In this day and age of Internet, where we have several dating

Host:
The city night shimmered with neon light — billboards flashing, screens glowing, and a million digital hearts beating silently through phones held by restless hands. A coffee shop stood on the corner of a narrow street, its sign half-lit, the rain outside catching reflections of red and blue. Inside, the air smelled of roasted beans, rain-soaked pavement, and conversation half-whispered.

At a table by the window, Jack and Jeeny sat across from each other. Their faces flickered with the pale light of their screens — two different worlds of scrolling, both illuminated and isolated. Between them, two half-finished cappuccinos steamed gently, their froth slowly collapsing.

Jeeny:
(puts down her phone and looks up, her eyes alive with that spark of thought)
“Vikram Bhatt once said, ‘In this day and age of Internet, where we have several dating sites, it is bizarre to say the audience is not ready to watch bolder themes.’”
(She smiles, shaking her head.)
“He’s right, isn’t he? We live in the age of exposure — everyone’s selling pieces of their soul online, but somehow we still pretend to be shocked by honesty on screen.”

Jack:
(leans back, amused) “Ah, hypocrisy — the world’s favorite show. We swipe through strangers in bed and then blush at truth in art.”

Jeeny:
(grinning) “Exactly. It’s the strangest contradiction. We consume boldness in private but condemn it in public. It’s like we want passion without consequence.”

Jack:
(dryly) “Or truth without discomfort.”

Jeeny:
(leans in, voice lower now) “Yes. But the irony is that discomfort is what makes truth powerful. Bhatt’s saying — if we can scroll through endless confessions, half-naked desires, and curated heartbreaks on Instagram or Tinder — why are we still afraid of art that mirrors it?”

Host:
The rain intensified, streaking the windows with rivulets of light. Jack’s face reflected in the glass, distorted, like a man caught between cynicism and admiration. Jeeny’s tone carried that quiet fire — the one that turned debate into something intimate, almost like dance.

Jack:
(smirking) “Maybe because the screen in your hand feels safer than the screen in a cinema. In one, you’re the god — scrolling, swiping, skipping. In the other, you’re the captive. You can’t escape the reflection it forces on you.”

Jeeny:
(nodding slowly) “So bold art scares us because it’s unfiltered. It’s the one mirror we can’t resize.”

Jack:
(half-smiling) “Exactly. The Internet lets us live in the illusion of boldness without the burden of consequence.”

Jeeny:
(softly) “But art demands consequence. That’s why it matters.”

Host:
The barista turned off the grinder, and the silence afterward felt heavy — almost cinematic. The rain’s rhythm softened into a slow lullaby outside. The café had emptied except for them — two souls dissecting a world that no longer knew what intimacy meant.

Jack:
(gazing out the window) “You know what’s funny? We’ve made vulnerability transactional. Every app sells it — ‘Share more, post more, expose more.’ But it’s not boldness. It’s performance.”

Jeeny:
(quietly) “And the audience buys it because pretending to be open is easier than actually being seen.”

Jack:
(turning toward her) “Maybe that’s why Bhatt’s right — we’re not afraid of boldness, we’re afraid of sincerity. Real boldness isn’t skin; it’s truth.”

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly) “And truth isn’t trending right now.”

Jack:
(with a half-laugh) “Not unless it’s hashtagged.”

Jeeny:
(chuckling softly) “The revolution with filters.”

Host:
Their laughter blended with the soft hum of the coffee machine. For a moment, the irony of it all didn’t sting — it shimmered. The warmth of the café, the hum of rain, the smell of espresso — it all folded around them like the world’s quietest rebellion.

Jeeny:
(leaning forward, voice thoughtful) “What Bhatt meant goes beyond cinema, though. He’s talking about courage — the courage to look without censoring. To tell stories without shrinking them down for comfort. It’s about showing people the rawness they pretend not to crave.”

Jack:
(resting his chin on his hand) “And you think we’re ready for that?”

Jeeny:
(nodding) “We’ve always been ready. We just keep pretending not to be. The Internet didn’t make us bold — it just made our fears more public.”

Jack:
(softly) “So art is still the only place left where honesty isn’t curated.”

Jeeny:
(smiling) “Exactly. That’s what separates art from content. Art doesn’t ask to be liked.”

Jack:
(quietly) “It just asks to be felt.”

Host:
The lights dimmed slightly as the café prepared to close. Outside, the rain had turned to mist, streetlights glowing like suspended halos in the fog. The moment between them hung heavy — reflective, steady, intimate in its stillness.

Jeeny:
(softly) “That’s the real boldness — not shock value, but sincerity. We’ve built a world obsessed with exposure, but allergic to depth.”

Jack:
(nodding slowly) “So maybe bold art isn’t about showing more... it’s about revealing more.”

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly) “Yes. It’s about revealing what people are too afraid to feel — even when they scroll past it every day.”

Jack:
(after a pause) “You make it sound almost holy.”

Jeeny:
(whispering) “Maybe it is. Vulnerability always was.”

Host:
The barista wiped the counter, the last song faded, and the rain stopped completely.
Jack and Jeeny sat in the glow of the last light, the outside world blurring behind the fogged glass.

For a moment, they said nothing — just sat in that quiet, raw space where honesty doesn’t need applause.

Jack:
(finally, softly) “You know what? Maybe we’re all just waiting for art brave enough to tell the truth we’ve already lived.”

Jeeny:
(smiling gently) “And maybe, when it does, we’ll finally stop pretending we’re not ready.”

Host:
The camera pulled back, capturing the two of them — a small island of light in the digital night.
The café window reflected the world outside — billboards, screens, faces lit by phones, all of them chasing meaning through noise.

And over that reflection, Vikram Bhatt’s words echoed — not as a challenge, but as a quiet prophecy:

that in a world already scrolling through its own secrets,
boldness is not nudity, but honesty,
and art’s last sacred act
is to remind us that we were never too fragile
to face the truth —
we were simply too afraid to feel it.