We can't really digest food unless there's hunger. So we can't

Host: The evening was warm, but the air carried the faint smell of rain that hadn’t yet fallen. The sky hung heavy with clouds, like a curtain about to drop before a theater’s final act. In a small courtyard behind an old monastery, a single lamp burned low, its light trembling across the stone walls.

Jack sat on the edge of a stone bench, a half-finished cigarette between his fingers, his eyes lost in the dying flame. Across from him, Jeeny knelt on the ground, tending to a row of small plants growing from cracked pots. Her movements were slow, reverent — like someone listening to a song only she could hear.

The night was still. The world held its breath.

Jeeny: “You know what Radhanath Swami once said?” (She looked up, brushing soil from her hands.) “That we can’t really digest food unless there’s hunger. So we can’t really assimilate spiritual wisdom unless we feel the need for it.”

Host: Jack smiled, a dry, quiet smile, the kind that hid as much as it revealed. He took one last drag, then crushed the cigarette under his boot.

Jack: “So what, Jeeny — people have to starve before they learn anything?”

Jeeny: “Not starve, Jack. But they have to hunger. They have to need truth — not just want it.”

Jack: “You talk like wisdom is food. Like it fills something.”

Jeeny: “Doesn’t it? When you’re lost, when you’ve been running through emptiness for too long, a single truth can feel like bread after famine.”

Host: Jack leaned back against the wall, his eyes narrowing, smoke drifting past his face like slow ghosts.

Jack: “That’s poetic. But in my world, hunger makes people desperate, not wise. I’ve seen what hunger does in real places — refugee camps, war zones, unemployment lines. It doesn’t make you spiritual. It makes you savage.”

Jeeny: “You’re confusing the hunger of the body with the hunger of the soul.”

Jack: “They’re both pain, Jeeny. Pain doesn’t make people noble. It makes them survive.”

Host: The lamp’s flame flickered as a gust of wind swept through the courtyard, sending a few leaves tumbling across the ground. The sound of distant thunder trembled at the edge of the sky.

Jeeny: “But isn’t survival itself the beginning of understanding? Think of Buddha — he was surrounded by luxury and comfort, but he didn’t awaken until he hungered for meaning. The body’s hunger and the soul’s hunger might begin differently, but they lead to the same question: What am I missing?”

Jack: “You make it sound like suffering’s a blessing.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes it is. When the heart is full, it doesn’t listen. But when it’s empty, every whisper becomes a prayer.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, a faint shadow passing over his eyes. He looked down at the ground, where a small trail of ants moved in perfect line, tireless, focused.

Jack: “So what about the ones who’ve suffered too much to listen? The ones whose hunger doesn’t lead to prayer, but to silence? To nothing?”

Jeeny: “Even silence is a prayer, Jack. Sometimes it’s the most honest one.”

Host: The rain began to fall — soft, scattered drops tapping against the leaves, the stone, the skin. The light from the lamp shimmered against the wet earth, turning every surface into a mirror.

Jack: “You talk like you’ve never known emptiness.”

Jeeny: “I’ve lived it. That’s why I believe it. There was a time I had everything I wanted — money, friends, noise — and yet I was hollow. Then one day, I felt the hunger you’re afraid of. The kind that makes you drop everything and ask, ‘Who am I really?’”

Jack: “And you found your answer?”

Jeeny: “No. I found the hunger again. And that’s when I realized — that’s the point. The hunger is the answer.”

Host: Jack’s eyes lifted, caught by her voice. For a moment, the factory-scarred, rational man looked like a child again — curious, unguarded.

Jack: “You mean we’re supposed to live always wanting?”

Jeeny: “Always seeking. There’s a difference. Hunger isn’t about pain. It’s about awareness. You only grow when you know you’re empty.”

Jack: “And when you’re full?”

Jeeny: “Then you share.”

Host: A low rumble of thunder rolled across the sky. The rain thickened, pouring now — a soft, endless music against the roof. Jeeny didn’t move; she simply tilted her face upward, letting the water run down her cheeks, her eyes closed in quiet reverence.

Jack watched her, something shifting in him — a tension, loosening.

Jack: “You sound like my grandmother. She used to fast once a week. Said it wasn’t about denying food — it was about remembering gratitude. I never understood it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe now you do.”

Jack: “Maybe. Maybe it was her way of staying hungry — not for food, but for meaning.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The body’s hunger reminds us that we depend on something beyond ourselves. The soul’s hunger reminds us we’re still searching.”

Host: Jack stood, walking a few steps into the rain, the drops clinging to his hair, his shirt. He looked up, as if searching the sky for something unseen — maybe God, maybe the next question.

Jack: “So you think wisdom can’t be given — only digested?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Just like food. You can’t hand someone nourishment — they have to be hungry enough to take it in.”

Jack: “That’s why sermons don’t work. And why experience does.”

Jeeny: “Yes. A child touches the fire once — and never forgets. That’s the digestion of wisdom.”

Host: The rain fell harder now, drumming on the stones, washing the dust from everything it touched. The lamp sputtered, its flame trembling but alive.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… I think I’ve been full for too long. Stuffed with noise, work, ambition — no room left for meaning.”

Jeeny: “Then let it rain, Jack. Let it wash some of that fullness away.”

Host: He laughed softly — not mockingly this time, but with a strange kind of relief. His voice mixed with the rain, becoming almost indistinguishable from it.

Jack: “You think hunger can be holy?”

Jeeny: “If it leads you home, yes.”

Host: The storm began to quiet, the raindrops slowing into a gentle mist. The sky cracked open in one long silver line, revealing the faint light of the moon breaking through.

Jack turned to her, his expression softer than the rain itself.

Jack: “Maybe it’s time I stopped fearing hunger.”

Jeeny: “Then you’ll finally taste life.”

Host: The rain ended. The lamp steadied. Around them, the courtyard glistened — leaves, stones, and soil all shining with the same quiet truth: that nothing grows without emptiness first.

And in that stillness, Jack and Jeeny sat — two souls, newly aware of their own hunger — listening to the silence that always follows the storm, where every drop feels like the first taste of wisdom.