I'm not a model; hence I don't see the reason to have a six-pack

Host: The monsoon rain poured over the city, turning the streets into thin rivers of silver under the flickering streetlights. Inside a dimly lit tea stall, the air smelled of wet earth, ginger, and the faint burnt aroma of charcoal. Steam curled from a metal kettle, coiling upward like a spirit.

Jack sat by the window, his shirt sleeves rolled up, a half-empty cup of chai before him. His eyes — grey, cold, restless — stared into the rain. Jeeny sat opposite, her hair damp, her hands wrapped around her cup for warmth.

There was a kind of quiet tension between them, the kind that only comes when truth is about to surface.

Jeeny: “Abhishek Bachchan once said something I really liked — ‘I’m not a model; hence I don’t see the reason to have six-pack abs. What makes the character of a cop stand out is his attitude, not his abs.’”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “Sounds like something a guy says when he doesn’t have the abs.”

Jeeny: (smirking softly) “Maybe. Or maybe it’s something a man says when he finally understands that being real is better than being perfect.”

Jack: “Real?” (he scoffs) “In this world, no one wants ‘real.’ They want image. That’s why fitness influencers make millions selling protein powders, not philosophies.”

Host: A rickshaw rattled past outside, splashing water across the pavement. The light from the stall’s bulb swung slightly in the breeze, casting shadows that danced across Jack’s face — sharp, angular, worn. Jeeny’s reflection shimmered in the glass between them, delicate but unwavering.

Jack: “You talk about attitude, Jeeny, but let’s be honest. In movies, in politics, in life — presentation is power. The first impression decides everything.”

Jeeny: “Not everything. Maybe it decides attention, but it doesn’t sustain respect. You remember ‘Dhoom’? Abhishek didn’t need to show his body to command presence. His stillness, his eyes — they carried the weight of authority.”

Jack: (grinning slightly) “You think people noticed his eyes over Hrithik’s abs in ‘Dhoom 2’? Be real.”

Jeeny: “I am being real. It’s not about who shined brighter — it’s about what lasts. The shine fades, the show changes, but the character stays. Attitude is permanent; aesthetics are temporary.”

Host: Her voice was calm, yet filled with an unshakable conviction. The rain outside grew heavier, drumming against the tin roof in wild rhythm. Jack leaned back, his jaw tightening, his hands curling into loose fists.

The argument had found its heartbeat.

Jack: “You make it sound noble, but let’s face it — people are judged by what they look like. A cop with a belly gets mocked. A businessman in torn shoes gets ignored. That’s the law of perception.”

Jeeny: “Perception, yes. But perception can be taught — or broken. It’s lazy to let others define your worth.”

Jack: “Easy for you to say. You live in a world of ideals. Out here, image is survival. Even cops — the real ones — get judged by their uniform’s shine, not their courage.”

Jeeny: “But that’s the very problem. The obsession with the surface blinds us to substance. What’s the point of a cop who looks strong but acts weak?”

Jack: (narrowing his eyes) “And what’s the point of virtue if no one can see it?”

Host: A pause — long and deliberate. The sound of thunder rolled through the distance, deep and slow, shaking the tiny stall. The shopkeeper, an old man with wrinkled hands, quietly wiped down a counter, pretending not to listen.

The conversation had shifted from actors and abs to something far more human — identity, authenticity, pride.

Jeeny: “You remember Charles Bukowski? He once said, ‘The problem with the world is that the intelligent people are full of doubts, while the stupid ones are full of confidence.’ Maybe that’s what Abhishek meant. Confidence — real confidence — doesn’t come from muscles. It comes from knowing who you are.”

Jack: (gruffly) “Confidence doesn’t pay bills.”

Jeeny: “Neither does insecurity.”

Jack: (leaning forward) “So what, you think I should just walk into a meeting, gut out, hair messy, attitude blazing — and people will respect me?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “If your words carry truth, yes. Because respect comes from substance, not symmetry.”

Host: The rain began to slow, softening into a mist. The lights outside blurred into halos through the wet glass. Jack’s reflection looked older in that moment — not from age, but from the fatigue of pretending.

Jack: “You ever think people hide behind fitness? Behind perfect images, perfect faces?”

Jeeny: “All the time. It’s armor. But armor doesn’t just protect; it isolates. When all you show the world is perfection, you lose the chance to be understood.”

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe that’s safer.”

Jeeny: “It’s safer, yes. But it’s lonely.”

Host: The kettle whistled again, piercing the silence. The shopkeeper refilled their cups without a word. The air was warm again, fragrant with tea leaves and cardamom. Jack’s voice softened, dropping the weight of his usual sarcasm.

Jack: “You know… when I was younger, I thought being impressive meant being untouchable. Looking strong, sounding right. I’d stare at the mirror, trying to fix everything that looked human.”

Jeeny: “And did it make you feel powerful?”

Jack: (after a long pause) “No. Just tired.”

Jeeny: “That’s the thing, Jack. When you stop trying to look powerful, you start becoming it.”

Jack: “So you think Abhishek’s right? That the real macho is in the mind?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because anyone can flex a muscle. But not everyone can carry integrity.”

Host: The rain had stopped completely now. The air was thick with the smell of earth and the faint hum of distant traffic. A dog barked somewhere, then silence. Jack looked out the window — the city was breathing again, raw and imperfect, alive in its cracks.

Jack: “You know, maybe that’s why I liked the first Dhoom more than the rest. It was gritty. Messy. Real. No glamour, just grit.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Sometimes imperfection tells the truer story. Like scars — they’re not flaws, they’re proof.”

Jack: “Proof of what?”

Jeeny: “That you’ve lived.”

Host: Her words lingered in the air, like the last note of a song that refuses to fade. Jack looked at her, really looked — not at the shine in her eyes, but the calm certainty behind them.

A faint smile crept onto his face, something between defeat and understanding.

Jack: “So attitude over abs, huh?”

Jeeny: “Every time.”

Jack: (grinning) “Guess I can finally stop feeling guilty about skipping the gym.”

Jeeny: (laughing) “Only if you work on that attitude instead.”

Jack: (mock salute) “Yes, ma’am.”

Host: The camera pulled back slowly — the tea stall, the two cups still steaming, the city lights glowing faintly through the mist. Jack leaned back, relaxed for the first time in the night.

Outside, the streets shimmered with the residue of rain — imperfect, uneven, beautiful.

As the scene faded, Jeeny’s voice echoed softly in memory:

“The body impresses. The soul endures.”

And somewhere, beneath the hum of the waking city, Jack smiled — not as a man chasing image, but as one finally at ease in his own imperfect truth.