My family is really happy that I'm playing Ram.

Host: The evening sun hung low over Jaipur’s sandstone skyline, painting the old palaces and temples in gold and memory. The air smelled faintly of incense, dust, and jasmine — the scent of devotion and history intertwined. From a nearby courtyard, the rhythmic beats of tabla and the gentle hum of a bhajan echoed like a heartbeat through the streets.

In the shade of a quiet tea stall, Jack and Jeeny sat on a worn wooden bench, cups of steaming masala chai between them. The world moved slowly here — a sacred rhythm far removed from the chaos of ambition. Behind them, a small television flickered faintly, playing an episode from the mythological series Siya Ke Ram.

Jeeny watched for a moment — the actor on-screen, draped in saffron, eyes serene, speaking words not just of faith, but of compassion.

Jeeny: (softly) “Ashish Sharma once said, ‘My family is really happy that I’m playing Ram.’”

Jack: (half-smiling, stirring his tea) “Makes sense. If your son plays a god, the family gets to live like saints — at least for a while.”

Host: The sound of temple bells drifted across the air — clear, distant, eternal. Jack’s tone was teasing, but his eyes betrayed curiosity more than cynicism.

Jeeny: “It’s not about fame, Jack. It’s about representation. In India, playing Lord Ram isn’t just an acting role — it’s a moral inheritance. It’s a kind of responsibility. Imagine your family watching you embody divinity — their pride isn’t vanity; it’s reverence.”

Jack: “Reverence for a story, sure. But what about the man behind it? You think Sharma’s family sees him, or the god he’s pretending to be?”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. That’s the paradox of myth and art — sometimes, the actor and the archetype blur. But when they merge, something sacred happens.”

Host: The sunlight caught on Jeeny’s hair, setting it ablaze with warmth. A nearby child released a paper kite into the air — it danced upward, trembling against the orange sky like prayer incarnate.

Jeeny: “Ram isn’t just a role — he’s a symbol of virtue, sacrifice, and dharma. When an actor takes on that story, he carries centuries of belief. And his family — they’re not just proud of his fame; they’re proud that his face now holds a reflection of their culture’s highest ideal.”

Jack: “You make it sound holy. But acting is still performance, Jeeny. Script, lights, makeup, retakes. You can’t turn a film set into a temple just because the story’s sacred.”

Jeeny: (smiling gently) “No, but you can turn it into devotion. The difference lies in intent. You know, during the shooting of Ramayana back in the ’80s, actors playing Ram and Sita were treated like deities. People touched their feet between takes. Because in India, art isn’t separate from faith — it’s an extension of it.”

Jack: “That’s exactly what worries me. When art becomes worship, it stops being questioned. Faith asks for obedience; art should ask for doubt.”

Jeeny: “But sometimes, faith and art need each other. Faith gives art purpose; art gives faith form. Without stories like Ram’s, morality would just be law. Stories give it heart.”

Host: A cow bell clinked softly somewhere in the alley. The light shifted — warmer, heavier, the last hour before twilight. Jack looked at the small television again — Sharma’s Ram on-screen, serene amid chaos, bow drawn in divine clarity.

Jack: “You think playing a god changes the person?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Every role leaves a fingerprint on the soul. But a role like Ram — it demands purity. Discipline. Grace. Imagine waking up every day to embody righteousness — it forces you to look at your own flaws.”

Jack: (murmuring) “And maybe it reminds you that even gods were tested.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The Ramayana isn’t about perfection — it’s about trial. The exile, the choices, the losses — it’s human struggle painted in divine colors. To play Ram is to hold that mirror up — to remind the audience that virtue is endurance, not immunity.”

Host: The call of an evening conch echoed from a nearby temple. The air seemed to thicken — time slowing to reverence. Jeeny’s eyes glistened slightly as she spoke, the fading sun gilding her face like a painting of Shakti.

Jeeny: “So when Sharma says his family is happy, it’s not about pride. It’s about participation. They feel like part of something larger — as if the lineage of their own life just touched eternity for a moment.”

Jack: “But don’t you think it’s a heavy burden? To play divinity under mortal lights? Every move scrutinized, every smile interpreted. One wrong expression and the nation’s faith shakes.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But that’s what makes it sacred work. It’s not just performance; it’s penance.”

Host: The crowd near the tea stall murmured as the episode ended. A newscaster’s voice filled the screen, jarringly modern against the ancient rhythm of the day. Jack took a slow sip, his reflection shimmering beside Jeeny’s in the metal teacup — two skeptics caught in myth’s orbit.

Jack: “You know, I envy that — the ability to believe so completely. To act something not just for applause, but for transcendence.”

Jeeny: “You believe too, Jack. You just hide it under philosophy. You call it meaning, or legacy, or authenticity. But it’s the same hunger — the longing to do something that outlasts you.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Maybe. Maybe we’re all just trying to play our version of Ram — to be righteous in a world that rewards spectacle.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s why Sharma’s words matter. He reminds us that purpose doesn’t have to be complicated. Sometimes, it’s as simple as making your family proud — not through fame, but through meaning.”

Host: The sky deepened into violet now, the first stars appearing — fragile, trembling against the dusk. Somewhere, temple bells began again, marking the arrival of aarti.

Jack: “You think playing a god can teach you to be a better human?”

Jeeny: “I think every story about gods is really about learning to be human. That’s why we keep retelling them.”

Host: A gentle wind moved through the narrow lanes, carrying the smell of burning camphor and roses. Jack and Jeeny sat in silence for a while, listening to the hum of distant prayers — a city singing to itself.

Jack: (quietly) “You know… maybe the greatest performance isn’t pretending to be divine. Maybe it’s living in a way that makes your family believe you could be.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “Then maybe we’re all actors, Jack. Just some of us remember it’s sacred.”

Host: The camera panned upward — the tea stall shrinking into the vast, glowing night. In the distance, the Gulabi City shimmered, each light a story, each story a prayer.

Host: “And beneath the endless Indian sky,” the world whispered, “they understood Ashish Sharma’s simple truth — that playing Ram wasn’t about fame or image, but about reflection. For in every role of righteousness lies the quiet hope that we might one day become what we portray.”