If faith in ourselves had been more extensively taught and

Host: The morning fog clung to the mountain road, coiling between the trees like ghostly silk. A small tea stall sat on the edge of the cliff, its wooden roof dripping from the night’s rain. The sun had not yet broken, but a faint orange glow crept through the mist, touching the faces of two travelers — Jack and Jeeny — as they sat beside a crackling fire, hands wrapped around earthen cups of tea.

The world below was still asleep, but the mountain listened.

Swami Vivekananda’s words had been the spark that brought them here — a discussion about faith, not in gods or temples, but in ourselves.

Jack: “Faith in ourselves,” he murmured, his voice rough, his breath visible in the cold. “That’s what he said. If we’d all had more of it, our miseries would vanish. Sounds poetic, but naïve. If self-belief could fix human suffering, we’d have been living in paradise by now.”

Jeeny: “It’s not about paradise, Jack. It’s about liberation. Faith in ourselves doesn’t erase the world’s problems — it changes how we meet them.”

Host: The firelight flickered across their faces, painting Jeeny in gold and Jack in shadows. A crow called in the distance, its cry sharp, lonely, echoing through the valley like a question.

Jack: “You really think belief can stop pain? Tell that to the child who grows up in poverty, to the worker who’s crushed by systems bigger than himself. No amount of ‘faith’ can feed an empty stomach.”

Jeeny: “And yet, without faith, he might not even try to change his hunger into something else. Look at Nelson Mandela. Twenty-seven years in prison, and he still said — ‘I am the master of my fate.’ He didn’t just believe in justice; he believed in himself enough to carry it through. Isn’t that the kind of faith Vivekananda meant?”

Jack: “Mandela had strategy, not blind faith. He had discipline, organization, vision — not just belief. People like to romanticize faith, but it’s the work, not the hope, that moves the world.”

Host: The wind shifted, lifting the smell of wet earth into the air. Jeeny’s hair whipped across her face, and she tucked it behind her ear, her eyes steady, her voice quiet, but alive.

Jeeny: “You’re right that work matters. But where does the strength to work come from? The mind is the engine; faith is the fuel. Without faith, work becomes mechanical, lifeless, obedient. That’s why people burn out — they forget to believe in the purpose behind what they do.”

Jack: “Purpose is just another illusion to make suffering tolerable. Faith gives people comfort, not power. It’s like an opiate. It makes you feel better, but it doesn’t solve anything.”

Jeeny: “You’re quoting Marx now?” (She laughed softly.) “He said religion was the opiate of the masses. But Vivekananda wasn’t talking about religion. He meant the inner self — the divine confidence that says: I am capable. I am enough. That’s not delusion. That’s awakening.”

Host: The fire popped, a small ember leaping into the cold air, glowing for a moment before it vanished. Jack’s eyes followed it, his jaw tight, his mind turning.

Jack: “And what happens when faith turns into arrogance? When people start thinking they’re invincible, and they end up destroying more than they create? History is full of men who believed too much in themselves — dictators, tyrants, leaders who thought their ‘faith’ made them divine.”

Jeeny: “That’s not faith. That’s ego. Faith is humble. It’s quiet. It says, I have the power to change myself, not, I have the right to change everyone else. Look at Gandhi — his faith in himself was what moved millions without a weapon. True faith never dominates; it inspires.”

Jack: “And yet, Gandhi was killed by one of his own countrymen. Faith didn’t protect him.”

Jeeny: “No, but it transformed the world around him before he died. His death didn’t erase his message — it amplified it. That’s what faith does: it outlives the body.”

Host: The sun began to rise, breaking through the mist, washing the mountain in a soft orange light. The world below glimmered like it had just been born. Jack squinted, shielding his eyes, his expression caught between skepticism and awe.

Jack: “You really think faith alone can cure human misery? You think a man with faith won’t still feel fear, loss, failure?”

Jeeny: “Of course he will. Faith doesn’t erase fear — it walks beside it. It says, Even if I fall, I’ll rise again. It’s what every artist, every scientist, every mother, every soldier has to hold onto in the dark. Without that, we’d never even try.”

Host: Jack’s hand tightened around his cup, the steam rising between them like a thin veil. The firelight reflected in his grey eyes, and for the first time, a faint softness appeared — a crack in the steel.

Jack: “You make it sound like faith is an act of rebellion.”

Jeeny: “It is. The most beautiful one. When the world tells you you’re small, and you still believe you matter — that’s rebellion. When you fail, and still get up — that’s defiance. Faith in ourselves is the quiet revolution no one can stop.”

Host: A truck rumbled somewhere below, its engine echoing up the valley. The mist lifted further, revealing the green slopes below. The air was alive, shifting, hopeful.

Jack: “So you think all our misery is just… a lack of faith?”

Jeeny: “Not all. But most of it begins when we forget what we are. We start believing we’re powerless, that the world is against us. That’s when fear takes over. Faith isn’t about being sure of everything — it’s about being willing to try even when you’re not.”

Jack: “Then maybe I’ve been mistaking doubt for realism all this time.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe doubt is your way of reaching faith. Even Vivekananda said — ‘You cannot believe in God until you believe in yourself.’ Faith isn’t blind; it’s earned through struggle.”

Host: The last of the mist dissolved, the valley now clear, vast, alive. The tea stall owner, an old man with kind eyes, smiled at them as he poured more tea, the steam rising in gold threads. Jeeny and Jack sat in silence, their words settling like dust after a storm.

Jack: “Maybe Vivekananda wasn’t being naïve after all. Maybe the world’s evils won’t vanish overnight. But if enough people believed they could make a difference…”

Jeeny: “…then maybe the darkness wouldn’t feel so endless.”

Jack: “Faith as a weapon, then.”

Jeeny: “No — faith as a light.”

Host: The sun broke free at last, flooding the mountain in blinding gold. Jack’s face softened, and a small smile tugged at the edge of his lips. Jeeny watched, her eyes bright, her hands steady, as if she had just witnessed a miracle — not outside, but within.

And in that quiet moment, as the light touched them both, the words of Vivekananda seemed not like a lesson, but a truth — that faith in ourselves is not the end of suffering, but the beginning of strength, and that from that strength, all healing must rise.