We Indians are musical- and dance-minded people. If a child is

Host: The evening sky over Mumbai burned in shades of amber and violet, the city’s hum rising like a thousand quiet instruments tuning before a concert. The streets pulsed with life — vendors calling out prices in rhythm, cars honking in improvised tempo, and somewhere, a Bollywood song leaking from a tea stall radio, mixing with the smell of masala and rain-soaked air.

Jack and Jeeny sat in a small chai café, the kind with plastic chairs, steel tumblers, and a fan that squeaked like an offbeat drum. The evening crowd blurred around them — a woman balancing groceries on her head, a child dancing to a ringtone, two old men arguing about cricket.

Host: It was a city alive with movement, but beneath its rhythm, something — a question, perhaps — waited to be heard.

Jeeny stirred her tea, her eyes bright, her smile soft, the kind that carried both affection and irony.

Jeeny: “Waheeda Rehman once said, ‘We Indians are musical- and dance-minded people. If a child is born or on a wedding, birthday, we dance. But when a song starts unreasonably, it irritates me.’” laughs gently “I love that. It’s so true. We’re a people who live in rhythm — but even rhythm needs reason.”

Jack: grins, lighting a cigarette “You mean even music needs logic? That’s rich, coming from you. I thought you believed in the chaos of emotion.”

Jeeny: leans forward “Not chaos — expression. There’s a difference. Expression comes from feeling. Chaos comes from noise.”

Jack: exhales smoke, smirking “In this city, they’re the same thing.”

Host: A rickshaw rattled by, blaring an old Lata Mangeshkar song. A group of kids outside began to mimic the dance — awkward, wild, full of joy. Jeeny smiled, but Jack just shook his head.

Jack: “See? This is exactly what she meant. People here turn every moment into a performance. They don’t think — they just react. There’s a song for heartbreak, another for success, one for traffic jams, for God’s sake. Doesn’t it get… excessive?”

Jeeny: “Excessive? Or alive? We express because we feel deeply. When life hurts, we sing. When it’s unbearable, we dance. What’s wrong with that?”

Jack: “Because not everything deserves a soundtrack. When every emotion becomes a song, you stop feeling them honestly. It’s like adding sugar to everything — after a while, you forget what bitterness tastes like.”

Host: The light from the nearby stall flickered, reflecting off the tea in their cups — gold trembling in silver. Jeeny looked at him, her eyes steady, her voice quieter now.

Jeeny: “But what if that’s how we survive, Jack? What if music isn’t escape — it’s translation? You know, in Rajasthan, when a husband dies, the women still sing. Not to celebrate — but to release. It’s grief given rhythm. Without it, maybe they’d just break.”

Jack: nods slowly “I get that. Ritual. Healing. Sure. But you know what irritates me — and probably Waheeda too — it’s when the music stops meaning anything. When it’s just noise filling space, instead of silence that says something.”

Jeeny: smiles knowingly “Ah, so you’re not against music — just against emptiness disguised as beauty.”

Jack: grins “Exactly. Just because people are clapping doesn’t mean they’re feeling. Same with life — we mistake movement for meaning.”

Host: A pause fell between them — long enough for the next song to change. The radio played a slow, haunting ghazal this time. The mood shifted; even the waiter hummed as he wiped the counter.

Jeeny: “You know, I think Waheeda’s quote isn’t about irritation — it’s about respect. She’s saying: don’t cheapen music. Don’t throw it around like decoration. Let it arrive with purpose, like a guest who’s invited — not one who barges in.”

Jack: “That’s a poetic way of saying ‘don’t overdo it.’”

Jeeny: “Poetry is overdoing it — beautifully.”

Host: Jack laughed — a deep, low laugh that cracked through the noise like thunder over the sea. Jeeny joined him, and for a moment, even the radio seemed to fade beneath the sound of their laughter.

Jack: after a beat “You know what bothers me? It’s not just songs in movies. It’s how we turn every damn thing into spectacle. Weddings that look like carnivals, funerals with fireworks, politicians dancing on stage. Sometimes it feels like we’ve forgotten how to sit still.”

Jeeny: thoughtful now “Maybe we’re afraid of stillness. Stillness makes you listen — really listen. And when you do, you start hearing things you’ve ignored: pain, emptiness, longing.”

Jack: “So we drown it with rhythm.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But isn’t that human? We hide what we can’t bear to face. Music’s just the mask we wear.”

Host: The rain began — light at first, then steady, drumming softly against the tin roof. People outside started to run for cover, laughing, shouting, some singing the first monsoon song that came to mind.

Jeeny watched them — drenched, wild, happy. Jack watched her watching them.

Jack: “You look like you envy them.”

Jeeny: smiles “Maybe I do. They haven’t started overthinking yet.”

Jack: “And you think I have?”

Jeeny: “You always do. You analyze the rhythm until you can’t hear it anymore.”

Jack: sighs, stubbing out his cigarette “Maybe. But someone has to. Someone has to make sure the song still means something.”

Host: The rain thickened, the smell of wet earth wrapping around them. A small boy outside splashed barefoot through puddles, spinning, arms open wide. His laughter — wild, honest — filled the space between the raindrops.

Jeeny: “That’s what she meant too, you know. Dance because it’s real, not because it’s expected. Don’t just move because others are watching — move because something inside you can’t stay still.”

Jack: softly, almost to himself “And when the music starts without meaning… stop dancing.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Let silence play its note.”

Host: The rain slowed, the world settling into a rhythm of its own. The radio sputtered and died — the music gone, but the heartbeat of the city still present. Jack and Jeeny sat in that silence, surrounded by motion yet untouched by it.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the difference between noise and art — intention.”

Jeeny: nods “Exactly. The same difference between living and merely existing.”

Host: The camera would pull back — the two of them sitting in the café, rain dripping from the awning, the city pulsing beyond them in a thousand unscripted notes.

And through the silence that followed, one could almost hear Waheeda’s voice — elegant, amused, timeless — reminding them:

Music is sacred when it listens back.
Dance is divine when it rises from truth.
Everything else… is just noise pretending to be joy.

Host: Outside, the rain began again — but softer now, like applause fading into reverence — as if the city itself understood.