Tell me, why is the media here so negative? Why are we in India

Host: The afternoon heat hung over the city like a heavy blanket, its air shimmering above the rooftops. Newspapers flapped in the breeze from a roadside tea stall, their headlines screaming of corruption, crime, and chaos. The street smelled of dust, chai, and diesel; a collage of the nation’s pulse — noisy, impatient, alive.

Jack and Jeeny sat at a small metal table beneath a faded umbrella, surrounded by the rhythm of traffic horns and vendors shouting prices. A radio behind them crackled with the news — “Parliament in uproar again…”

Jack stirred his tea absentmindedly, his eyes scanning the front page. Jeeny sat across from him, her elbows on the table, her face glowing with the faint warmth of conviction.

Jeeny: “You know, Kalam once asked something I’ve never forgotten — ‘Why is the media here so negative? Why are we embarrassed to recognise our strengths, our achievements?’”

Jack: (without looking up) “Because bad news sells. Simple economics.”

Jeeny: “Is that all life is now — a market for misery?”

Jack: “No. But optimism doesn’t keep the lights on. Fear does. Outrage does. People buy the storm, not the sunshine.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that exactly the problem? We’ve turned tragedy into entertainment and progress into a footnote.”

Host: A truck horn blared in the distance, rattling the cups on their table. The radio switched to a political debate, voices rising, clashing — the national orchestra of discontent. Jeeny’s gaze didn’t waver.

Jeeny: “India is full of miracles we forget to see. Farmers inventing irrigation systems out of scrap, kids coding in villages, scientists launching satellites cheaper than Hollywood movies. Why don’t we talk about that?”

Jack: (snorts) “Because people don’t trust good news anymore. If you tell them something amazing happened, they’ll ask, ‘Who funded it? What’s the catch?’”

Jeeny: “Cynicism has become our national anthem.”

Jack: “It’s called realism. Look, I admire Kalam as much as anyone, but you can’t build a country on feel-good stories. You need accountability, not applause.”

Jeeny: “Accountability doesn’t mean self-hate. Criticism is healthy — contempt isn’t. We’ve started confusing the two.”

Jack: “You sound like you want propaganda. Sunshine in every headline.”

Jeeny: (shakes her head) “No. I just want balance. You can’t define a nation only by what breaks — you have to also show what builds.”

Host: A gust of wind caught the newspaper, flipping it open across the table. A photo of a collapsed bridge stared up at them — twisted steel, grief frozen in black and white. Beside it, a small box in the corner read, “Young innovators win national robotics award.” It was barely visible.

Jeeny traced the corner of that little headline with her finger, her voice quieter now, almost like a prayer.

Jeeny: “Look at this, Jack. A whole bridge collapses — front page. But the kids who built something new? Buried in the corner. How do you think that shapes us?”

Jack: “Maybe it keeps us cautious.”

Jeeny: “No, it keeps us ashamed.”

Jack: “Ashamed of what?”

Jeeny: “Of being proud. Of hoping. We act like celebrating our success is vanity — like only despair deserves depth.”

Host: Jack looked up, meeting her eyes for the first time. The sound of a nearby temple bell drifted through the air, soft but insistent, like a heartbeat reminding the world it was still alive.

Jack: “You really think media can change that? They’re just mirrors. If we crave negativity, they reflect it.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time we changed our reflection.”

Jack: “And how do you suggest we do that? Smile through poverty? Pretend everything’s fine?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. See both. See the wounds and the healing. The problem isn’t reporting the pain — it’s forgetting the courage.”

Jack: “Courage doesn’t make headlines.”

Jeeny: “Then we should write different headlines.”

Host: The tea seller brought them another round — the steam rising like incense, curling between them. Around them, the city pulsed: a man repairing a broken fan with bare hands, a girl reading from a tattered book while waiting for her bus, a street dog sleeping beneath a billboard of a rocket launch. The ordinary beauty of a restless country.

Jeeny: “You know what’s funny? The rest of the world calls India chaotic, dirty, unpredictable — and they’re not entirely wrong. But they also come here to find something they’ve lost — spirit. And we, who live here, spend every day convincing ourselves we’re failures.”

Jack: “That’s cultural. We’re hard on ourselves. It’s how we improve.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s how we forget. Improvement without appreciation is just exhaustion.”

Jack: “You’re quoting Kalam again.”

Jeeny: (smiles) “Maybe. But tell me, Jack — when was the last time you felt proud to be part of this place?”

Jack: (hesitates) “Pride’s dangerous. It blinds you.”

Jeeny: “So does despair.”

Host: The light shifted, filtering through the dusty canopy above the stall. It touched Jeeny’s face, and for a moment, she seemed carved from sunlight — fierce, patient, unyielding.

Jack: “You really think highlighting our strengths could change people?”

Jeeny: “Not overnight. But imagine a child growing up seeing stories of invention instead of corruption. Of kindness instead of chaos. Wouldn’t that shape how they dream?”

Jack: “Maybe. But dreams don’t pay the bills.”

Jeeny: “They build the future. Every satellite, every start-up, every piece of art started with someone who believed this country was capable of greatness.”

Jack: “And yet, half of them leave.”

Jeeny: “Because we don’t tell them their roots matter. We teach them to look west for validation instead of within.”

Host: The radio played an old patriotic song — tinny, nostalgic. A boy at the next table hummed along, off-key but earnest. Jack’s gaze softened. Something in him seemed to yield, like the weight of cynicism was briefly too heavy to hold.

Jack: “You know… when I was a kid, my school had a picture of Abdul Kalam on the wall. His smile always bothered me.”

Jeeny: (laughs softly) “Why?”

Jack: “Because it looked… unbreakable. Like he saw something the rest of us couldn’t.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he did. Maybe he saw a nation still becoming — not broken, not perfect, but possible.”

Jack: (quietly) “Possible. That’s a nice word.”

Jeeny: “It’s the most Indian word I know.”

Host: The sun dipped lower, the air thick with the scent of cardamom and rain dust. The first drops began to fall — soft, deliberate — blurring the ink on the newspaper between them. The image of the collapsed bridge began to fade, while the small story in the corner — the one about the robotics students — became clearer as the rest smudged away.

Jeeny: (looking at the paper) “See? Even the rain knows what deserves to stay.”

Jack: (smiling) “You’re impossible.”

Jeeny: “No. Just hopeful.”

Jack: (leans back, sighing) “Maybe hope’s the only rebellion left.”

Jeeny: “Exactly what Kalam meant. Not blind pride — believing pride. The kind that pushes us forward.”

Jack: “And maybe the media’s just waiting for us to prove we deserve better stories.”

Jeeny: “We already do. We just have to tell them louder.”

Host: The rain fell harder now, washing the streets, the billboards, the words. Jack folded the newspaper, his hands wet, his expression lighter — almost amused at the irony of it all.

Across from him, Jeeny tilted her face toward the rain, eyes closed, lips parted slightly, as if tasting something sacred — the truth of a nation that still breathed, still struggled, still dreamed.

Host: And in that small corner of a noisy street, between a cup of tea and a fading headline, two people rediscovered what Abdul Kalam had asked the world to remember — that greatness isn’t loud, but it’s everywhere.

In the steam, in the rain, in the hands that build, and in the voices that still dare to believe.

And as the last sunlight vanished into the storm, Jack whispered — not to Jeeny, but to the city itself —

Jack: “We really are something, aren’t we?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “We always were.”

Host: The rain answered with applause.