We should meet abuse by forbearance. Human nature is so

Host: The evening air was thick with dust and heat, a slow golden haze settling over the old railway platform. A train had long since passed, leaving behind only the echo of its whistle and the faint scent of iron, sweat, and memory. The sun hung low, bleeding through the smoke of a thousand small fires — street vendors closing, children shouting, dogs barking somewhere unseen.

At the far end of the platform, Jack sat on a wooden bench, his coat folded beside him, his hands clasped, his eyes distant. Jeeny approached with two cups of tea, the steam curling into the amber air like unspoken thoughts. She sat beside him without a word.

After a long silence, she spoke softly, her tone almost reverent.

Jeeny: “Mahatma Gandhi once said, ‘We should meet abuse by forbearance. Human nature is so constituted that if we take absolutely no notice of anger or abuse, the person indulging in it will soon weary of it and stop.’”

Jack: half-smiling “That’s a tall order. Gandhi might’ve been built for that kind of patience — but the rest of us? We bleed too fast.”

Jeeny: sipping her tea “Maybe bleeding slower is the lesson.”

Jack: “Forbearance.” He let the word hang, heavy in the warm air. “Sounds holy. Feels impossible.”

Jeeny: “It’s not holiness. It’s discipline — the hardest kind. The kind that keeps your humanity when someone’s trying to take it from you.”

Host: A wind stirred, carrying the distant laughter of schoolboys and the low murmur of the city’s heartbeat. The station clock ticked, each second deliberate, ancient, patient — as if the universe itself were measuring time by restraint.

Jack: “You really believe in that? Just... not reacting? Letting people throw their words like stones, and pretending you don’t feel them hit?”

Jeeny: “Not pretending. Choosing.”

Jack: “Choosing what?”

Jeeny: “Peace. The kind that doesn’t depend on apology.”

Host: Jack looked at her, searching her face for something — conviction, or maybe the place where conviction hides its scars.

Jack: “You ever been abused, Jeeny? Really attacked? Someone trying to break you, not because they’re angry, but because they can?”

Jeeny: quietly “Yes.”

Jack: surprised, softly “And you stayed silent?”

Jeeny: “No. I stayed human.”

Host: The lights along the platform flickered on, each bulb humming faintly in the dusk. Their faces glowed, half in shadow, half in firelight.

Jack: “That sounds poetic. But when people spit in your face — when they lie, humiliate you — you can’t just sit there like a saint.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not a saint. But you can sit there like a mountain.”

Jack: bitterly “Mountains erode, too.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Yes. But very, very slowly.”

Host: The train horn wailed in the distance again, faint this time, lonely. The sound cut through their silence like the cry of a world still learning gentleness.

Jack: “You know what scares me, Jeeny? It’s not the abusers. It’s the silence after them — the part where you realize you don’t know what to say anymore.”

Jeeny: “That’s not silence. That’s stillness. Silence is empty. Stillness is full.”

Jack: “You talk like forgiveness is easy.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s exhausting. But anger’s heavier.”

Host: A cat darted between the tracks, vanishing under the next platform. The lights hummed louder, fighting off the gathering dark.

Jack: “When Gandhi said that — about forbearance — he must have known most people couldn’t do it. The human instinct is to hit back.”

Jeeny: “That’s why his message wasn’t for instincts. It was for conscience.”

Jack: “You think conscience is enough to change cruelty?”

Jeeny: “Not instantly. But steadily. When you don’t react, you break the rhythm of hate.”

Jack: “You sound like hope.”

Jeeny: smiling gently “And you sound tired.”

Host: The wind softened, lifting a few pages from Jack’s open notebook beside him. He reached out to press them down, his hand trembling slightly — the hand of someone who’d fought too many invisible wars.

Jack: “When I was younger, I believed anger was armor. It made me feel alive — righteous. Like fire meant justice.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now it just feels like smoke. Chokes me. Leaves nothing behind but ash.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe Gandhi was right. Anger feeds on attention. You stop feeding it, and it starves.”

Jack: quietly “And if it starves, what grows in its place?”

Jeeny: “Strength. Not the kind that hits back — the kind that doesn’t need to.”

Host: The rain began, soft and sparse — the kind that doesn’t drench, only cools the air. Jeeny stood, holding her cup to feel the raindrops hit it, the tiny sounds like applause for endurance.

Jeeny: “You know, my mother used to say something similar: ‘Every word thrown at you is a test of what you worship.’ If you worship your pride, you’ll answer with pride. If you worship peace, you’ll answer with silence.”

Jack: smiling faintly “And if you worship truth?”

Jeeny: “Then you answer only once — and never again.”

Host: The lights flickered again. The rain deepened, tapping harder now, forming little rivers along the tracks. Jack stood, his coat slung over his arm, his face calmer than before — as if the storm outside had softened the one within.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, maybe forbearance isn’t weakness after all. Maybe it’s just... focus. On what actually matters.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not passive. It’s powerful. It’s the kind of strength that wins wars without firing back.”

Jack: “And what if no one notices your restraint?”

Jeeny: smiling, stepping toward the rain “Then that’s when it’s pure.”

Host: They walked toward the end of the platform, the rain glistening around them like glass threads. The world seemed quieter now, gentler — as if the air itself had heard Gandhi’s words and decided to forgive the noise of men.

Jack: “You ever think we could live like that, Jeeny? All of us — meeting anger with calm, hate with patience?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not all at once. But one person at a time. That’s how revolutions begin — quietly.”

Host: The train lights appeared in the distance, a slow glow growing brighter, slicing through the dark. The wind picked up, whipping Jeeny’s hair, fluttering Jack’s coat, carrying with it the smell of rain and rust — and something else. Peace, maybe.

They stood there side by side, watching the train approach, neither speaking, both breathing in the same rhythm — as though sharing the same calm heartbeat.

Host: And as the train thundered past, drowning out the noise of the world for just a moment, their silence held steady —
not as absence,
but as victory.

Because sometimes the loudest answer to cruelty
is not a word,
but the quiet endurance that refuses to echo it.