I've been trying to write since 1998 after dropping out of Visual

Host: The rain had just stopped, leaving the streets of Chennai slick with reflection. A faint orange glow from the streetlights painted the wet asphalt like liquid fire. Inside a small tea shop, the fan above whirred lazily, slicing the humid air. Posters of old Tamil films peeled from the walls, their faces half-erased by time. Jack sat at the corner table, a notebook open before him, fingers tapping against his pen, while Jeeny poured sugar into her chai, her eyes distant, as if searching for a memory hidden behind the steam.

Jack: “You know, I read something today… Thiagarajan Kumararaja once said, ‘I’ve been trying to write since 1998 after dropping out of Visual Communication from Loyola. My parents have been supportive.’”

Jeeny: “Hmm… that sounds like persistence, doesn’t it? Like someone still chasing a dream, even after failure.”

Jack: “Or like someone who didn’t know when to quit.”

Host: The ceiling fan let out a low creak, as if reacting to his words. The tea master in the corner clanked his steel cups, the aroma of ginger and smoke thick in the air.

Jeeny: “You think it’s about not quitting? No. It’s about faith — in yourself, in the people who believe in you. His parents didn’t give up on him, even when he left college. That kind of support… it keeps the soul alive.”

Jack: “Faith doesn’t pay the bills, Jeeny. Support or not, you can’t live off dreams forever. Look at how many people try to be writers, musicians, painters — most of them fade into obscurity. Maybe dropping out was a mistake. Maybe his parents were just too kind to say so.”

Host: Lightning flashed in the distance, momentarily illuminating Jack’s face — sharp, tired, and faintly sad.

Jeeny: “You call it a mistake, I call it a beginning. Every great artist started somewhere uncertain. Van Gogh sold only one painting in his lifetime, Jack. But would you say his life was a failure?”

Jack: “Van Gogh also cut off his ear, Jeeny. Madness and art often dance too close. I’m not sure that’s the kind of inspiration worth chasing.”

Jeeny: “But he created something eternal. And Kumararaja did too, didn’t he? Aaranya Kaandam wasn’t just a film — it was a revolution in storytelling. If he had stayed in Loyola, maybe we’d never have seen that.”

Host: A pause hung between them. The rain started again, soft and hesitant, drumming on the tin roof. The neon sign outside flickered, throwing their faces in shifting colors — blue, pink, white.

Jack: “You’re romanticizing failure again. Not everyone’s ‘dropping out’ leads to a masterpiece. For every Thiagarajan Kumararaja, there are a thousand who just end up… nowhere.”

Jeeny: “But that’s not the point. It’s not about how many make it. It’s about why they try. That’s what he meant — ‘I’ve been trying to write since 1998.’ The trying is the point. The act of creation is its own proof of existence.”

Jack: “Existence doesn’t need proof, Jeeny. It just… is. We’re born, we survive, we die. Everything in between is noise — romantic, painful, maybe even beautiful noise — but still noise.”

Jeeny: “You don’t mean that. You don’t spend your nights writing those cold, precise stories of yours just because life is noise. You do it because, somewhere, you still believe that words can matter.”

Host: She leaned closer, her eyes gleaming under the dim light. For a moment, Jack’s mask slipped. His hand trembled slightly before he lit a cigarette.

Jack: “Belief is a habit, Jeeny. Like smoking — you know it’s killing you, but you keep doing it because it feels like control.”

Jeeny: “Or like hope — you keep doing it because it keeps you alive.”

Host: Her voice softened on the last word, like a note fading into silence. The rain outside grew louder, almost musical, syncing with their breathing.

Jack: “You talk about hope as if it’s some sacred fuel. But I’ve seen people burn on it. Writers who waited for a break that never came. Parents who believed, who sacrificed, and got nothing in return but regret.”

Jeeny: “And yet — you’re here, writing. You could’ve been anything, Jack. You could’ve picked a steady job, lived a quiet life. But you’re here, with your pen and pages, fighting silence every night. Doesn’t that make you the same as him — someone who never stopped trying?”

Host: Jack looked away, smoke coiling from his cigarette like a ghost of thought. The shopkeeper turned up the radio — an old Ilaiyaraaja song filled the room, melancholic, eternal.

Jack: “Maybe. But the world doesn’t reward trying. It rewards results.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the world is wrong.”

Jack: “The world doesn’t care about being right or wrong. It just… moves. You can be sincere, passionate, authentic — and still fail. Maybe Kumararaja was just lucky. Maybe his parents’ support didn’t mean much — maybe he would’ve made it anyway.”

Jeeny: “Do you really think luck builds legacy? It’s persistence, Jack. It’s those years between 1998 and his debut — all that unseen, uncelebrated struggle. That’s what makes the art real. His parents’ support wasn’t money — it was faith. And that faith… it became part of his voice.”

Host: The rain now turned into a steady downpour, hammering the world outside. The shop’s light flickered. A small puddle grew under the door, creeping toward their shoes. The moment felt fragile, suspended between truth and tenderness.

Jack: “Faith. Support. Dreams. They all sound poetic until you’re hungry. Until your parents start aging, and you realize you’ve spent your youth chasing something that might never exist.”

Jeeny: “That’s the cost of trying, Jack. The same cost Kumararaja paid. Every artist pays it. But without people like that — without people who keep trying even after dropping out, even after years of failure — we’d have no art, no beauty, no stories worth telling.”

Jack: “So what? We should just keep bleeding for beauty?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because bleeding is better than being numb.”

Host: The thunder rolled, a deep rumble like a heartbeat in the sky. Jack’s eyes met hers — cold logic against burning emotion.

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But most of the time, it’s just desperation dressed as art.”

Jeeny: “And yet, that desperation is what keeps the world moving. Every dropout, every rebel, every writer who keeps trying — they build a small fire that refuses to go out. Even if no one sees it.”

Host: Silence. A train passed in the distance, its horn long and haunting. The sound hung in the air like a memory. Jack closed his notebook slowly.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe trying is the only thing that matters. But what if trying is just another way of running from yourself?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s both. Maybe trying is how we find ourselves — by failing, by beginning again, until we learn what we truly are.”

Host: The fan above them stopped, and the lights went out. Only the streetlight outside remained, casting a faint golden glow across their faces.

Jack: “You know… sometimes I think about dropping everything. Leaving the city, the words, the noise.”

Jeeny: “And then?”

Jack: “Then… I realize I wouldn’t know what to do without the noise.”

Jeeny: “That’s because the noise is the heartbeat of creation. Kumararaja knew that. It’s why he kept trying, year after year — not for fame, but because the silence was worse.”

Host: Jack smiled, faint and tired, like a man who had finally found his reflection in someone else’s words.

Jack: “Maybe persistence isn’t courage, Jeeny. Maybe it’s just refusal to die quietly.”

Jeeny: “Then let’s refuse together.”

Host: Outside, the rain began to ease, and the first light of dawn slipped across the sky. Steam from their tea cups rose like smoke, twisting into the air — two fragile threads, meeting, then disappearing.

And in that fading quiet, both understood:
Art isn’t about success. It’s about the courage to keep trying, long after the world has stopped watching.