It is good to forget one's anger against one's wrongdoer, whoever

Host: The evening settled over the city like a long, slow sigh. The streetlights flickered awake, spilling faint gold over the cracked sidewalks. The air carried the scent of rain-soaked concrete and fading smoke from a nearby vendor’s stall.

Inside a narrow temple courtyard, tucked between old brick walls draped with ivy, two figures sat facing a small oil lamp that trembled in the wind.

The lamp’s flame painted their faces in shifting amber and shadow — Jack, his jaw tense, his eyes cold with something long unspoken; and Jeeny, quiet, steady, the soft curve of her expression touched by reflection rather than fear.

A weathered plaque beside the altar bore an ancient Tamil verse translated beneath in English:

“It is good to forget one’s anger against one’s wrongdoer, whoever he may be, for countless number of evils will quickly grow from this anger.” — Thiruvalluvar.

The flame danced as if it understood.

Jack: (bitterly) Forget anger. Easy for him to say. Whoever “he” was, he must not have been betrayed by someone he trusted.

Jeeny: (calmly) He was betrayed by his own people, Jack. Thiruvalluvar lived in a time when words could get you exiled — or worse. He knew what anger costs.

Host: The wind brushed against the lamp, the flame bending like a blade of golden grass but refusing to die. Jack’s hand tightened around a smooth stone resting on the ground beside him — a gesture both defiant and tired.

Jack: You think forgiveness fixes everything? That forgetting means healing?

Jeeny: No. Forgetting doesn’t erase pain. It just stops it from breeding new pain.

Jack: (gritting his teeth) I’m not breeding anything. I just want what’s fair.

Jeeny: And when you get it? What then? Does fairness ever undo what’s been done?

Host: A silence followed, deep as the still water in the small temple basin nearby. The moonlight slid down the marble, catching the ripples where the wind had passed.

Jack: (slowly) You don’t understand. Some wrongs cut so deep that forgetting them feels like betraying yourself.

Jeeny: Maybe that’s why forgiveness isn’t about forgetting — it’s about refusing to let that wound define you.

Jack: (sharply) So I’m just supposed to smile and move on? Pretend it didn’t happen?

Jeeny: No, Jack. You remember — but you remember without venom.

Host: Jack’s eyes flashed — steel meeting flame. He turned his head away, watching the shadows cast by the temple bells swinging faintly in the breeze.

Jack: You sound like every saint carved into these walls. But you’ve never lost something that made you hate.

Jeeny: (quietly) Haven’t I?

Host: Her voice trembled not with weakness, but with truth. She lifted her hand and touched the scar along her wrist — a thin, pale memory of a time before peace found her.

Jeeny: I once thought anger was my only language. It felt powerful — it made me feel alive. Until I realized it was speaking for me long after I’d stopped meaning what it said.

Jack: And what stopped it?

Jeeny: A night like this one. When I realized my anger was keeping his ghost alive — not me.

Host: The lamp’s flame steadied. The night air cooled. A dog barked in the distance, and the echo faded into the hum of crickets.

Jack: You talk about ghosts as if anger creates them.

Jeeny: It does. Every time we feed it, it becomes something with a face.

Jack: (frowning) A face we can’t forget.

Jeeny: A face that grows uglier the longer we look at it.

Host: Jack’s fingers loosened around the stone, dropping it onto the damp earth. It made a small sound — like the closing of a thought.

Jack: What if I can’t forget? What if every time I close my eyes, I see it again — the moment, the betrayal, the laugh that came after?

Jeeny: Then you start smaller. Don’t forget it all. Just forget the anger part.

Jack: (dryly) You make it sound like deleting a file.

Jeeny: It’s more like planting a seed. You don’t see the change right away. But every time you choose silence over rage, you take away a little of its soil.

Host: A gust of wind swept through the courtyard. The lamp flickered but stayed burning — its light small, but relentless.

Jack: You know what scares me? If I stop being angry, I’ll stop caring.

Jeeny: That’s not care, Jack. That’s corrosion. Real care doesn’t need fire — it needs endurance.

Jack: (after a pause) And what if endurance turns into indifference?

Jeeny: Then you’ve reached peace. That’s the point.

Host: Jack’s shoulders slumped, his breath leaving him in a slow exhale — the sound of someone laying down a burden they’d carried too long.

Jack: You make it sound noble, Jeeny. But sometimes, anger’s the only justice we have left.

Jeeny: Justice and vengeance wear the same face until it’s too late to tell them apart.

Jack: (grimly) Tell that to history. Revolutions weren’t born out of patience.

Jeeny: True. But the greatest ones ended when patience returned. Gandhi, Mandela — they didn’t deny anger, they transformed it. That’s what Thiruvalluvar meant. Anger is a spark; if you don’t guide it, it burns the whole forest.

Host: The crickets fell silent for a moment, as though the night itself bowed to her words. The lamp’s flame wavered, reflecting in both their eyes — gold caught in gray.

Jack: (softly) You really believe we can control it?

Jeeny: Not always. But we can choose what grows from it.

Jack: And if we fail?

Jeeny: Then we try again tomorrow. The work of peace takes forever, Jack — just like any kind of beauty.

Host: Jack’s gaze drifted to the engraved verse again. The Tamil letters shimmered faintly under the candle’s glow, alive in their silence.

Jack: (quietly) “Countless number of evils will grow…” He makes it sound inevitable.

Jeeny: It is — if we let it. That’s the wisdom of the ancients: they didn’t deny our darkness; they warned us to guard it.

Jack: Maybe I’ve let mine grow too long.

Jeeny: Then prune it. It’s never too late to tend the garden of your own heart.

Host: A drop of wax fell from the lamp and hissed softly on the stone. The rain had stopped; the world felt freshly washed, its anger rinsed away by the night.

Jack looked at his open palms — scarred, raw, human.

Jack: (whispering) Maybe forgetting isn’t weakness. Maybe it’s mercy.

Jeeny: Mercy for yourself, Jack. That’s where it always starts.

Host: The temple bell rang once — low, resonant, like forgiveness finding form. The flame of the lamp trembled, then steadied again, burning brighter against the dark.

As they rose to leave, the moonlight fell across their faces — one lined by weariness, the other by grace.

And for a fleeting second, the night itself seemed to listen — as though even the gods agreed that the hardest battle was never against the wrongdoer,
but against the anger that refused to let the heart rest.