You must have anger, as rightful wrath is what makes you create

Host: The night was bruised purple over the city, the kind of sky that seemed to hum with unfinished arguments. Down by the riverfront, where the water reflected the fractured light of skyscrapers, a small warehouse stood — half abandoned, half alive. Inside, the air smelled of paint, smoke, and the slow decay of time.

Host: A single bulb hung from the ceiling, swinging gently, spilling circles of amber across concrete walls covered in graffiti — words, faces, rage frozen in color. Jack sat on an overturned crate, cigarette glowing between his fingers, staring at a mural that Jeeny had just finished — a woman, half angel, half fire, her eyes filled with something between fury and faith.

Host: The sound of the river outside was faint, steady — like a whisper trying to calm the flames inside both of them.

Jeeny: “Kamal Haasan once said, ‘You must have anger, as rightful wrath is what makes you create your own ethical standards.’”

Jack: (exhales smoke slowly) “Sounds noble, but dangerous. Anger’s a weapon you can’t unswing.”

Jeeny: “That’s because most people use it like a bomb. He meant it as a compass.”

Jack: “A compass that burns your hand the moment you hold it.”

Jeeny: “Only if you let it own you. Anger isn’t chaos — it’s clarity. It’s what wakes people who’ve been asleep to injustice.”

Jack: (grinning wryly) “Clarity, huh? I’ve seen clarity turn men into monsters. Anger gives birth to dictators as often as it gives birth to saints.”

Jeeny: “Because they forget the second part of the quote — ‘rightful wrath.’ It’s not about rage; it’s about response. The moment anger becomes ego, it stops being moral.”

Host: The bulb flickered, the shadows shifting across their faces like a storm in slow motion. Jeeny’s hands were still stained with red paint, trembling slightly, as if the art itself was still alive beneath her skin.

Jack: “You think morality comes from wrath?”

Jeeny: “I think morality comes from outrage — from the refusal to accept wrong as normal. Every ethical revolution started with someone saying, ‘I’ve had enough.’”

Jack: “Yeah, and half of those revolutions ended in blood. Wrath doesn’t build systems — it tears them down.”

Jeeny: “Maybe systems need tearing down before new ones can rise.”

Jack: “You sound like every idealist before the fall.”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “And you sound like every cynic who mistakes fear for wisdom.”

Host: The wind howled faintly through the cracked window, carrying in the distant noise of traffic, laughter, sirens — the symphony of a city always on the brink of something.

Jeeny: “You know why I paint, Jack? Because I’m angry. Angry that women still whisper when they should shout. Angry that truth gets edited. Angry that we mistake numbness for peace. My anger isn’t destruction — it’s creation. It’s the pulse that tells me I’m still human.”

Jack: (nods slowly) “And you think that’s enough to keep you righteous?”

Jeeny: “Not righteous. Aware. Righteousness blinds you. Anger opens your eyes.”

Jack: “Until it blinds you differently.”

Jeeny: “Then you use it differently. The same fire that burns can also forge.”

Host: She wiped her hands on a rag, streaking the fabric with red and black, colors like wounds and dawns. Jack watched her, the faint twitch of admiration breaking through his skepticism.

Jack: “You remind me of something Malcolm X once said — that you can’t separate peace from freedom because no one can be at peace unless they have freedom. Maybe anger’s the price of seeing clearly.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Anger is empathy with muscle. It’s the conscience refusing sedation.”

Jack: “But what happens when that anger starts feeding on itself? When your sense of justice becomes self-righteousness?”

Jeeny: “Then you pause. You recalibrate. You ask if your wrath is still ‘rightful.’ That’s what separates creation from carnage.”

Host: The silence between them thickened — heavy, alive, meaningful. The riverlight slipped through the window and broke across Jeeny’s mural, lighting the painted woman’s eyes until they seemed to shimmer.

Jack: “You ever think anger’s addictive? Like once you’ve lived with it long enough, peace feels foreign?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But peace without justice is just sedation. Real peace — the kind that breathes — is born only when wrath is spent doing something worthy.”

Jack: “And if the world doesn’t change?”

Jeeny: “Then at least you didn’t let it change you into a coward.”

Host: The sound of her words echoed softly off the concrete walls, as if the ghosts of the room nodded in agreement.

Jack: “So you’re saying ethics is personal — not handed down, but carved out of conflict.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Every moral code worth living by is born from disobedience. From someone’s anger that dared to ask why.”

Jack: “So you justify rebellion.”

Jeeny: “I justify evolution.”

Jack: (leans forward) “And where’s the line between the two?”

Jeeny: (without hesitation) “Compassion. The moment anger stops including others and starts glorifying itself — it’s no longer sacred.”

Host: A single raindrop hit the window, then another, until the sound became steady, rhythmic. The room filled with that fragile music — rain against glass, paint drying, breath slowing.

Jack: “You really think we need more anger in the world?”

Jeeny: “Not more. Better. We don’t need louder outrage; we need wiser wrath — the kind that listens before it strikes.”

Jack: “That’s a fine line to walk.”

Jeeny: “All truth is a tightrope.”

Host: Jack stood, pacing slowly across the floor, his footsteps echoing softly. He stopped in front of the mural, eyes lingering on the painted woman’s half-burning wings.

Jack: “She looks like she’s about to fly — or fall.”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. That’s what creation is. You risk falling so something else can rise.”

Jack: “And that’s what your anger builds?”

Jeeny: “Not monuments — mirrors. So people can see themselves without flinching.”

Host: The lightbulb swayed again, throwing long shadows across the wall — the kind that looked like movement, like revolution caught mid-breath.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not about erasing anger but evolving it — shaping it into something human.”

Jeeny: “That’s the only way to make it ethical.”

Jack: “You sound like you’ve forgiven the fire for burning.”

Jeeny: “I haven’t forgiven it. I’ve learned to work with it.”

Host: The rain eased. The city beyond the window pulsed with light — alive, imperfect, necessary. Jack and Jeeny stood side by side before the mural, their silhouettes outlined against the fierce beauty of her creation.

Host: And for a long moment, neither spoke — two people who had wrestled with the same truth from opposite sides, now standing in the same flame.

Host: The camera would have slowly pulled back — the room shrinking, the mural growing — until only the painted woman remained, her gaze burning through the shadows.

Host: And beneath the sound of the river and the hum of the night, Kamal Haasan’s words seemed to echo through the air like a vow whispered to time itself:

Host: “You must have anger — not as destruction, but as definition. For it is only in the fire of rightful wrath that a human being begins to forge their own moral steel.”