I think I'm a humanist. I believe all humans should have equal

Host: The night was thick with monsoon air, warm and alive, carrying the scent of wet earth and the faint hum of a city that never quite sleeps. Through the tall windows of a quiet book café, the world outside looked blurred — streets gleaming under streetlights, people moving like silhouettes through the rain mist.

Inside, it was peaceful — soft jazz, shelves lined with dog-eared books, and the glow of amber lamps against dark wood. Two cups of chai steamed gently on a table tucked near the window, where Jack and Jeeny sat — their reflections flickering in the glass like twin thoughts trying to understand the same truth from different ends of belief.

Jeeny: “Sayani Gupta once said, ‘I think I'm a humanist. I believe all humans should have equal rights to live, express, flourish, love and dissent, irrespective of their gender, caste, class, socio-economic strata, disabilities, political stance, religion or faith.’”

Jack: stirring his chai slowly “A beautiful thought — but almost utopian, don’t you think? Humanity’s had centuries to get this right, and we still can’t agree on who deserves to sit at the table.”

Jeeny: gently “Maybe that’s because the table was built wrong to begin with.”

Jack: smirking faintly “So what, we burn it down?”

Jeeny: “No. We rebuild it. But this time, we make sure everyone has tools — not just seats.”

Host: A train horn echoed faintly in the distance, a reminder of motion, of places people leave and the ones they dream of reaching. The rain tapped against the glass like applause for something small but sincere.

Jack: “You know what bothers me about idealism like this? It assumes people want equality. They don’t. They want comfort — their own comfort. Even the oppressed, once freed, can become oppressors. Human nature doesn’t evolve that fast.”

Jeeny: “And yet it does — one conscience at a time. Every generation pushes a little further. We may not all want equality, but we all understand pain. Empathy grows in the cracks.”

Jack: sighs “You sound like you still believe in humanity.”

Jeeny: “I do. Not in perfection — in potential.”

Host: The light from a passing car swept briefly across their faces. For a moment, Jack’s expression softened — that rare crack in his cynicism where something like faith tried to slip through.

Jack: “You know, this ‘humanist’ idea sounds simple, but it’s loaded. Believing that everyone has a right to flourish — even those who’d harm others — it’s not easy. What about people who use freedom to take freedom away?”

Jeeny: pauses thoughtfully “That’s the paradox, isn’t it? Humanism doesn’t excuse harm. It just refuses to dehumanize the harmed or the harmful. Because the moment we stop seeing someone as human, we justify anything against them.”

Jack: nodding slowly “That’s dangerous compassion.”

Jeeny: “No — that’s difficult compassion. The kind that forces you to confront your own darkness while defending someone else’s light.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier. It sounded like an orchestra without conductor — chaotic, beautiful, alive.

Jack: “You think Sayani meant this as politics or as philosophy?”

Jeeny: “Both, I think. In a country, in a world, where your gender, your faith, or your bank balance can decide whether you’re safe or silent — believing in humanism isn’t just philosophy. It’s resistance.”

Jack: looking out the window “Resistance through empathy. I like that.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because dissent doesn’t always have to scream. Sometimes it’s as quiet as saying, ‘Your pain matters as much as mine.’”

Jack: “That’s rare. These days people don’t talk to each other — they perform for their own side.”

Jeeny: smiling sadly “Then maybe humanism is the courage to listen without waiting for your turn to speak.”

Host: A moment passed — silent, contemplative. The rainlight shimmered across Jeeny’s eyes, giving them a kind of fragile strength.

Jack: “You know, I grew up in a house where we didn’t talk about equality — we talked about survival. About getting through the week. I used to think ideals were for people who’d already eaten.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But humanism doesn’t start in comfort, Jack. It starts when you’ve known struggle — and still choose empathy over resentment.”

Jack: leaning forward slightly “You really think empathy’s enough to fix the world?”

Jeeny: “Not fix. Heal. Bit by bit. Like light through cracks in old walls.”

Host: Jack’s hand traced the rim of his cup. The sound of ceramic against ceramic — small, circular — like the sound of time moving in its own rhythm.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about Sayani’s words? She doesn’t say ‘tolerate.’ She says ‘flourish.’ That’s the difference between acceptance and respect.”

Jack: “Tolerance is condescension in disguise.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s saying, ‘I’ll let you exist.’ Respect says, ‘You deserve to thrive.’”

Jack: “And dissent?”

Jeeny: “Dissent is love wearing honesty. Because if you care about something, you challenge it. You question it. That’s how love stays alive — not by agreement, but by growth.”

Jack: smiling faintly “So dissent is proof of affection.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And suppression is fear of losing control.”

Host: The rain outside slowed to a mist, as if even the sky was listening now. The café had emptied, leaving only the two of them — two small figures framed by the wide glass, the city glowing behind them like a promise.

Jack: softly “You ever think humanity will actually reach this — this equal world?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not in full. But that doesn’t mean we stop trying. Humanism isn’t a destination, Jack. It’s direction.”

Jack: “Like walking toward the sunrise — knowing you’ll never touch it, but needing its light to keep going.”

Jeeny: smiling “Exactly.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s the beauty — that we’ll never be done building the world.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because as long as we’re still building, we’re still believing.”

Host: The rain had stopped completely. The street outside shimmered under puddles of reflected light — yellow, red, green — like stained glass in motion.

Jack looked out, then back at Jeeny, his tone softer than before — almost reverent.

Jack: “You know, I think I envy that belief of yours — that faith in people.”

Jeeny: “It’s not faith in people, Jack. It’s faith in possibility.”

Jack: “And what happens when possibility fails?”

Jeeny: “Then we start again. Because humanism isn’t built on perfection. It’s built on forgiveness.”

Host: Jeeny’s hand rested briefly on the table, near his. Not touching, just close enough to bridge the space between their doubts.

The light flickered in the window. The city hummed. Somewhere, laughter echoed down the wet street — human and ordinary and pure.

And in that stillness, Sayani Gupta’s words — simple, luminous, defiant — seemed to echo not as a quote, but as a quiet prayer for the species itself:

That to be human is to believe,
even against evidence,
that we all deserve the same sunlight —
the same chance to live,
to speak, to love,
and to dissent without fear.

Fade out.