When you run a part of the relay and pass on the baton, there is

Host: The stadium was empty now, the track glistening under the soft wash of evening rain. The last rays of sunlight stretched across the lanes like ribbons of gold, fading into violet and shadow. Somewhere in the stands, the echo of cheers still lingered — ghosts of applause floating over the wet air.

Jack stood at the edge of the track, his jacket draped over one arm, watching the puddles shimmer beneath the floodlights. Jeeny sat on the lowest bench, tying her hair back with a rubber band she’d pulled from her wrist. Between them lay a relay baton, scarred, smudged, and dented — an object that once meant competition, now glowing with memory.

Host: The world felt quieter in that moment, suspended between exhaustion and legacy.

Jack: “Narayana Murthy once said, ‘When you run a part of the relay and pass on the baton, there is no sense of unfinished business in your mind. There is just the sense of having done your part to the best of your ability. That is it. The hope is to pass on the baton to somebody who will run faster and run a better marathon.’”

He turned the baton in his hands, its reflection glinting in the dying light. “You know, I used to think life was a race. Turns out it’s more of a relay — if you’re lucky.”

Jeeny: “Only if you trust the next runner.”

Host: Her voice was calm, grounded. She watched him, her eyes softened by fatigue and something deeper — the recognition that time, not talent, is what truly measures us.

Jack: “That’s the hard part, isn’t it? Letting go of what you’ve built. Watching someone else take it, maybe change it, maybe even ruin it.”

Jeeny: “Or improve it. You can’t control the race once the baton leaves your hand.”

Jack: “And that’s supposed to bring peace?”

Jeeny: “Eventually. Peace doesn’t come from control, Jack. It comes from contribution.”

Host: The rain began again — soft, steady, the kind that turns air into silk.

Jack: “Murthy must’ve known that feeling — building something from scratch, then watching others take it further.”

Jeeny: “He understood succession not as surrender, but as faith.”

Jack: “Faith in what?”

Jeeny: “In the idea that your part was necessary, even if it wasn’t final.”

Host: She reached for the baton, rolling it between her palms. “You see,” she said, “a relay isn’t about speed. It’s about continuity. One runner alone can’t finish the race. It’s the passing that makes it complete.”

Jack: “And yet everyone wants the glory of the finish line.”

Jeeny: “Because endings look beautiful. But legacy — legacy lives in the middle.”

Host: The floodlights above flickered once, illuminating their faces in sharp relief — two silhouettes against the darkening field.

Jack: “You think that’s why people fear retirement? Or death? Because it feels like dropping the baton before the next hand is ready?”

Jeeny: “No,” she said gently. “People fear being forgotten. But the truth is, you don’t run to be remembered. You run so the race keeps going.”

Host: The wind carried the faint scent of wet earth, the kind that smells like beginnings disguised as endings.

Jack: “You ever wonder if he was talking about more than business?”

Jeeny: “Of course. He was talking about life. Every role — parent, teacher, leader, friend — is a leg of a relay. You give what you can, then let the next person run with what you’ve left.”

Jack: “And what if they drop it?”

Jeeny: “Then they learn. The point isn’t perfection. It’s persistence.”

Host: She placed the baton back in his hand. “You know what the most selfless thing in the world is?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “To run your hardest and still hope someone after you runs faster.”

Host: The rain picked up, drumming against the track, washing away the footprints of those who’d run before.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “It is. Every act of creation, every bit of progress — it’s a poem written by many hands. No single author, just shared effort.”

Host: He smiled, a quiet one — not pride, but release. “So maybe the finish line isn’t what matters. Maybe it’s knowing the baton didn’t stop with you.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And that somewhere, someone will carry it further — even if they never know your name.”

Host: The camera moved closer, catching the raindrops streaking down the metal baton, each droplet a tiny reflection of the stadium lights.

Jack: “You ever think about what your leg of the race is?”

Jeeny: “Every day. And I’ve learned not to measure it by how far I run, but by how cleanly I pass what I’ve learned.”

Jack: “And you?” she asked, turning the question back.

Jack: “I used to think I was running to win. Now I think I’m just running to keep the lane clear for whoever comes next.”

Host: The rain softened, the clouds parting just enough for a thin band of moonlight to slip through — silver, tender, true.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack,” she said, “Murthy’s words aren’t about endings at all. They’re about trust — the kind that says, I’ve done my part. Now the world can take it from here.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s the purest kind of success — to hand something over with both hands open.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because that’s not losing control. That’s completing your purpose.”

Host: She stood, tucking her hair behind her ear. “You know what the beautiful thing about a relay is?” she asked.

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “No one runs alone.”

Host: The two of them walked toward the center of the track, the sound of their footsteps merging with the soft rhythm of rain. Jack set the baton down on the first lane — not as a symbol of surrender, but of continuity.

And in the stillness that followed, N. R. Narayana Murthy’s words seemed to rise above the damp air, luminous and humble:

“When you run a part of the relay and pass on the baton, there is no sense of unfinished business in your mind. There is just the sense of having done your part to the best of your ability. That is it. The hope is to pass on the baton to somebody who will run faster and run a better marathon.”

Because greatness isn’t measured in victories —
it’s measured in continuance.

True legacy is not possession —
it is passing.

And in the quiet dignity of every runner
who gives their all,
then lets go,
the race of humanity keeps moving —
stronger, faster,
beautifully unfinished.