If you are approachable, if you keep your line of communication

Host: The night hung thick over the city, its lights softened by a fine mist rising from the river. Inside a high-rise office, glass walls framed the sprawling skyline, each window a mirror of glowing towers and blurred headlights below. It was nearly midnight, but the room still pulsed with the low hum of computers and the distant buzz of a cleaning crew moving like ghosts down the hall.

At a long table strewn with papers and laptops, Jack sat in his usual posture — slightly hunched, one hand at his temple, the other scrolling through a spreadsheet. His tie hung loose, his eyes heavy but sharp with the tension of a man too used to control.

Across from him, Jeeny leaned back in her chair, her black hair spilling over her shoulders like spilled ink on paper. Her brown eyes were steady, her voice quiet but warm as she read from the note scrawled on a page torn from a notebook:

“If you are approachable, if you keep your line of communication open, then very often, you get to hear what you need to hear.” — Arundhati Bhattacharya

The air between them seemed to pause — as if the city itself had turned down its volume to listen.

Jack: “Sounds like something managers write in HR manuals. ‘Keep communication open.’ I’ve heard that phrase in every corporate seminar since I was twenty.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because it’s true. But nobody actually practices it. You listen to people’s reports, not their voices.”

Host: Jack’s grey eyes lifted, a faint flicker of amusement breaking through his fatigue. The light from the city’s billboards painted half his face blue, half gold, like two moods arguing in silence.

Jack: “People don’t want leaders who listen, Jeeny. They want leaders who decide. You open your door too wide, and suddenly everyone wants to be heard. Everyone’s noise becomes your burden. Communication isn’t clarity — it’s chaos.”

Jeeny: “Only if you’re afraid of what you might hear.”

Host: The words landed softly, but they hit like a stone dropped into still water. The sound seemed to echo off the glass. Jack’s hand froze mid-motion.

Jack: “I’m not afraid. I’m just realistic. There’s a limit to what one person can absorb. Half the time, people talk because they want attention, not because they have anything to say.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But the other half? They talk because they think no one will listen. And that silence — that’s where mistakes are born. The kind that destroy teams, companies… even families.”

Host: A cleaner’s cart rattled faintly outside the door — a sound so small, yet grounding, like the heartbeat of a quiet world. Jack leaned back, rubbing the bridge of his nose, exhaling the kind of sigh that comes from years of unspoken weariness.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic, Jeeny. But leadership isn’t therapy. You can’t keep your line open to everyone. You’ll drown in the noise.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. You’ll drown in the silence.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice had changed — not louder, but firmer, with that subtle edge that comes from conviction. Jack’s gaze met hers, and for a moment, they looked like two generals arguing on the eve of battle.

Jeeny: “Do you remember the Bhopal disaster?”

Jack: “Of course. Union Carbide, 1984. Gas leak, thousands dead. What about it?”

Jeeny: “They knew. There were engineers and workers who raised alarms weeks before the explosion. Reports sent. Warnings ignored. All because no one wanted to listen to ‘noise.’ That’s what happens when communication closes — when people stop believing their voice matters.”

Host: The rain began again, a slow tapping against the glass, each drop tracing a thin, fragile line down the window — like thoughts that wanted to reach the ground but might never make it.

Jack: “You’re comparing me to Union Carbide now?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m comparing silence to negligence. You build walls to protect efficiency. But walls don’t just keep chaos out — they keep truth out too.”

Host: The light flickered from the monitors as the screensaver kicked in — soft waves of blue motion rippling across the room. Jack’s reflection shimmered faintly on the screen — two eyes staring back, weary but thoughtful.

Jack: “You think being approachable fixes everything? That if I just nod and say, ‘Tell me more,’ suddenly people start telling the truth?”

Jeeny: “Not everyone, no. But someone will. The right one. The one who tells you what you need to hear before it’s too late. That’s what Bhattacharya meant. Approachability isn’t about being nice — it’s about being present.”

Jack: “Presence doesn’t scale, Jeeny. You can’t be present for everyone.”

Jeeny: “You don’t need to be. Just open enough that people believe they can reach you. It’s not about quantity; it’s about signal. The moment you shut down one honest voice, you invite a thousand lies.”

Host: A faint thunder rumbled outside, distant but deep — the kind of sound that seems to roll through both sky and chest. Jack’s fingers tapped against the desk, slow, deliberate, the rhythm of a man who wanted to disagree but couldn’t find the right words.

Jack: “You know, when I started this company, I thought being the smartest guy in the room was enough. But lately… every mistake feels like something I didn’t hear soon enough.”

Jeeny: “That’s because leadership isn’t hearing answers, Jack. It’s hearing hesitation. It’s hearing the silence before someone gives up trying to speak.”

Host: The rain thickened, running in smooth streams now, distorting the city lights into rivers of liquid color. Jeeny’s eyes caught the shimmer, and for a moment she looked almost luminous — calm, resolute.

Jack: “You think listening makes me stronger.”

Jeeny: “No. It makes you human. And that’s what people follow — not titles, not authority, but humanity.”

Host: A long pause. Jack stood, walked to the window, hands in his pockets. The rain reflected in his eyes — moving, falling, reforming.

Jack: “You ever wonder how someone like Arundhati Bhattacharya ran a bank of thousands and still stayed approachable?”

Jeeny: “She didn’t mistake distance for dignity. She led from among, not above. That’s what made her powerful — she was visible. Accessible. The kind of leader who made people brave enough to tell her the truth.”

Jack: “Truth’s expensive.”

Jeeny: “So is ignorance.”

Host: Jack’s laugh was quiet, almost bitter, but it softened as it faded. He turned toward her, his expression lighter now — the kind of fatigue that comes after a storm begins to pass.

Jack: “You make it sound like listening’s a kind of strategy.”

Jeeny: “It’s more like faith. Faith that people will meet your openness with honesty, not manipulation. And even if some don’t, the ones who matter will.”

Host: A flash of lightning illuminated the room, followed by a low rumble. The power flickered for half a second, plunging the space into a surreal half-darkness — the glow of the city below the only constant light.

Jack: “Alright, Jeeny. Say I open the line. I make myself approachable. What if what I hear isn’t what I want to?”

Jeeny: “Then you grow. Growth doesn’t come from agreement, Jack. It comes from the discomfort of truth.”

Host: The storm outside grew stronger, wind pressing against the glass, rain slicing like needles of silver. Yet inside, the silence between them was still, almost sacred.

Jack: “You’re saying listening is leadership.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying humility is. Listening is just how humility speaks.”

Host: Jack’s shoulders loosened, a faint exhale escaping him — one that felt more like release than defeat. He reached for his coat, slinging it over his arm.

Jack: “You know, for someone who talks about openness, you’ve got a way of cornering people with words.”

Jeeny: “That’s because I leave the door open for truth, Jack. You just walked through it.”

Host: Outside, the storm began to break. The rain slowed, the light from the skyline grew clearer, brighter. The windows no longer distorted the world but reflected it — clean, sharp, and new.

Jack: “Maybe being approachable isn’t weakness after all.”

Jeeny: “It never was. It’s just the courage to listen before the world forces you to.”

Host: As they stepped toward the elevator, the hallway lights flickered back to full strength, casting long shadows that stretched and merged across the polished floor. The doors slid open with a quiet chime — a sound that felt like permission.

Host: And as they descended toward the sleeping city, the night outside gleamed with the faint promise of connection — the kind that doesn’t shout to be heard, but waits quietly for the one who finally dares to listen.