When one is young, aspiring to play for the country, doing well

Host: The night was warm, yet the air carried a faint chill from the river that cut through the city. A bridge, half-lit and empty, stretched like a vein of steel over the dark water. Beneath it, a small tea stall glowed with a single amber bulb, its light trembling in the breeze like a heartbeat refusing to fade.

Jack sat on a wooden bench, his sleeves rolled up, eyes fixed on the steam curling from his cup. His hands trembled slightly — not from cold, but from the weight of something unspoken. Jeeny leaned against the railing, her hair falling loose, her silhouette bathed in the flicker of passing car lights above.

It was nearly midnight, the hour when the world slows, and truths find their way through the cracks of conversation.

Jeeny: “You ever think about how fragile it all is? How one second can break everything you thought would last?”

Jack: (exhales slowly) “All the time. But I’ve stopped thinking — I just accept it now. Like an architect accepts cracks in old walls. You can’t fight the inevitable.”

Host: A train horn echoed faintly in the distance, its sound stretching through the night like a memory unwilling to die.

Jeeny: “I read something today. Yuvraj Singh once said, ‘When you have a close encounter with death, you realise the real value of life.’”

Jack: (half-smiling) “He said that after cancer, right? That guy stared into the abyss, and then went back to bat. You’ve got to respect that.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But what struck me was how death seems to teach us what living never could. We spend our youth chasing goals, records, recognition — and only when it’s almost gone do we notice how precious the ordinary is.”

Host: The tea stall owner, an old man with silver hair, poured another cup, the liquid gleaming amber under the light. Steam rose like prayers, fragile and fleeting.

Jack: “That’s because when you’re young, you still believe in control. You think you can shape the world, outrun your fate. But the moment your body betrays you — an injury, a disease, or just time — you start to see the truth. Life isn’t owned, Jeeny. It’s borrowed.”

Jeeny: “And yet, most people never realise it until death knocks. Why do we need tragedy to make us grateful?”

Jack: (shrugs) “Because gratitude isn’t natural to us. Ambition is. We’re wired to want, not to cherish. It’s only when we’re threatened that we start to value what we took for granted.”

Host: The wind picked up, carrying the faint smell of rain. The river below shimmered like liquid glass, fractured by ripples and light.

Jeeny: “But doesn’t that make us foolish? We build our entire identity around winning, around being seen — and then spend our later years trying to recover the simplicity we threw away.”

Jack: “That’s not foolishness, Jeeny. That’s the human condition. You think a warrior values peace before he’s bled? You can’t understand the value of breathing until you’ve choked.”

Host: Jeeny turned, her eyes catching the faint reflection of the riverlight — soft, but piercing.

Jeeny: “So you think we have to suffer to grow?”

Jack: “I think we have to face the edge. Look at Yuvraj — a man whose body became his enemy, and yet, through that, he found peace. It’s like the universe tearing you apart just to reveal the part of you that can’t be destroyed.”

Host: The rain began, light at first, then heavier — a steady drumbeat against the tin roof. The lamp swayed, and the shadows danced around them like ghosts of youth and ambition.

Jeeny: “I saw my father in a hospital bed once. Tubes, machines, the beeping — all of it. He was a man who once commanded rooms. And there he was, silent, fragile, his eyes open, but far away. That’s when I understood what Yuvraj meant. The real value of life isn’t in winning, it’s in existing — in breathing through another dawn, no matter how dim.”

Jack: (quietly) “You never told me that before.”

Jeeny: “Because I didn’t know how to say it. It’s hard to speak about mortality without feeling like you’re betraying the living.”

Host: The rain softened, but the river now moved faster, restless.

Jack: “Funny thing is — when I was younger, I used to mock people who said ‘life is precious.’ I thought they were just sentimental. But after the accident, when I saw the car crushed like paper, when I realised I could’ve been gone in one second, it… changed me. Suddenly, every breath, every cup of tea, every ordinary moment — it all felt like a gift I’d been too arrogant to notice.”

Jeeny: (softly) “So you’ve had your close encounter.”

Jack: “Yeah. And you know what? It didn’t make me fear death. It made me respect it. Death’s not the enemy — it’s the mirror. It shows you who you really are when the noise fades.”

Host: A truck thundered overhead, its lights casting brief streaks across their faces — two silhouettes, both changed by the shadow of mortality.

Jeeny: “Then maybe death isn’t the end at all. Maybe it’s just a teacher — harsh, but honest. It strips you of your illusions until all that’s left is what truly matters.”

Jack: “And what’s that, Jeeny? What truly matters?”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “To love. To forgive. To wake up one more day and still want to try. Everything else — the trophies, the titles, the plans — they’re just decorations we leave behind.”

Host: The rain began to fade, leaving a mist over the river. The air was fresh, almost holy in its quiet. Jack stared into the distance, the lights of the city now blurry, like memories half-remembered.

Jack: “You make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. We just complicate it because we’re afraid to see how small we really are.”

Host: Silence stretched — long, tender, and true. The world around them slowed, the river whispering its endless rhythm, as if echoing the pulse of life itself.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, I used to think winning was everything. But now… I think it’s just about staying. Enduring. Like that light.”

Host: He pointed to the tea stall bulb, still glowing, fragile but defiant, against the wet night.

Jeeny: “Yes. Like that light. Small, but alive.”

Host: The lamp’s glow softened, its edges bleeding into the mist. The rain had stopped, leaving the earth damp and breathing. Jack and Jeeny sat in silence, the kind that doesn’t need words, only presence.

And above the river, the bridge stood — a quiet witness to their revelation, to the truth Yuvraj once spoke. That only in the shadow of death does the value of life truly shine — fragile, luminous, and real.