I studied at Cathedral School, where a lot of kids go abroad

Host: The afternoon light shimmered through the tall windows of a crowded Mumbai café, painting the tables in warm gold. The air smelled of espresso and ambition. A group of students huddled in one corner, laughing over scripts and camera reels, while the low hum of traffic drifted in from Marine Drive like a heartbeat of the restless city.

At a corner table near the window, Jack and Jeeny sat across from each other — a half-finished latte, a stack of papers, and a film magazine between them. The headline read: “Kiara Advani: From Scholar to Star.”

The quote hung between them like sunlight caught in steam: “I studied at Cathedral School, where a lot of kids go abroad after Class XII. But I was clear that I wanted to be an actress, and thus, even though I got 92% in my board exams, I applied only to Jai Hind College for Mass Communication and got in and completed my graduation.”

Jeeny: “It’s brave, isn’t it? To walk away from the safe road when everyone around you is chasing certainty.”

Jack: “Or foolish. Depends on how you define success.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his shirt sleeves rolled, his jawline catching the light. His eyes, a sharp grey, watched the street outside — full of students, dreamers, and wanderers. Jeeny’s voice, soft but steady, cut through the hum of the café.

Jeeny: “She got 92%. That’s a ticket to anywhere. To stability, maybe even comfort. But she chose the chaos of cinema. That’s not foolish, Jack. That’s faith — in herself.”

Jack: “Faith doesn’t pay bills. Do you know how many people ‘follow their dreams’ in this city and end up broken? For every Kiara Advani, there are a hundred waiting tables and waiting for a callback.”

Jeeny: “So what, we should stop dreaming because some people fail?”

Jack: “Not stop dreaming — just dream responsibly. Talent’s not enough. Life demands strategy. You can’t eat idealism for breakfast.”

Host: The ceiling fan whirred lazily above them, stirring the scent of roasted beans. Outside, the sound of a passing train rose and faded, like time itself moving faster than anyone could catch.

Jeeny: “You sound like everyone’s father, Jack. Maybe that’s the problem — we teach children how to survive, but never how to live.”

Jack: “Living without surviving is just suicide with better lighting.”

Jeeny: “That’s cynical. She didn’t choose acting because it was easy. She chose it because it was true. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Truth doesn’t guarantee results, Jeeny. You know that. The world doesn’t reward authenticity — it rewards adaptability.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s what makes her story rare. She didn’t bend. She knew what she wanted, and she didn’t let society’s idea of success drown her own. That’s courage, Jack.”

Host: Jack turned his glass slowly, watching the condensation slide down like seconds. His voice dropped, quieter, but sharper now — like the edge of something hidden.

Jack: “You know, I had a friend like her once. Brilliant. Got into a top engineering college, but he wanted to make films. His parents laughed. He left home, came to the city with a camera and nothing else. Spent six years chasing it. Ended up teaching tuition to pay rent.”

Jeeny: “And you think that means he failed?”

Jack: “He thought he did.”

Jeeny: “Then he learned the wrong lesson. Maybe his story isn’t failure — it’s endurance. Maybe Kiara just had the right timing, but the same spirit.”

Jack: “You sound like you’re defending the universe. As if it’s fair.”

Jeeny: “It’s not fair, Jack. But it’s honest. The world never promised fairness — only the chance to try. And that’s enough for people like her.”

Host: The café grew quieter now. The barista dimmed the lights, and the golden hue turned to a tender orange, painting the two in half-shadow.

Jeeny leaned forward, her eyes alive, her fingers curled around her cup.

Jeeny: “Do you know what 92% means in a city like this? It’s more than a score — it’s an escape hatch. Everyone around you expects you to use it — to run toward safety, not art. And yet, she walked the other way. That’s not rebellion. That’s clarity.”

Jack: “Clarity or arrogance?”

Jeeny: “Arrogance is pretending you don’t have fear. Clarity is acting despite it. Don’t twist courage into ego, Jack.”

Jack: “And if she’d failed?”

Jeeny: “Then at least she’d fail being herself. Can you say that about most people you know?”

Host: The silence between them thickened. Jack looked at Jeeny, something flickering in his eyes — a mix of respect and regret. The neon sign from outside reflected in the window, drawing soft pink patterns across their faces.

Jack: “You talk like failure doesn’t cost anything.”

Jeeny: “It costs everything, sometimes. But so does not trying.”

Jack: “You think it’s that simple?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it’s that difficult. That’s why so few people do it.”

Host: A young girl walked past the window just then, carrying a script folder, her face tired but her eyes burning. Jeeny watched her go, a faint smile tugging at her lips.

Jeeny: “Every city runs on dreamers, Jack. You may not see them, but they hold the lights up. The rest of us just walk beneath them.”

Jack: “You really believe that? That dreams keep cities alive?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because logic builds cities, but dreams give them purpose. Look around — the songs, the films, the plays, even this café. Someone imagined them before they existed. The world isn’t built by realists, Jack. It’s saved by the stubborn hearts who refuse to quit.”

Jack: “And when those hearts break?”

Jeeny: “Then they bleed color into the world.”

Host: Jack’s lips twitched — not quite a smile, but something near it. The storm in his eyes softened.

Jack: “You make idealism sound romantic.”

Jeeny: “It is romantic. It’s also the hardest thing to live by.”

Host: The sound of rain began outside, sudden and steady. The crowd thinned; the barista started stacking chairs. The café took on that strange evening calm — half melancholy, half magic.

Jack: “You know, maybe you’re right. Maybe being certain about your dream is a kind of strength. Even if the world calls it madness.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not about winning. It’s about choosing yourself. Every time you do, the world shifts a little.”

Jack: “So Kiara wasn’t running from the easy road — she was walking toward herself.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And the world eventually caught up.”

Host: The rain outside had softened to a drizzle. Streetlights flickered to life, their glow reflecting off wet pavement like fragments of thought. Jack stood, sliding his chair back with a soft scrape.

Jack: “Maybe I should’ve chosen differently once.”

Jeeny smiled, her voice gentle but unflinching.

Jeeny: “It’s never too late to apply to your own Jai Hind, Jack.”

Host: He laughed quietly, shaking his head. For the first time that day, his laughter didn’t sound tired.

As they stepped out into the damp evening, the quote seemed to whisper through the drizzle — not as a boast, but as a quiet declaration of freedom:

“I was clear that I wanted to be an actress, and thus, even though I got 92% in my board exams, I applied only to Jai Hind College for Mass Communication and got in and completed my graduation.”

Host: And perhaps that’s the truest form of clarity — to know your path, even when the world hands you every reason to walk another.