I studied B.Sc electronics to be an engineer and later did

Host: The evening light poured through the tall windows of a half-empty university café, splintering into ribbons of gold and dust. The smell of coffee, paper, and old dreams hung in the air like something too familiar to name.

Outside, the campus hummed — students rushing past, faces full of purpose, backpacks heavy with ambition. Inside, the world was quieter, softer. Two figures sat by the window — Jack and Jeeny — their reflections trembling faintly in the glass.

Jack was hunched over a notebook filled with sketches and stray thoughts, his fingers stained with ink. Jeeny sat across from him, laptop open, the glow of the screen tracing the edge of her thoughtful face.

She closed the screen, her voice breaking the calm.

Jeeny: “R. Madhavan once said, ‘I studied B.Sc electronics to be an engineer and later did masters in communication and advertising. I loved engineering for what it could accomplish to make our lives easier. But, I realized that it was not my passion.’”

Jack: “He sounds like every graduate in denial.”

Host: The fan above them whirred lazily, scattering the faint smell of rain drifting in through the open door.

Jeeny: “No, Jack. He sounds like someone honest enough to admit that logic can’t always define happiness.”

Jack: “Or someone lucky enough to walk away from stability and still land on his feet. Most people don’t get to ‘realize’ passion after an engineering degree — they get to realize debt.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But isn’t that what life is supposed to be? Trial, error, discovery? If we all stayed where we began, nothing would evolve — not machines, not humans.”

Jack: “That’s the poetic version. The practical version is simpler — you do what you’re good at. You don’t chase what feels good. Passion’s a candle. It burns bright, but it dies fast.”

Jeeny: “And yet, without that candle, the room stays dark.”

Host: A pause settled between them. Outside, the sky began to turn violet, the first hint of night pressing softly against the glass.

Jeeny stirred her drink absentmindedly, eyes distant, as if searching for her own reflection somewhere between Madhavan’s words.

Jeeny: “You know, my brother was like that. Studied mechanical engineering. Built bridges. Real ones. But one day he quit — said he wanted to paint. My parents thought he’d lost his mind. Now he sells portraits in Goa. He says he’s never felt richer.”

Jack: “Does he make enough to live?”

Jeeny: “Enough to breathe.”

Jack: “Ah. The romantic defense of poverty.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. The defense of peace.”

Host: The light flickered. A student dropped his tray nearby; the clatter of metal broke through the quiet, then faded. The radio in the corner crackled softly — an old song from another decade.

Jack leaned back, eyes tracing the ceiling fan’s slow rotation.

Jack: “I used to build circuits when I was a kid. My father thought I’d be an engineer too. I liked it — the precision, the certainty. You connect two points, and it works. Simple. Predictable. But life…”

Jeeny: “Isn’t a circuit?”

Jack: “No. It’s all open loops.”

Host: Jeeny smiled gently, sensing something beneath his words — a confession wrapped in logic.

Jeeny: “So what happened?”

Jack: “I built the machines. Then I realized they were better at living than I was.”

Jeeny: “And that’s when you started writing?”

Jack: “Yeah. Turns out, words are just another kind of circuitry — only messier. Less efficient. But when they connect, they light something no machine ever could.”

Jeeny: “So you did exactly what Madhavan did.”

Jack: “Don’t compare me to a movie star.”

Jeeny: “Not the fame, Jack. The leap. You both traded the comfort of knowing for the chaos of feeling.”

Host: The rain began to fall in earnest now, thin silver lines streaking down the windows. The café filled with the quiet percussion of droplets meeting glass — steady, patient, inevitable.

Jack: “He said he loved engineering for what it could accomplish. I understand that. There’s beauty in efficiency. But love isn’t always the same as calling. Sometimes it’s just admiration — from afar.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You can love something deeply and still know it’s not where you belong. That’s the hardest kind of honesty.”

Jack: “And the rarest. Most people stay loyal to what they’re good at, not what they love. It’s safer to serve logic than to chase ghosts.”

Jeeny: “But those ghosts — they’re what make us human. Passion isn’t comfort. It’s chaos with purpose.”

Host: The lights dimmed briefly, flickering with the storm outside. Jack glanced toward the window — his reflection split by raindrops, doubled and blurred.

Jack: “You think passion’s enough to survive on?”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s the only thing worth surviving for.”

Jack: “That’s a nice line. You should write it on a poster.”

Jeeny: “I’d rather live it than frame it.”

Host: A faint smile crossed his face — reluctant, genuine. The kind of smile that happens when the truth hits home before you can hide from it.

Jack: “You know, I once thought logic could solve loneliness. That if you built your life right — job, money, order — the chaos would stay out. But it doesn’t. It just finds smaller cracks to sneak through.”

Jeeny: “Because chaos isn’t the enemy, Jack. It’s the invitation. To change. To feel. To begin again.”

Jack: “You talk like you’ve done it.”

Jeeny: “I have. I left law school. My parents thought I was wasting my intelligence. But I wasn’t. I was reclaiming it.”

Host: The rain softened to a drizzle, then stopped entirely. A single beam of light broke through the clouds, falling across their table, turning the spilled coffee into bronze.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what Madhavan meant. You can love what you learn — but you can’t fake what you’re meant to live.”

Jack: “So passion’s destiny?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s direction.”

Jack: “And what if your passion never pays the bills?”

Jeeny: “Then you still get to die knowing you were alive. Tell me, Jack — what’s the price of that?”

Host: The question landed between them like a spark in a room full of kindling. Jack looked down, tracing a ring of condensation around his cup. His silence was its own answer.

Jeeny reached across the table, her voice low but unwavering.

Jeeny: “Maybe the truth is this — we study what the world tells us to, but we live by what the soul demands. And the soul doesn’t do degrees.”

Jack: “You think the soul cares about mistakes?”

Jeeny: “No. Only about meaning.”

Host: The café grew quiet again, save for the faint murmur of rainwater trickling through the gutters outside. The two sat in that silence — two minds forged by logic, two hearts drawn toward something less measurable but far more real.

Jack finally spoke, almost a whisper:

Jack: “Maybe passion isn’t found. Maybe it’s remembered.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Like a language you once knew — before the world taught you to forget.”

Host: The clock on the wall ticked softly, indifferent but patient. The last rays of sunlight glowed through the window, washing their faces in gold.

Jack closed his notebook. Jeeny closed her laptop. For a moment, they just watched the light fade — the storm clearing, the air smelling of renewal.

And in that quiet — between logic and longing, between safety and surrender — something like understanding passed between them.

Jeeny smiled faintly.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what being alive really means — learning the difference between what you can do and what you must.”

Jack: “And having the courage to choose the second.”

Host: The camera lingered on the window, where the last droplets of rain slid down the glass and disappeared into the gathering dusk. Outside, students hurried home, chasing deadlines and dreams.

Inside, Jack and Jeeny stayed seated a little longer — not because they had answers, but because they finally knew what questions mattered.

The light dimmed. The scene held its breath.

And in that silence, passion — quiet, honest, defiant — finally found its voice.