Once you start a working on something, don't be afraid of failure

Host: The night hung heavy over the old railway station café, its windows fogged with the breath of passing trains. The sound of distant horns echoed through the cold, metallic air, mingling with the scent of coffee and iron. Yellow lights flickered above the counter, casting long, tired shadows across the wooden floor.

Jack sat near the window, his grey eyes reflecting the passing lights like shards of steel. He was hunched slightly, his hands wrapped around a cup that had long gone cold. Jeeny sat opposite him, her long black hair cascading over her shoulders, her fingers tracing small circles on the table.

The world outside seemed to move, but inside, time felt suspended — like both of them were waiting for something they couldn't name.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… Chanakya once said, ‘Once you start working on something, don’t be afraid of failure and don’t abandon it. People who work sincerely are the happiest.’”

Host: Her voice was soft, almost reverent, as if she were reciting an ancient truth. The steam from a nearby kettle curled in the air like a spirit, shimmering between them.

Jack: “Happiness? That’s a nice fantasy. But I’ve seen plenty of sincere workers who end up broke, forgotten, and tired. Tell me, Jeeny, what’s so ‘happy’ about sincerity when the world rewards results, not effort?”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not about rewards, Jack. Maybe it’s about peace. When someone works with a clear heart, without fear, there’s a kind of freedom in that. Isn’t that worth something?”

Jack: “Freedom? Or delusion? The factory worker who spends thirty years on the same machine, hoping it means something — is that freedom, or just survival dressed as virtue?”

Host: Jack’s voice was low, edged with bitterness. The train outside screamed past, shaking the glass, like a reminder of how the world never waits for dreamers.

Jeeny: “But even that worker, Jack — even he can feel dignity in what he does. You think only success defines meaning? What about effort, commitment, love for what one creates?”

Jack: “Love doesn’t pay the bills, Jeeny. Try telling that to a man who’s been laid off because some machine replaced him. He might’ve loved his job. He might’ve been sincere. But he still walks home with empty hands and a hungry stomach.”

Host: A long silence followed. The clock on the wall ticked with relentless precision. Jeeny looked out at the blurred lights, her reflection faintly trembling in the glass.

Jeeny: “You’re right. The world is often cruel to those who work with honesty. But tell me, Jack — when you do something only for gain, doesn’t it start to rot inside you? Look at the corporate giants — the ones who manipulate markets, exploit people, destroy forests — all for a little more profit. They get everything they want, and yet… they look empty. Have you ever seen their eyes? There’s no light in them.”

Jack: “You’re talking about morality, Jeeny. That’s a luxury most people can’t afford. People don’t work sincerely because it makes them happy — they do it because they must. Happiness isn’t part of the equation.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Happiness is the equation. It’s just written in a language you’ve forgotten to read.”

Host: Her words lingered in the air, delicate but unyielding. Jack looked at her — really looked — for the first time that night. The faint tremor of light from a passing train moved across his face, revealing both fatigue and something older, deeper — a kind of loss.

Jack: “You talk like sincerity is some kind of shield against the world’s cruelty. But it’s not. Look at Van Gogh — sincere to the bone, painted until he bled, and died alone, poor, and mad. Tell me, Jeeny, was he happy?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not in the way you measure happiness, Jack. But his sincerity outlived him. His pain became beauty. His truth touched millions he never met. Can you say that about those who chase only success?”

Jack: “That’s romanticism, not reality. You can’t feed yourself on legacy. You can’t sleep under the roof of posthumous glory.”

Jeeny: “And yet, people like him change the world. You think Einstein, Marie Curie, Mahatma Gandhi — they worked for wealth? No. They worked sincerely, because something inside them refused to give up, even when the world mocked them. Their happiness came from purpose, not comfort.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glowed with quiet fire, the kind that comes from belief too deep to be shaken. Jack leaned back, exhaling smoke from his cigarette, watching it curl and fade into the ceiling like thoughts he couldn’t form.

Jack: “Purpose is dangerous. It blinds people. It makes them sacrifice everything — family, peace, even themselves — all for some grand illusion. How many have died in the name of purpose? Look at revolutionaries, inventors, martyrs — sincerity didn’t save them. It consumed them.”

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s what makes them alive, Jack. Truly alive. When you give yourself completely to something, you stop living like a spectator. Even if you fail — at least you’ve lived honestly.”

Jack: “Failure isn’t noble, Jeeny. It’s just painful. It crushes you until you start doubting your own worth.”

Jeeny: “Then why are we still talking about them, Jack — the ones who failed? Why do they still inspire us, even after centuries? Maybe failure, when met sincerely, becomes its own kind of victory.”

Host: The café door opened for a brief moment, letting in a gust of wind and the faint sound of the city — cars, laughter, rain. The neon sign outside flickered. Jack’s eyes softened, the hardness in them cracking slightly, like ice melting under the first light of dawn.

Jack: “You make it sound so easy. But sincerity — it’s a lonely road, Jeeny. People mock it, doubt it. Sometimes, it feels like shouting into a void.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But the echo always returns. Maybe not today, maybe not to you — but it reaches someone. Somewhere.”

Host: She leaned forward, her hands resting gently on the table. The rain began to fall, light at first, then heavier, as if the sky itself was listening.

Jack: “You really think sincerity leads to happiness?”

Jeeny: “No. I think sincerity is happiness. When you give your best, without fear, without expectation — that’s when you become truly free. Chanakya wasn’t just talking about work. He was talking about life.”

Host: Jack stared at her for a long moment, the rain streaking down the window beside them. He looked tired, but something had shifted — a small, almost imperceptible peace settling across his face.

Jack: “You know, I used to believe that once. When I was younger. I built things because I loved them. But the world taught me otherwise.”

Jeeny: “The world teaches us fear, Jack. But the heart teaches us courage. You just forgot which teacher to listen to.”

Host: The lights dimmed slightly as the power flickered, and for a brief second, the café glowed only in the soft blue of the rainy streetlight. Both of them sat still, the sound of raindrops filling the space where words once were.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe sincerity isn’t about success at all. Maybe it’s about not giving up, even when the world stops clapping.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because happiness isn’t applause — it’s peace.”

Host: She smiled, faintly, and for the first time that night, Jack smiled back. The rain began to ease, the lights steadied, and the silence between them turned from tension to understanding.

The clock ticked on, steady and unconcerned, as if marking the heartbeat of the moment.

Host: Outside, the train passed again — not loud this time, but gentle, like a whisper to those who still believed in trying, in working sincerely, in finding happiness not in the end, but in the journey itself.

And as the steam rose from their freshly poured cups, two souls sat quietly, watching the night fade — no longer afraid of failure, but learning again the quiet, stubborn joy of sincerity.