You can change friends but not neighbours.

Host: The sunset hung low over the border town, bleeding orange into a sky the color of bruised steel. A faint dust drifted from the roads, and the wind carried the distant hum of radio chatter from the nearby military post. Between two small houses, separated by a rusted fence, stood Jack and Jeeny — cups of tea in hand, their faces glowing in the fading light.

Host: It was one of those evenings where peace felt both fragile and eternal, where words carried the weight of history. A few children played cricket in the alley, their laughter echoing like a forgotten anthem. But between Jack and Jeeny, there was the stillness of unspoken truth.

Jeeny: (softly) “Atal Bihari Vajpayee once said, ‘You can change friends but not neighbours.’ It’s a strange thing, isn’t it? How we can move, grow, even forgive friends — but not escape those who stand beside us in the map of our lives.”

Jack: (taking a slow sip) “Strange? No, Jeeny, it’s realistic. Geography doesn’t bend to emotion. Whether it’s people, nations, or companies, proximity binds you tighter than affection ever will.”

Jeeny: “But doesn’t that mean we should learn to understand, not resist? We can’t keep living like every border is a battlefield.”

Jack: “You’re talking in poetry again. Reality doesn’t care for metaphors. Borders exist because trust fails. You think neighbors fight because they want to? No — they fight because one side forgets where the fence stands.”

Host: The evening wind grew stronger, lifting dust and memories alike. The fence between their houses rattled, a thin sheet of iron whispering like an old argument. The sky darkened, the first stars blinking like uncertain eyes.

Jeeny: “You make it sound so simple. But look around — every conflict, every war, every broken friendship starts with a fence like this one. A line that someone drew and someone else refused to cross.”

Jack: “And yet those lines keep the peace too. You can’t live without boundaries. The day we remove them, chaos takes over. Nations need distance, just like people need space.”

Jeeny: “But space without connection is isolation, Jack. A fence can protect, but it can also imprison. Vajpayee said that line after the Kargil War, didn’t he? He wasn’t talking about hostility — he was talking about peace, about how we’re bound to coexist whether we like it or not.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled, not from anger, but from memory — the kind that comes from having seen too much division. Jack’s expression softened, though his words remained sharp.

Jack: “I remember that. I was a young reporter back then. He was trying to make peace with Pakistan. Noble, yes. But naive. You can’t make peace with someone holding a loaded gun.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why statesmen are remembered — because they tried even when the world called it naive. Because they saw that neighbours, like nations, don’t vanish just because we wish them away.”

Jack: “Maybe. But you can’t build friendship on forgiveness alone. History has a long memory. Try shaking hands over the graves of your soldiers — it’s not so simple.”

Jeeny: (firmly) “And yet, it’s necessary. Because if we don’t, then every generation inherits the same hate, the same fear, the same stories of blood. What good is memory if it only teaches us how to hate better?”

Host: The streetlights flickered on, spilling amber light across the cracked pavement. The cricket game had ended; the children were gone, leaving behind the faint sound of ball against bat like an echo from another era. The air carried the smell of smoke and chai, mingled with a quiet melancholy.

Jack: “You sound like my mother. She used to say the same — that the man next door isn’t your enemy until you make him one. But sometimes, Jeeny, neighbors take your silence for weakness.”

Jeeny: “And sometimes, your defense for fear. Isn’t that the tragedy? Two neighbours both afraid, both arming themselves against a threat that mirrors their own reflection.”

Jack: “So you think we should just open the gates, let anyone walk in?”

Jeeny: “No. I think we should at least talk across them.”

Host: A small pause, heavy and human. The fence between them gleamed faintly, the metal catching the light like a scar catching a memory of sunlight.

Jack: (quietly) “You really believe people can change that easily?”

Jeeny: “Not easily. But they can begin. Think of France and Germany — enemies through two world wars, yet today they share borders without barbed wire. Or India and Bangladesh — once torn apart, now bound by trade and music and memory. If nations can learn to forgive, why can’t we?”

Jack: “Because forgiveness demands courage, and most people don’t have that kind of wealth.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Then maybe that’s what makes peace more precious than victory.”

Host: The night deepened, stars gathering above like watchful witnesses. A faint melody came from a radio in one of the nearby homes — an old ghazal, the kind that made even silence feel like company. Jack set his cup down, the sound of ceramic against wood small but certain.

Jack: “You know, I had a neighbour once — old man, lived next to me in Delhi. We argued about everything — noise, parking, politics. The day he died, his wife brought me his old chessboard. Said he always wanted to finish our last game. I didn’t even remember what move we’d stopped on.”

Jeeny: (gently) “That’s the thing, Jack. The world keeps moving, but some games never end. They just wait for us to remember they weren’t supposed to be wars.”

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe Vajpayee understood something we still don’t — that geography isn’t just land; it’s fate. You can move houses, switch cities, change friends — but your neighbours are the ones who share your sky.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “And maybe that’s why peace isn’t a treaty — it’s a habit. Something you build cup by cup, word by word, over tea and time.”

Host: The wind softened, carrying away the last dust from the day. The lights from both their homes spilled into the yard, blending together until the line of the fence was barely visible — a quiet metaphor in the darkness.

Jack: “So… we can’t change neighbours.”

Jeeny: “No. But we can change how we see them.”

Host: For a moment, they both stood there — two souls, two houses, one horizon. The stars shimmered, and from somewhere distant, a train passed, its whistle cutting through the night like the voice of time reminding them that coexistence isn’t a choice, it’s a destiny.

Host: The camera pulls back, rising above the fence, above the rooftops, showing two small lights burning side by side — separate, yet united against the vast dark.

Because in the end, as Vajpayee said, we can change friends, even futures — but not our neighbours, nor the shared sky that keeps us all beneath one truth.