The golden rule for every business man is this: 'Put yourself in

Host: The city lights flickered against the rain-streaked windows of a nearly empty café. It was late evening, the kind that hummed with the soft buzz of neon and the slow rhythm of passing cars. Inside, the air was thick with coffee and contemplation. Jack sat near the window, his grey eyes tracing the movement of the street, while Jeeny sat across from him, her hands wrapped around a cup of still-steaming coffee. The rain outside fell like a curtain—a soft partition between commerce and conscience.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, Orison Marden was a romantic. A dreamer. This idea—‘put yourself in your customer’s place’—it sounds noble, but in real business, it’s just not how things work.”

Jeeny: “Not how they work, Jack? Or not how you’ve chosen to make them work?”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, his fingers tapping lightly on the table, like a drummer keeping time with his thoughts.

Jack: “Let’s be honest. Businesses aren’t built on empathy. They’re built on strategy, numbers, and market share. You think Jeff Bezos built Amazon by feeling his customers’ emotions? No—he used data. He knew what they wanted before they did.”

Jeeny: “But that’s the same thing, Jack. That’s empathy—mechanized. He learned their patterns, their fears, their impatience. The difference is, he translated understanding into convenience. That’s still putting yourself in the customer’s place—just through code instead of compassion.”

Host: The rain outside thickened, hitting the glass in uneven bursts, as if the sky itself were debating along with them.

Jack: “Empathy doesn’t scale, Jeeny. You can’t build a corporation out of feelings. You build it on efficiency. If every CEO stopped to imagine their customer’s struggles, they’d drown in guilt before profit.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what’s missing, Jack. Maybe we need a little more guilt in business—less efficiency, more humanity.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice softened, but the conviction beneath it sharpened like a blade. Jack looked at her, a faint smile forming—part admiration, part defense.

Jack: “You talk like a philosopher in a marketplace. The world runs on exchange, not compassion. A man can’t survive by understanding others’ hunger; he survives by selling them bread.”

Jeeny: “But he earns their trust by caring why they’re hungry. Think of Cadbury in 1905—when they refused to use slave-grown cocoa from São Tomé. They lost millions at first, Jack. But they chose empathy over exploitation. And history rewarded them. People still remember them as a brand with a conscience.”

Host: The rain eased slightly. A passing bus cast blue light across their faces, like the flicker of an old film reel catching a moment of moral clarity.

Jack: “And yet, Jeeny, the same people who bought Cadbury back then are now buying fast fashion stitched by underpaid hands. Do you still believe the customer’s conscience leads the market?”

Jeeny: “Not always. But maybe that’s because the businessman forgot to lead with conscience. If he truly put himself in the customer’s place—not just to predict behavior but to feel consequence—he’d design better systems, not cheaper ones.”

Jack: “Systems, Jeeny, are indifferent. They don’t care who’s in them.”

Jeeny: “But people do. And people make systems.”

Host: The tension between them thickened like the steam from their cups, swirling, vanishing, returning again. The rain paused, as if to listen.

Jack: “So you’re saying the golden rule—this sentimental line from Marden—is the secret to business ethics?”

Jeeny: “Not ethics alone. Survival. Long-term survival. Every empire that forgot empathy collapsed, Jack. Rome exploited its people until they stopped believing. The same happens in every industry—when the worker, the customer, the human, becomes invisible.”

Host: Jack leaned back, his eyes narrowing in reflection. The neon sign outside pulsed in slow rhythm, casting pale gold over the table, a quiet echo of Marden’s “golden rule.”

Jack: “You’re assuming people want empathy. But customers don’t care about the soul of a business. They care about what they get—and how fast.”

Jeeny: “Then you underestimate the power of memory. Maybe they don’t care in the moment—but they remember how they were treated. Think of Johnson & Johnson’s Tylenol crisis in 1982. They could’ve hidden behind denial. Instead, they pulled every bottle off shelves, took losses—but earned lifelong trust. That’s empathy turned into action.”

Host: The word trust hung in the air, glowing like a neon promise reflected in Jack’s eyes. For a moment, he said nothing.

Jack: “Trust. It’s a luxury, Jeeny. Not a strategy.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack—it’s the foundation. You can rebuild a broken machine, but not a broken relationship.”

Host: The sound of a coffee cup setting down broke the silence, soft but final. Jack’s expression softened, as though some old memory flickered—a failure, perhaps, or a moment when profit had cost him something human.

Jack: “When I started my first company, I was like you. Idealistic. I wanted every product to mean something, every client to feel seen. You know what I got? Bankruptcy notices and unpaid invoices. The world doesn’t reward empathy; it punishes it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the world wasn’t ready for your version of it. Or maybe you mistook empathy for weakness. They’re not the same. Empathy doesn’t mean giving away—it means understanding why someone buys. That’s where strength begins.”

Host: The rain resumed, slower this time, like a heartbeat returning to its rhythm. The lights dimmed slightly as the café began to empty, leaving the two in a halo of quiet golden glow.

Jack: “You make it sound so simple. Just feel what they feel. But what if their desires are selfish? What if understanding them means enabling them?”

Jeeny: “Then you choose what kind of mirror you want to be. Every business reflects its creator’s heart. If you only mirror greed, you’ll drown in it.”

Host: The wind outside shifted, brushing against the glass like a whisper. A passing moment of silence stretched between them—full, heavy, electric.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ve spent too long behind the glass—watching numbers, not faces.”

Jeeny: “Then step outside, Jack. Feel the rain. Listen to the people you serve. The numbers will follow.”

Host: For the first time, Jack smiled, not in sarcasm, but in acceptance—the kind that comes from realizing something both obvious and profound.

Jack: “You really believe empathy can drive profit?”

Jeeny: “Not profit, Jack. Purpose. And purpose builds what profit can’t—loyalty.”

Host: A moment of quiet lingered, broken only by the soft hum of the espresso machine winding down. The city lights outside reflected in their cups, two tiny golden circles trembling in the dark.

Jack: “So, Marden’s golden rule isn’t about business at all. It’s about perspective.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Business just happens to be where perspective matters most.”

Host: The rain finally stopped, leaving the world outside washed clean. Streetlights shimmered on the wet pavement, each reflection like a small truth rediscovered. Jack stood, tossing a few bills on the table, his eyes softer, quieter.

Jack: “Maybe next time I pitch to a client, I’ll try sitting in their chair first.”

Jeeny: “That’s all Marden wanted, Jack. To remind us that in every transaction, there’s a heartbeat on both sides.”

Host: They walked out together, the doorbell chiming softly behind them. The night air was cool, fresh, and alive. Above them, the city breathed—neon fading, puddles glimmering, the sky opening like an unspoken promise.

And as they stepped into the wet street, the golden light of the café spilled out behind them, painting their shadows long and human—a quiet echo of Marden’s truth: that business, at its best, is not about money, but about understanding.