Kabir has special place for police in his heart. Whenever he sees

Host: The evening air carried the sound of distant sirens, echoing like faint memories through the narrow streets. A soft rain had just ended, leaving the city with a glow — every lamp, every puddle, every brick seemed to reflect a secret story. In a quiet corner café near the station, Jack and Jeeny sat across from each other. The walls were covered with old photographs — some of policemen in uniform, others of children holding toy badges and plastic handcuffs.

Jack’s grey eyes were fixed on the steam rising from his coffee, while Jeeny’s fingers gently traced the rim of her cup. The rain had made her hair shimmer under the light, and her eyes carried a softness that contrasted with the sharpness in Jack’s face.

Tonight, they were discussing a quote she had just read aloud — Amrapali Gupta’s gentle remark:

“Kabir has a special place for police in his heart. Whenever he sees a policeman, he wants to meet them. That's why we celebrated his birthday with a police-themed party.”

The words lingered in the air — innocent, yet strangely profound.

Jeeny: “Isn’t it beautiful, Jack? The idea that a child’s heart can admire something so deeply, so purely, that it becomes part of his dreams. Kabir’s love for the police — it’s not about authority, it’s about trust, about believing that there are people out there who protect us.”

Jack: (smirking) “Beautiful? Maybe. But also naive, Jeeny. You’re talking about faith in an institution that often fails the very people it claims to protect. You’ve seen the headlines — corruption, violence, power abused. A child’s innocence can’t see that. But we can.”

Host: Jack’s voice was low, almost gravelly, like the sound of boots on wet pavement. Jeeny looked at him, her brows slightly furrowed, her fingers tightening around her cup.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s exactly why it’s important, Jack. Because a child’s admiration reminds us of what the police — or anyone in service — should be. That trust is a mirror. It shows us who we were meant to be before we became cynical.”

Jack: “Or it’s just a fantasy, Jeeny. Kids idolize superheroes too. Doesn’t mean Batman exists.”

Jeeny: “But he represents something — courage, justice, hope. And maybe that’s what Kabir sees in the uniform. Not the man, but the symbol.”

Host: A pause. The light from a passing police car flashed through the window, painting their faces in alternating blue and red. Jeeny’s eyes followed it — almost reverent — while Jack’s gaze stayed unmoved.

Jack: “Symbols are dangerous, Jeeny. They can blind you. People hide behind them. History is full of that — from soldiers claiming patriotism while committing atrocities, to officers justifying violence in the name of law.”

Jeeny: “And yet, without symbols, we’d have nothing to believe in. Every revolution, every movement started with one. Think of Mahatma Gandhi — a man who turned a simple spinning wheel into a symbol of freedom. Should we have mocked that, too, as childish?”

Host: The café door opened, and a young policeman stepped inside — his uniform still damp, his expression weary but gentle. He nodded politely at the barista, then took a seat near the window. The silence between Jack and Jeeny thickened.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, I’ve seen real cops. Not the ones in movies. I’ve seen them take bribes, beat street vendors, ignore cries for help. I’ve seen them fail. You can’t build a philosophy on fairy tales.”

Jeeny: “And I’ve seen one save a child from a burning bus, Jack. I’ve seen a woman constable walk ten miles during the lockdown just to deliver medicine to an old man. The world isn’t just one story — it’s many. Don’t erase the good because the bad is louder.”

Host: Her voice had grown fierce, her eyes shining not with tears, but with conviction. Jack leaned back, folding his arms, his jaw tightening.

Jack: “Fine. But tell me this — what happens when Kabir grows up? When he sees the truth? When he realizes that the uniform doesn’t always stand for justice? You think he’ll still celebrate it?”

Jeeny: “Maybe he will. Maybe he’ll join it — and change it from within. Isn’t that the point of belief, Jack? To believe until it becomes real?”

Host: The rain began again — soft, tapping against the glass like a quiet metronome of memory. The young policeman was now smiling at his phone, perhaps reading a message from home. There was something ordinary, almost tender, in that moment.

Jack: “You sound like you live in a poem, Jeeny. The world isn’t changed by dreams; it’s changed by systems, by accountability, by laws that actually work.”

Jeeny: “But who writes those laws, Jack? Who fights for them? It starts with hearts that still care. If everyone gave up, nothing would move.”

Jack: (after a long pause) “You really think one child’s admiration means something in this chaos?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because it’s a seed. Every great reformer, every honest officer, every hero began as a child who believed in something pure. Kabir’s birthday wasn’t just a party. It was a reminder that faith — even small — can build foundations stronger than fear.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, like the smell of wet soil after rain. Jack’s eyes softened — the steel in them cracked just slightly. He looked at the policeman near the window, who now stood, helped an old woman pick up her bag, and walked her outside with a smile.

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe you’re right. Maybe some symbols still mean something. Maybe it’s not about truth or illusion, but about the need to hope.”

Jeeny: “That’s all I’m saying, Jack. We need hope. Because the moment we stop believing in good, we give power to everything that isn’t.”

Host: The rain had stopped. The streetlights now reflected in calm puddles, the sirens had faded, and the city seemed to breathe again. Jack stood, his coat over his shoulder, and smiled — a small, almost unnoticed gesture, but one that carried the weight of understanding.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… maybe Kabir’s party wasn’t just about the police. Maybe it was about us — trying to remember the part of ourselves that still believes.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That part is what keeps the world from falling apart.”

Host: They walked out together — their footsteps echoing on the wet pavement. The neon light of a distant patrol car glowed faintly on the horizon, not as a warning, but as a beacon. And for a moment, the city felt peaceful, as if every heart — from a child’s to a stranger’s — had found its place in the same quiet hope.

Host: The camera would linger there — on the wet street, the soft reflections, the lingering silence — before fading into black. And somewhere, unseen but felt, a child smiled in dream, still believing that heroes wear uniforms, and that goodness, no matter how bruised, still stands guard.