If you desire to be pure, have firm faith, and slowly go on with

Host: The temple courtyard was drenched in the light of the setting sun — that sacred hour when gold and dust meet in the air, and the world feels neither alive nor asleep. Incense smoke curled in slow, spiraling trails, drifting upward toward the bells, where the evening wind carried the faint echo of chanting.

Jack and Jeeny sat on the stone steps beneath the banyan tree, its roots hanging like old prayers, its leaves trembling in the late breeze. Between them lay a small book, open and marked, its words still vibrant in the silence they had left:

“If you desire to be pure, have firm faith, and slowly go on with your devotional practices without wasting your energy in useless scriptural discussions and arguments. Your little brain will otherwise be muddled.” — Ramakrishna

Jack: (sighing) “Your little brain will otherwise be muddled.” Well, I can’t say he’s wrong about that. Most of philosophy feels like a grand muddle dressed in Sanskrit.

Jeeny: (smiling) That’s because philosophy tries to dissect what the soul only needs to feel. Ramakrishna wasn’t scolding thought, Jack — he was warning against ego disguised as intellect.

Host: The evening bell tolled once, a deep, bronze note that seemed to vibrate through the stone beneath them. A few monks passed quietly, their robes brushing the dust, their faces calm as water untouched by wind.

Jack: (leaning back, looking up at the branches) So what, we’re supposed to stop thinking now? Just close our eyes and hope faith fills in the blanks?

Jeeny: (gently) Not stop thinking. Just stop arguing with yourself about what can only be lived. There’s a difference between knowing the truth and becoming it.

Jack: (chuckling) Becoming it? That sounds like mystic poetry. Truth is truth — you know it or you don’t.

Jeeny: (softly) You say that like truth were a fact in a textbook. But faith isn’t a formula, Jack. You can’t prove God with an equation. Ramakrishna knew that the mind, when left unchecked, starts to believe it can outthink the infinite.

Host: The light shifted, reddening the temple walls, making the carved deities appear alive — their faces shimmering as though breathing through stone. A pigeon fluttered from the rafters, cooing as if it, too, were part of the conversation.

Jack: (quietly, watching the pigeons) I used to think faith was just a kind of laziness. A refusal to admit we don’t know the answers. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe it’s just a different kind of knowing.

Jeeny: (smiling) Exactly. Faith isn’t the absence of intellect — it’s its surrender. Not in defeat, but in trust.

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) Trust in what? In some cosmic plan? Some unseen hand writing our fates?

Jeeny: (turns toward him) Trust that what we don’t understand isn’t necessarily against us. That the universe — or God, or whatever name you give it — isn’t chaos wearing a mask.

Host: The wind rose, carrying the smell of sandalwood and flowers from the temple. Petals drifted through the air and fell softly around them like slow snow. The moment was still, delicate — like time itself had paused to listen.

Jack: (after a long silence) You ever notice how people use faith to stop thinking, though? To hide from doubt? I can’t stand that. “Just believe” — it sounds like a drug for the anxious.

Jeeny: (softly but firm) It’s not about hiding from doubt. It’s about holding it gently — without letting it consume you. Doubt’s a teacher, not a tyrant.

Jack: (nods slowly) Hm. I suppose there’s a difference between wrestling with the truth and beating it to death.

Jeeny: (smiling) Exactly. Ramakrishna said to go slowly, faithfully. To not waste your energy in useless arguments — because those arguments are never with others, Jack. They’re always with yourself.

Host: The last rays of sunlight began to fade, leaving only the glow of the oil lamps being lit along the temple corridor. Their flames swayed softly in rhythm, tiny beacons of devotion against the deepening dusk.

Jack: (watching the lamps) You think purity means staying untouched by the world?

Jeeny: (shaking her head) No. Purity isn’t about isolation, it’s about intention. You can walk through the mud and still keep your feet light if you remember where you’re going.

Jack: (half-smiling) And where are we going?

Jeeny: (gazing toward the horizon) Toward the same place we came from. We just forget the way sometimes. That’s why practice matters — not words. Not debates.

Host: The sound of chanting grew louder now, a low, steady hum, the syllables ancient, rolling through the evening air like tides. It wasn’t music, but something older, deeper — as if the universe itself were breathing.

Jack: (after a pause, voice quieter) I envy them. The monks. They don’t look confused. They just… are.

Jeeny: (softly) That’s the reward of faith, Jack. Not certainty — but stillness.

Jack: (nodding) Stillness. (smiles faintly) That’s a word I’ve never been friends with.

Jeeny: (touches his hand gently) Maybe it’s time you met it.

Host: The camera would slowly rise, moving above the courtyard — the lamps below like constellations of fireflies, the banyan tree a dark silhouette against the fading light. The chanting swelled, then softened, as if bowing to the night.

Below, Jack and Jeeny sat in silence — the kind of silence that isn’t empty, but alive, filled with everything they no longer needed to say.

The book beside them remained open, its page trembling lightly in the breeze, the words still visible in the dim light:
“If you desire to be pure, have firm faith, and slowly go on with your devotional practices without wasting your energy in useless scriptural discussions and arguments. Your little brain will otherwise be muddled.”

And as the scene faded, the narration lingered softly —
that perhaps the path to wisdom is not paved with debate,
but with the quiet, faithful rhythm of practice,
and the gentle trust
that the heart, when silent,
always knows the way home.