I would like to tell the young men and women before me not to

Host: The morning was painted in soft shades of silver and blue, the kind that make everything feel suspended — between dawn and day, between what was and what might still be. The air carried the scent of wet soil and new beginnings, whispering through the open windows of the old university hall.

The room was quiet, save for the faint hum of fluorescent lights and the shuffle of distant footsteps in empty corridors. Rows of wooden desks stretched like patient witnesses of generations that had sat, dreamed, and doubted here.

At the front, near the podium, Jack sat slouched on the edge of the teacher’s desk, his coat draped over the back of a chair. His eyes, sharp yet softened by weariness, wandered over the sunlight filtering through the blinds. Across from him, Jeeny stood by the window, her hands clasped loosely behind her back, her hair catching the morning light like threads of ink woven into gold.

Between them, on the desk, lay a small, yellowed page torn from a collection of speeches — its corners curling from age. The words printed on it seemed to glow faintly in the new light of day:

“I would like to tell the young men and women before me not to lose hope and courage. Success can only come to you by courageous devotion to the task lying in front of you.”
— C. V. Raman

Host: The words sat between them, ageless and alive — a voice from another century echoing into the uncertain present.

Jack: (quietly) Hope and courage. Two words that sound noble until you’ve had to fight to keep them.

Jeeny: (softly) Maybe that’s why they matter — because they’re hardest to hold when you need them most.

Jack: (half-smiling) Courageous devotion… that’s the part that gets me. We live in a world that worships shortcuts, and Raman wanted devotion.

Jeeny: (turning to face him) Devotion isn’t about worship, Jack. It’s about constancy — showing up for what you love, even when it doesn’t love you back yet.

Jack: (grimly) That’s a poetic way of describing pain.

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) Maybe. But pain has purpose when it’s aimed at something greater than comfort.

Host: The light outside grew brighter, sliding across the room’s polished floor, illuminating the dust like suspended stars.

Jack: (leaning forward) You ever wonder how he did it? Raman — studying the nature of light while the world barely noticed? It’s not courage that fascinates me. It’s the persistence of it.

Jeeny: (nods) Because courage fades. And devotion is what keeps it burning.

Jack: (murmurs) Everyone talks about passion these days. Nobody talks about devotion.

Jeeny: (gently) Passion is the spark. Devotion is the firewood. One starts things; the other sustains them.

Jack: (smiles faintly) You always did have a way of making philosophy sound like instruction.

Jeeny: (softly) Maybe because life keeps repeating the same lessons until we learn them.

Host: The wind rustled through the open window, tugging at the curtains. The paper on the desk fluttered, as if to remind them — the task lying in front of you.

Jack: (sighs) That’s the hard part, isn’t it? The task in front of you. Not the dream on the horizon, not the wish, but the work.

Jeeny: (nodding) Yes. Raman didn’t say “the task you love.” He said “the task lying in front of you.”

Jack: (looks down, thoughtful) The unglamorous part. The routine. The repetition.

Jeeny: (quietly) The devotion.

Host: Her voice carried a soft gravity — not lecture, not comfort, but truth spoken from experience. Jack’s gaze drifted toward her, and for the first time in a while, something in him unclenched.

Jack: (softly) You think hope really survives work like that? The slow, endless kind that wears you down instead of lifting you up?

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) Hope doesn’t survive because of work. It survives within it. Every time you keep going, you feed it.

Jack: (low) And when you stop?

Jeeny: (pauses) Then it starves.

Host: A long silence followed. The light climbed higher. Dust shimmered in the still air like tiny reminders of endurance — the world’s smallest devotion.

Jack: (after a pause) You know, I used to think success was a finish line. That if I just pushed long enough, I’d finally rest.

Jeeny: (softly) And now?

Jack: (looks up) Now I think success is motion — staying devoted to the task even when no one’s watching.

Jeeny: (smiling) That’s courage. Not the loud kind. The quiet kind that keeps faith with the invisible.

Jack: (chuckles) Invisible. That’s how it feels most days. Like you’re building something no one will ever see.

Jeeny: (gently) But you see it. That’s what matters. Devotion isn’t for applause. It’s for integrity.

Host: The light fell on her face, outlining her profile in a golden trace. Jack stared for a moment, not in admiration, but in recognition — the way someone recognizes a truth they once believed in but misplaced.

Jack: (softly) Hope, courage, devotion. Three words. Feels like an equation no one solves anymore.

Jeeny: (smiles) Maybe because we confuse motion with meaning. The world teaches us to rush — not to endure.

Jack: (quietly) But endurance is what turns time into transformation.

Jeeny: (nodding) Exactly. Devotion turns effort into art.

Jack: (murmurs) Art isn’t just painting or music, is it?

Jeeny: (shakes her head) No. Art is doing anything with your whole being. Even failure can be art if it’s honest.

Host: The clock on the wall ticked softly, marking time but not disturbing it. Outside, the campus began to stir — faint laughter, footsteps, the sound of doors opening to possibility.

Jack: (smiling faintly) Raman must have believed the world would eventually catch up to his work.

Jeeny: (softly) Or maybe he didn’t need it to. Maybe his reward was the devotion itself.

Jack: (leaning back) You really believe that? That the process can be enough?

Jeeny: (nods) I do. Because when you give yourself fully to something — a cause, a craft, a calling — you stop waiting for the world to validate it. That’s freedom.

Jack: (quietly) You make it sound almost sacred.

Jeeny: (gently) It is. Hope is faith in the future. Devotion is faith in the present.

Host: The light from the window spilled across the page again, illuminating Raman’s words like a benediction.

Jack: (after a long pause) You know, if I ever speak to a younger version of myself, I think I’ll tell him something different.

Jeeny: (smiles) What would you say?

Jack: (quietly) I’d say, “Don’t chase greatness. Serve what’s in front of you — with all you’ve got.”

Jeeny: (softly) That’s all Raman wanted too. Greatness follows devotion, not the other way around.

Host: The silence that followed wasn’t empty — it was full of quiet conviction, like the final note of a symphony still hanging in the air.

Jack: (smiling faintly) I guess courage isn’t about climbing mountains after all. It’s about showing up to your desk. Your lab. Your life. Every day.

Jeeny: (nods) And believing that devotion itself is the victory.

Host: Outside, the morning had turned to light. The trees swayed, alive with motion and promise.

Host: Jack picked up the yellowed page, smoothing its creases. He folded it carefully, tucking it into his pocket like a small compass for the days ahead.

Host: And as the two of them stepped out of the empty hall into the new sunlight, C. V. Raman’s words followed quietly behind — not as a relic, but as a reminder:

Host: Hope is the seed, courage the water, and devotion the sunlight — together they turn work into meaning, and meaning into life.

Host: The door closed softly behind them. The world, wide and waiting, opened before.