Right now, I'm following the Buddhist principle: Smile as abuse

Host:
The streetlight hummed above the narrow alley café, where rain fell in thin, silver lines. The city night was half-asleep — the sound of tires in puddles, the whisper of distant laughter, the eternal thrum of neon reflecting on wet pavement.

At a small corner table, under the soft awning glow, Jeeny stirred her tea with a slow hand. The steam rose between her and Jack, who leaned back in his chair, cigarette burning like a stubborn thought. The rainlight shimmered against his grey eyes, making them look deeper — not softer, but searching.

On the table between them lay a crumpled magazine page, folded in half, marked with a single quote that Jeeny had underlined in blue:

“Right now, I’m following the Buddhist principle: Smile as abuse is hurled your way and this too shall pass.” — Aishwarya Rai Bachchan

The words hung between them like incense — both serene and bruised, both grace and endurance.

Jeeny:
(quietly) “It’s such a powerful line, isn’t it? Smile as abuse is hurled your way. It’s not submission — it’s transcendence. To smile not in agreement, but in peace.”

Jack:
(skeptical) “Peace? That’s not peace, Jeeny. That’s armor. A smile can hide pain just as easily as it can reflect peace. That’s not enlightenment — that’s endurance.”

Jeeny:
(softly) “But isn’t endurance the beginning of peace? Buddhism teaches impermanence — that everything, even cruelty, passes. So you smile, not because it doesn’t hurt, but because it won’t last.”

Jack:
“Yeah, but sometimes smiling through abuse looks a lot like letting it win. There’s a fine line between wisdom and silence.”

Jeeny:
(leaning forward) “No. The difference lies in intention. Silence isn’t surrender when it comes from strength. To stay calm in the storm — that’s power most people mistake for weakness.”

Host:
The rain thickened, drumming on the café awning like a thousand whispered questions. Jack’s cigarette hissed out in the damp air. Jeeny’s face, half-lit by streetlight, half-shadowed by conviction, looked calm — not untouched by pain, but reconciled with it.

Jack:
(quietly) “So you’re saying if someone insults you, mocks you, tears you apart — just smile and wait for the universe to do your bidding?”

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly) “Not bidding — balancing. Karma’s not revenge. It’s rhythm. Everything finds its echo eventually. You just have to wait for the sound to come back.”

Jack:
(scoffing lightly) “That’s poetic, but impractical. Waiting for the universe doesn’t stop cruelty. Speaking does. Acting does.”

Jeeny:
“Sometimes. But there’s another kind of action — the kind that doesn’t come from rage. Smiling through pain isn’t apathy. It’s mastery. You’re saying, ‘You can’t touch my center.’”

Jack:
(grimly) “And if your center’s all you’ve got left?”

Jeeny:
(softly) “Then it’s sacred.”

Host:
The wind stirred, tugging gently at the edge of the awning. Somewhere down the street, a man shouted — not words, just frustration. The sound hung in the air like a warning of what happens when pain finds no peace.

Jack watched Jeeny, his jaw tightening as though he were arguing with himself more than with her.

Jack:
(quietly) “You know, I’ve seen people use that philosophy as an excuse to stay quiet when they should’ve screamed. Smiling while being mistreated doesn’t always make you wise — sometimes it makes you complicit.”

Jeeny:
(nodding slowly) “I know. That’s the danger of serenity — it can look like passivity. But real peace isn’t the absence of fire. It’s the control of it.”

Jack:
“Control, huh? That’s the hardest thing in the world — to stay still when everything in you wants to burn.”

Jeeny:
(softly) “That’s why it’s a principle. It’s not natural. It’s chosen.”

Jack:
(grinning faintly) “You think I could ever do that? Smile while the world’s throwing stones?”

Jeeny:
(laughing gently) “You’d probably throw them back first.”

Jack:
“Exactly.”

Jeeny:
“But that’s your way of smiling, isn’t it? Defiance is just another language of peace — the louder one.”

Jack:
(smiling wryly) “Then maybe you and I follow different scriptures.”

Jeeny:
“Maybe. But both lead to freedom if we understand them right.”

Host:
The rain softened, turning into mist. The air smelled of wet pavement and coffee — that earthy scent of things newly forgiven. The city seemed calmer now, as if it had taken a breath along with them.

Jeeny took a sip of her tea, her eyes drifting toward the quote again. The edges of the paper had curled from moisture, but the words remained — bright and unwavering.

Jeeny:
(quietly) “You know what I think she meant — Aishwarya? That the smile isn’t for the abuser. It’s for yourself. It’s saying: You won’t turn me into what you are.”

Jack:
(after a pause) “So it’s a kind of spiritual rebellion.”

Jeeny:
(smiling) “Exactly. The gentlest kind of rebellion — and the strongest.”

Jack:
“Because peace unnerves the cruel.”

Jeeny:
“Yes. They feed on your rage. But peace — peace starves them.”

Jack:
(leaning forward) “So smiling isn’t submission.”

Jeeny:
“No. It’s sovereignty.”

Host:
A long silence followed, broken only by the sound of a single droplet landing in Jeeny’s cup. The light above flickered once, then steadied. Jack looked at her, his usual cynicism dimmed — not erased, but softened by understanding.

Jack:
(quietly) “You know… I used to think calm people were cowards. People who didn’t fight back, who just smiled while the world hit them. But maybe they’re the bravest ones. The ones who fight without weapons.”

Jeeny:
(softly) “The ones who win without victory.”

Jack:
(nods) “And lose without breaking.”

Jeeny:
(whispering) “Exactly.”

Host:
The rain stopped completely now, leaving the world wrapped in a silvery calm. A car passed, its wheels whispering on the wet road. Somewhere nearby, a street musician began playing a soft, wistful tune — a melody too fragile for words.

Jack lit another cigarette, then immediately put it out. Jeeny smiled, amused but saying nothing.

Jeeny:
(quietly) “This too shall pass.”

Jack:
(glancing at her) “Yeah… but maybe not the lesson.”

Host:
They stood then — two silhouettes framed against the quiet city, their reflections caught in the puddles below them.

As they walked away from the café, the crumpled quote remained on the table, the ink smudged by a single raindrop, but the words still legible — still true.

“Smile as abuse is hurled your way and this too shall pass.”

Because sometimes grace is not softness,
but strength disguised in stillness.

Sometimes the bravest thing you can do
is not to fight,
not to flee,
but to smile —
knowing the storm will end,
and you will still be standing,
untouched at the center of your own peace.