Today, the concept of business is to make money. Making money is

Host: The boardroom was silent except for the faint hum of the city outside — glass towers gleaming in the dying afternoon light. The skyline burned gold, its reflection rippling across the polished windows like fire over steel. A single clock ticked, sharp and cold, cutting through the air with surgical precision.

At the long mahogany table, Jack sat in his tailored suit, tie loosened, the faint exhaustion of a man who had made too many deals and lost too many hours. Across from him, Jeeny sat in a simple blouse and slacks, her brown eyes steady, her presence calm — an oasis of clarity in a room built for ambition.

Between them, a projection flickered on the wall — charts, profits, rising numbers that looked like triumph until you looked closer.

Jeeny: “Muhammad Yunus once said, ‘Today, the concept of business is to make money. Making money is the name of the business.’”

Host: Jack leaned back in his chair, his grey eyes narrowing as if the quote were both accusation and confession.

Jack: “He says that like it’s a tragedy.”

Jeeny: “It is.”

Jack: “No — it’s honesty. Business has one rule: profit sustains survival. The rest is philosophy.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly the problem. We’ve turned survival into worship. Money became not a tool, but a god.”

Host: The air-conditioning hummed softly — sterile, controlled, like the environment it cooled.

Jack: “You’re quoting poets in a building full of sharks, Jeeny. The world runs on exchange, not empathy.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the world needs a new definition of success.”

Jack: (smirking) “Success pays salaries. It keeps lights on. It builds skyscrapers.”

Jeeny: “And yet, those skyscrapers cast shadows over the hungry.”

Host: Jack’s smirk faded, replaced by a quiet heaviness. He looked out the window — the city glittered beneath him, every light a promise and a warning.

Jack: “You think Yunus is right then — that business lost its soul?”

Jeeny: “It didn’t lose it. It sold it. Piece by piece, until compassion became an expense line.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing. Business has always been about gain.”

Jeeny: “Not always. Once, it was about service — exchanging value that uplifted both sides. Now, it’s extraction. We call it efficiency, but it’s really hunger wearing a suit.”

Host: Jack turned off the projector. The numbers vanished, leaving the room in half-light — the kind that makes people honest.

Jack: “You sound like Yunus himself — the microcredit guy, right? Lending to people the banks ignore. Building wealth from the ground up.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because he understood something we’ve forgotten — that poverty isn’t a lack of money. It’s a lack of opportunity.”

Jack: “Opportunity costs money. You can’t build dreams on goodwill.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can build profit on purpose. They’re not enemies.”

Host: Jeeny leaned forward, her tone firm but warm.

Jeeny: “Business should be about solving problems, not profiting from them. But look around — pollution, debt, mental burnout. We’ve monetized misery. We’ve turned every wound into a market.”

Jack: “You make it sound apocalyptic.”

Jeeny: “It’s not apocalypse. It’s amnesia. We forgot that money is a means, not an end.”

Host: Jack rubbed his temples. The city lights reflected off his watch, ticking time like a metronome of consequence.

Jack: “So what’s your solution? Charity?”

Jeeny: “No. Dignity. Yunus built systems that gave power back to people — not as donations, but as ownership. Businesses that profit and heal at the same time.”

Jack: “Idealism. Investors won’t buy it.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Investors will — when they realize that empathy scales better than greed. Because eventually, greed collapses its own market.”

Host: A low rumble of thunder rolled outside — distant, like the growl of consequence approaching.

Jack: “You think money can coexist with morality?”

Jeeny: “Only if we redefine what ‘gain’ means. The most dangerous illusion in capitalism is that profit equals progress.”

Jack: “So what does equal progress, then?”

Jeeny: “When your success uplifts someone else’s life, not feeds off it.”

Host: Jack stared at her — not with argument now, but with something like recognition.

Jack: “You know... I once believed that. When I started. I thought I could build something meaningful. Then I met reality — clients, quarterly targets, the endless chase.”

Jeeny: “And what did you build?”

Jack: (quietly) “Numbers. Just numbers.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to build something human again.”

Host: The rain began to patter against the glass, tracing thin, trembling rivers down the tall windows. The world outside blurred — money, movement, meaning — all dissolving into one.

Jack: “Yunus built his empire on hope. You think that still works?”

Jeeny: “Hope’s the only currency that doesn’t depreciate.”

Jack: “Until it runs out.”

Jeeny: “It doesn’t run out. It reinvests itself.”

Host: Jack’s eyes drifted toward the skyline again — toward the glittering chaos of commerce below.

Jack: “You ever notice how the richer the city gets, the more invisible its poor become?”

Jeeny: “That’s why Yunus matters. He reminds us that the system was built by humans — and can be rebuilt by them.”

Jack: “But would they want to?”

Jeeny: “Not all. But enough will. Because conscience, like money, compounds.”

Host: The thunder came closer now, the sound merging with the steady rhythm of rain. Jeeny stood, gathering her papers, her voice steady.

Jeeny: “The concept of business shouldn’t be to make money — it should be to make meaning. If you chase meaning, the money follows. But if you chase only money, meaning leaves.”

Jack: (half-smiling, half-tired) “You sound like someone who still believes in miracles.”

Jeeny: “No. Just math. Compassion has the best long-term returns.”

Host: Jack watched her head toward the door, her silhouette framed by the storm-lit glass. He looked again at the city — its veins of light pulsing like currency.

And then he whispered — not to her, but to the empty room that had heard too many negotiations and too few truths:

Jack: “Maybe history remembers the ones who changed what business meant, not just what it made.”

Host: The camera pulled back, the storm reflected in the glass — the city glowing, trembling, alive.

And through the echo of thunder and traffic, Muhammad Yunus’s words resounded like prophecy — clear, quiet, undeniable:

“When profit forgets people, progress forgets purpose.”

Host: The lights dimmed. The skyline burned on — a reminder, and a question.