My hectic work schedule does not often permit me time to visit

Host: The night had settled softly over the city, a velvet hush stretched between skyscrapers that glimmered like quiet sentinels. Down below, in a small office balcony cluttered with potted plants and the faint smell of coffee, Jack sat slumped in a worn chair, his tie loosened, his sleeves rolled up. The hum of the air conditioner mixed with the distant murmur of traffic — the kind of background music that cities compose when they think no one’s listening.

Across from him, Jeeny leaned against the railing, her hair loose, her gaze lifted toward a patch of sky where one reluctant star still shone through the haze. Between them lay the kind of silence that only comes after a long day — the silence of two people who’ve run out of words for the world but still have a few left for each other.

Jeeny: (quietly, as though sharing a secret) “Emraan Hashmi once said, ‘My hectic work schedule does not often permit me time to visit temples, but my conversations with God don’t depend on idol worship. Inside my heart, I have developed and sustained a direct communication with Him.’”

(She smiled faintly.) “That line always gets me. The idea that you can talk to God without ever leaving your own heart.”

Jack: (half-smirking, staring at the night sky) “Sounds convenient. No queue, no rituals, no priest asking for donations.”

Jeeny: (gently) “You joke, but you understand it — don’t you? That faith doesn’t need ceremony.”

Jack: “Faith. Or imagination?”

Jeeny: “Maybe they’re the same thing.”

Host: The wind stirred the leaves of the balcony plants, whispering softly through the stillness. Somewhere far below, a siren wailed and faded. Jack took a slow sip of his coffee — black, bitter — while Jeeny folded her arms, her eyes still on that single bright star.

Jack: “You really think you can talk to God? Just... directly? No church, no temple, no name?”

Jeeny: (nodding) “Every day. Sometimes in words, sometimes in silence. I think He listens best when I’m not trying to impress Him.”

Jack: (dryly) “You and God on a first-name basis now?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “I like to think He prefers sincerity over formality.”

Host: Jack chuckled — the sound half amusement, half something softer, almost reverence disguised as disbelief. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his face caught in the half-light of a streetlamp bleeding through the window.

Jack: “I grew up with rituals. Every Sunday, my mother made us kneel before a cross. Candles, hymns, the smell of incense thick enough to choke a saint. We didn’t talk to God — we performed for Him.”

Jeeny: “And did you ever feel Him there?”

Jack: (after a pause) “No. But I felt her faith. And maybe that’s what mattered.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what He was trying to show you — that faith isn’t always about feeling Him. It’s about seeing her.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice softened, and for a moment, the room felt like a temple without walls — an invisible sanctum built from exhaustion and honesty.

Jack stared into his mug, his reflection shimmering on the dark surface — a ghost made of caffeine and self-doubt.

Jack: “You know what bothers me about people like Hashmi? They make faith sound... accessible. Effortless. Like you can just close your eyes and dial heaven.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you can. Maybe it’s not a long-distance call.”

Jack: (laughing softly) “You’re hopeless.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I’m hopeful.”

Host: The light flickered as the office corridor beyond dimmed for the night. Somewhere, a janitor pushed a mop, the rhythmic squeak of wheels echoing faintly through the concrete hall. The city’s pulse slowed to a tired heartbeat.

Jeeny reached out, brushed a speck of dust from the table between them, and spoke again — this time not with intellect, but with something deeper.

Jeeny: “You know what I think faith is? It’s not belief. It’s relationship. You don’t have to prove it. You just have to keep showing up.”

Jack: “Even when no one answers?”

Jeeny: (softly) “Especially then.”

Host: The wind sighed through the open balcony door, rustling the stack of papers beside Jack. He caught one before it flew away — a draft of a business report, meaningless now, fragile under the touch of quiet.

He looked up at her, his voice quieter, stripped of sarcasm.

Jack: “You talk to Him?”

Jeeny: “All the time. In traffic. In pain. In laughter. When I’m grateful. When I’m scared. I don’t need to kneel to be heard.”

Jack: “And what does He say back?”

Jeeny: (with a faint, almost teasing smile) “Sometimes nothing. Sometimes everything. Sometimes He just reminds me I’m still here.”

Jack: (after a beat) “That’s... oddly comforting.”

Jeeny: “It should be. Silence isn’t absence, Jack. It’s invitation.”

Host: The words lingered in the air like incense, filling the spaces between their breaths. The city outside blinked — one light turning off, another flickering on. The rhythm of the human world continuing beneath the invisible gaze of something far greater and infinitely kind.

Jeeny turned away from the railing, her eyes warm, reflective.

Jeeny: “Hashmi said his conversations with God don’t depend on idols. I think that’s because God doesn’t live in marble or stone. He lives in moments — in the way we forgive, in the way we endure, in the way we still choose kindness when we’re tired.”

Jack: (quietly) “You sound like you’ve practiced that speech.”

Jeeny: “No. I’ve lived it.”

Host: Jack looked down, the corners of his mouth softening. He finished his coffee and set the mug aside, his voice carrying the edge of someone beginning to believe despite himself.

Jack: “You know... I think I envy you. Not for the faith. For the peace that comes with it.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “The peace isn’t constant. It’s something I rebuild every day.”

Jack: “And you think God’s there in that rebuilding?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I think He is the rebuilding.”

Host: The moonlight caught her face just then, turning her features into something ethereal — calm, radiant, utterly human. Jack studied her quietly, then leaned back in his chair, exhaling a laugh that sounded more like surrender.

Jack: (murmuring) “You really think He’s listening now?”

Jeeny: (closing her eyes, smiling faintly) “I don’t have to think. I can feel it.”

Host: The wind carried her words into the stillness. Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang — faint, uncertain, but there. Jack glanced toward the sound, then looked back at her.

For a brief moment, he said nothing. Then, softly — as if afraid to break the fragile holiness between them — he whispered,

Jack: “Maybe... maybe I’ll start trying.”

Jeeny: (opening her eyes) “You don’t have to try. Just... talk.”

Host: The lights in the office flickered once, then went dark, leaving only the glow of the city below and the silver thread of moonlight wrapping around them. In that quiet hour — between fatigue and faith — something unspoken passed between them:

The understanding that divinity wasn’t waiting in temples or altars,
but in the stillness of the human heart that dares to speak —
and the vast, listening silence that always, always answers.

And as the night deepened, the two of them sat there — not as believer and skeptic, not as opposites,
but as two souls in conversation with the same unseen presence.

The one that never needed proof.
Only connection.