Shiv Nadar University has five schools with 16 departments

Host: The rain had just stopped, leaving the campus washed in a silver sheen. Streetlights flickered along the pathway, their reflections trembling in the puddles like thoughts unsure of their place. The sound of distant laughter from students carried through the night air, mingling with the scent of wet earth. In the corner of the open-air café, Jack and Jeeny sat beneath a flickering bulb, its light swaying with the breeze.

Jack leaned back, his hands around a cup of coffee, eyes fixed on the horizon where the library’s glass walls glowed faintly. Jeeny, beside him, watched the raindrops slide off a nearby leaf, her expression soft, reflective.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, I read something today. Shiv Nadar once said his university has five schools, sixteen departments, and offers undergraduate, master’s, and doctoral programs. But what struck me was the line — that the demand for engineering courses is ‘slightly on the higher side.’ It made me wonder what that says about us.”

Jack: “It says what’s obvious, Jeeny. People go where the future pays. Computer science, electronics, mechanical engineering — those are the spines of the modern world. You can’t blame students for wanting security and status.”

Jeeny: “But does that mean education has become just a transaction, Jack? Just a marketplace of utility?”

Jack: “It’s always been that. Education isn’t some holy ritual; it’s an investment. The world runs on innovation, not ideals. Look around — even the universities know it. They’re competing to attract talent, to align with the industry. That’s the reality.”

Host: A car passed through the wet street, its headlights slicing through the mist, illuminating Jack’s profile — the sharp lines of his jaw, the faint shadow of fatigue beneath his eyes. Jeeny looked at him, her brow furrowed, her voice trembling slightly with conviction.

Jeeny: “You talk like a man who’s lost faith in knowledge, Jack. Isn’t a university supposed to shape minds, not just careers? What about literature, philosophy, art? If the demand for engineering rises while everything else fades, won’t we lose our humanity in the process?”

Jack: “Humanity? That’s a luxury, Jeeny. Try telling a kid from a village whose parents sold their land to send him to college that he should study poetry instead of programming. The real world doesn’t pay in metaphors.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But the real world also dies without them. Look at history — the Renaissance, the Age of Enlightenment. Science flourished because philosophy dared to ask why. The engineer who builds the bridge still needs the dreamer who imagines where it leads.”

Jack: “That’s a romantic myth. Today’s world doesn’t have time for dreamers. We need coders, analysts, builders. Not poets.”

Host: The rain began again, softly, like an afterthought. Drops tapped the metal roof of the café, a slow, rhythmic beat between their words. Jeeny’s hands tightened around her mug; Jack’s gaze drifted to the campus quad, where a group of students in hoodies hurried toward the labs.

Jeeny: “You say ‘we need builders,’ but what are they building, Jack? Machines that outthink humans? Cities that choke on their own progress? The world is full of people who can build, but fewer who can understand why they’re building at all.”

Jack: “And yet those same machines keep people alive, keep the economy moving. You think you can live on art when the grid fails? When data stops flowing?”

Jeeny: “You think you can live on data when your soul starves?”

Jack: “Soul? That’s a metaphor for people who can afford to feel it. The rest are just trying to survive.”

Host: A brief silence. The air hung heavy with unsaid truths. The bulb above them flickered, casting shadows that shifted across their faces — Jack’s resolute, Jeeny’s luminous with quiet defiance.

Jeeny: “I once met a student — from this very university. He switched from computer engineering to history. His parents were furious. But last year, he joined a research team documenting lost villages before they were drowned by reservoirs. He told me, ‘I didn’t want to code the future, I wanted to remember the past.’”

Jack: “And what does that change? The reservoir still swallowed those villages, didn’t it?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But someone recorded them, Jack. Someone cared enough to preserve their stories. That’s the point — not every battle is meant to be won. Some are meant to be remembered.”

Jack: “You’re turning nostalgia into philosophy. The world isn’t waiting for memory; it’s racing toward efficiency.”

Jeeny: “Efficiency without meaning is just mechanical existence. We build faster, compute deeper, connect instantly — but for what? To be machines ourselves?”

Host: The wind picked up, sweeping a few leaves across the floor. The light from the campus clock tower glowed faintly through the mist, a silent witness to their collision of ideals. Jack’s hand trembled slightly as he lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating the tired lines beneath his eyes.

Jack: “You sound like a sermon, Jeeny. The truth is, without engineering, none of this would exist — not this campus, not these lights, not your precious conversation. The world owes its progress to science, not sentiment.”

Jeeny: “And yet, progress without soul leads to emptiness. You call it science, I call it survival — but both need a heart. The engineers you praise still fall in love, still write in their journals, still seek meaning when the machines go quiet. Isn’t that proof that we’re not built only to calculate?”

Jack: “Meaning doesn’t put food on the table, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No — but it gives you a reason to sit there and eat.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, trembling like notes from a distant violin. For a moment, even Jack’s cynicism seemed to pause, like a storm waiting to decide whether to break or fade. The rain slowed, the campus lights dimmed, and the silence between them grew thick with understanding.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ve seen too many people chase success and lose the spark. But I still believe the world needs its engineers more than its dreamers.”

Jeeny: “And I believe the world needs dreamers to remind its engineers why they build. Maybe that’s the balance — one creates, the other questions.”

Jack: “So, you’re saying Shiv Nadar’s quote isn’t about numbers or demand at all…”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s about direction. About what kind of world we’re preparing for — one that only functions, or one that also feels.”

Host: A soft laugh escaped Jack, low and weary, but not unkind. He stubbed out his cigarette, watching the smoke curl upward like a fading thought.

Jack: “You always find the poetry in the practical.”

Jeeny: “And you always find the practical in the poetry.”

Host: They both smiled, small but genuine, as the rain finally ceased. The moon emerged, silvering the puddles that once mirrored the storm. Around them, the campus stood still — its labs, libraries, and lecture halls whispering the same ancient truth: that knowledge, whether of circuits or of souls, is still the same light, refracted differently.

The camera of the mind pulled back slowly — past the café, the trees, the glowing tower — until Jack and Jeeny were only silhouettes, two voices against the endless hum of progress and possibility.