done with love.”

Jack: “And what about when it becomes narcissism? When the devotion is to the mirror?”

Jeeny: “Then it’s not devotion anymore.”

Host: Her words fell like rain — simple, clear, inevitable.

Jack: “You really think every gym-goer is chasing enlightenment?”

Jeeny: “No. But not every philosopher finds peace either. Some write about balance; others live it.”

Jack: “And you think he’s living it?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or at least he’s trying to. Isn’t that enough?”

Host: Jack looked away, his eyes tracing the skyline — skyscrapers glowing like glass altars to ambition. He tapped his finger against the table in rhythm with the faint drumming below.

Jack: “You know, I get the appeal of it — the drive, the hustle, the devotion. But it feels like we’re romanticizing obsession. ‘Work hard, love hard, live passionately’ — until you burn out, then call it enlightenment.”

Jeeny: “You’re mistaking flame for fire. Passion isn’t about burning endlessly; it’s about knowing why you burn.”

Host: The words landed between them like sparks. For a moment, even the city noise seemed to hush, as if listening.

Jack: “You sound like a lyricist.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I am. Maybe passion is just another kind of song — one you keep learning to sing without losing your voice.”

Jack: “And what if the world doesn’t listen?”

Jeeny: “Then you sing anyway.”

Host: A pause. The rain began again — soft, rhythmic, like applause from the heavens.

Jack: “You know,” he said finally, “when I was younger, I used to play guitar. I wasn’t bad either. But I quit when it stopped being fun.”

Jeeny: “Why?”

Jack: “Because everyone wanted to be better than someone else. It wasn’t music anymore; it was competition. That’s what this quote reminds me of — the hunger to perfect, not to feel.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t perfection just another path to feeling? Maybe some people need to polish the surface to find the reflection.”

Host: She smiled gently. He looked at her, his jaw tightening, then softening, as if the memory of his own music tugged at some buried string.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe passion isn’t about performance at all — maybe it’s about persistence.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Whether it’s acting, singing, or lifting weights — it’s the same heartbeat. The body just becomes a vessel for the spirit.”

Host: The rain intensified, its rhythm merging with the sound of the band below — drums, guitar, and a voice rising with wild, imperfect beauty.

Jeeny: “Listen,” she said softly. “That’s what he meant — the noise, the chaos, the joy. Thousand Decibels. It’s not about quiet perfection. It’s about daring to be loud with what you love.”

Jack: “Loud,” he repeated, smiling faintly. “Even when nobody’s listening.”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host: He laughed quietly, shaking his head. The sound was rough but genuine — a crack in his cynicism.

Jack: “You know, maybe that’s the fitness we need most. Not of the body, but of the heart — to keep loving something even when the world makes it tiring.”

Jeeny: “That’s yoga too,” she said. “The joining of struggle and serenity.”

Host: The rain began to thin, and the lights of the city shimmered brighter against the wet roads. A motorbike roared past below, its headlight slicing through the mist like a fleeting comet.

Jack: “So, you think all this — the gym, the music, the passion — it’s all sacred?”

Jeeny: “I think anything done with sincerity becomes sacred.”

Jack: “Even vanity?”

Jeeny: “If it leads you to know yourself, yes. Even vanity can be a mirror for humility.”

Host: Jack looked at her for a long moment, the rainlight caught in his eyes. Then he nodded slowly.

Jack: “Maybe passion isn’t the opposite of peace after all.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, smiling softly. “It’s just peace in motion.”

Host: The music below reached its crescendo, a voice breaking free into laughter mid-song — raw, imperfect, alive.

Jack lifted his cup, the last of the coffee cooling in the dim light. “To motion, then,” he said quietly.

Jeeny: “To stillness within it.”

Host: The city below pulsed like a living organ, and the rain whispered over the rooftops — a song of persistence, of bodies and souls refusing to stay silent.

In that moment, their silence wasn’t empty. It was full — of breath, of heartbeat, of the invisible thread that ties passion to peace.

And as the band below struck its final note, the sound lingered — a thousand decibels of being alive.