Indians are sometimes accused of being condescending toward

Host:
The New Delhi evening was wrapped in orange smog and memory — the hum of traffic mixing with temple bells, a rhythm both sacred and suffocating. Street vendors called out from behind carts of roasted corn and jasmine garlands; political slogans faded from distant loudspeakers. The air shimmered with contradiction, heavy with pride and irony.

Inside a quiet café near Connaught Place, the ceiling fan spun lazily, pushing the heat but not dispersing it. Jack sat by the window, the steam from his chai curling upward like a ghost with nowhere to go. Jeeny sat across from him, a thin notebook open, its pages filled with scribbles and translations — half Hindi, half English, all reflection.

Outside, a boy with a cricket bat ran barefoot through the dust, his laughter momentarily louder than the city.

Jeeny: “Gary Weiss once said — ‘Indians are sometimes accused of being condescending toward Westerners and of being excessively preachy in their attitude toward other nations. That accusation is sometimes correct.’”
Jack: [raising an eyebrow] “That’s... brave to say out loud.”
Jeeny: “Brave — or accurate.”
Jack: “Depends who’s listening.”
Jeeny: “Maybe that’s exactly his point. The accusation only stings because it’s partly true.”
Jack: “You mean cultural superiority?”
Jeeny: “No — cultural complication. A nation that’s been invaded, colonized, romanticized, and globalized all at once is bound to have a complex about wisdom.”
Jack: [smiling] “So when India lectures, it’s not arrogance — it’s inheritance.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. The instinct to moralize comes from being moralized at for centuries.”

Host:
A power cut flickered the lights, leaving the café momentarily dim. The owner lit a candle on their table — the flame trembling, fragile, alive. Jeeny leaned forward, her voice lower, reflective.

Jeeny: “It’s like the child who’s finally old enough to speak after being silenced. Of course he speaks too loudly. Of course he overexplains.”
Jack: “So the preacher is really a survivor.”
Jeeny: “Yes. And the sermon is just a form of remembering.”
Jack: “But don’t you think there’s still ego in it? India loves to play philosopher — the land of Gandhi and Buddha, lecturing the West about peace while fighting its own wars inside.”
Jeeny: [nodding] “That’s the irony. The preacher still sins, the wise man still forgets. But arrogance and authenticity can share the same mouth.”
Jack: “So when Weiss calls it condescending, he’s not wrong.”
Jeeny: “No — but he’s incomplete.”

Host:
The sound of rickshaws drifted in from the street, their horns sharp, insistent, human. The candlelight threw shifting shadows across Jeeny’s face, making her expression seem like two — calm and restless at once.

Jack: “You know, maybe India’s tone comes from trauma. A kind of post-colonial revenge — not by force, but by intellect.”
Jeeny: “Yes. The British took resources; India kept the philosophies. Now the lecture is the echo of that theft.”
Jack: “And the West hears it as condescension.”
Jeeny: “Because they’re not used to being the students.”
Jack: [grinning] “Touché. You’d make a good diplomat.”
Jeeny: “No. Just someone who grew up between worlds — one too proud, one too loud.”

Host:
A waiter brought more chai, the cups clinking softly. Outside, the sky darkened into an indigo haze; the streetlights flickered awake like tired eyes. The city felt eternal — like an argument that never ends, only changes tone.

Jack: “You think it’s possible to be proud without being preachy?”
Jeeny: “Maybe not when your pride comes from pain. Nations, like people, overcompensate.”
Jack: “So the moral tone is a mask?”
Jeeny: “No — a mirror. When India tells the West how to behave, it’s really telling itself what it wishes to be.”
Jack: “That’s beautiful — and a bit tragic.”
Jeeny: “It’s both. So is the country.”
Jack: [quietly] “So are we.”

Host:
A gust of wind blew through the open door, making the candle tremble again. Jeeny shielded it with her hand, the flame dancing just below her palm.

Jeeny: “You know, Weiss isn’t condemning India. He’s describing a tension — between self-awareness and self-deception.”
Jack: “Like a nation that quotes Gandhi but builds skyscrapers in his shadow.”
Jeeny: “Yes. Or worships the poor while dreaming of wealth.”
Jack: “So contradiction isn’t hypocrisy — it’s identity.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. India’s the most honest liar in the world. It doesn’t hide its contradictions; it wears them like color.”
Jack: “And that’s what the West misunderstands — they read passion as arrogance.”
Jeeny: “Because they’ve forgotten what hunger sounds like.”

Host:
A group of students passed outside, laughing, their voices sharp and hopeful against the dusk. One of them shouted lines from a Bollywood song; another answered with a quote from a protest poster. The air was alive with argument, the Indian national sport.

Jack: “You know, I think that’s what I love about this country — it’s constantly debating itself. No opinion is permanent, no truth is safe.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. Even Weiss’s criticism would be argued with — not denied, but debated.”
Jack: “Because to argue here is to belong.”
Jeeny: “Yes. Arrogance here isn’t silence — it’s speech. Even contradiction is a kind of love.”
Jack: [laughing] “So every sermon is really an embrace?”
Jeeny: “Or an exorcism.”
Jack: “Of what?”
Jeeny: “Of history.”

Host:
The candle burned lower, its wax pooling like melted time. The café was quiet now, except for the hum of the generator outside and the distant murmur of prayer from a mosque across the road.

Jack: “You know, Weiss’s quote — it’s not just about India. It’s about every culture that’s been both student and teacher. Once you’ve suffered under arrogance, you overcompensate with conviction.”
Jeeny: “And when you’ve been dismissed, you learn to raise your voice.”
Jack: “Even when you don’t need to.”
Jeeny: “Especially then.”
Jack: “So maybe condescension is just a defense mechanism — the language of people who finally have a microphone.”
Jeeny: “Yes. It’s what happens when humility grows tired of being mistaken for weakness.”

Host:
The rain began, slow and fragrant — the scent of wet dust rising from the streets. Jeeny looked out the window, her reflection merging with the city lights. For a moment, she looked like she was part of the skyline — one more contradiction made beautiful.

Jack: “Do you think India will ever stop preaching?”
Jeeny: “No. But maybe one day, it won’t need to.”
Jack: “When?”
Jeeny: “When it forgives itself for surviving.”
Jack: “That’s a hell of a sermon.”
Jeeny: [smiling] “We learned from the best.”

Host:
The candle finally went out, smoke curling upward like a question with no end. Jack and Jeeny sat in the half-dark, the sound of rain filling the silence.

The city glowed outside, alive and imperfect, just as Weiss described — brilliant and self-conscious, proud and pleading, teaching and learning all at once.

And in that flickering moment,
the truth of Gary Weiss’s words pulsed through the humid air —

that nations, like people,
can be both wise and wounded.

That pride can sound like arrogance
when spoken through the mouth of survival.

That every sermon hides a scar,
and every accusation hides admiration.

For India is not a single tone —
it is a choir of contradictions:
ancient and modern,
humble and grand,
teacher and rebel.

And when it speaks —
yes, sometimes too loudly,
sometimes too proudly —

it is not boasting,
but remembering.

Remembering that it once was silenced,
and now it sings —
not to dominate,
but to declare:

“We are still here.
We are still learning.
And the lesson is our own.”