Echo and Amber

Dedicated to the dichotomy of life. To peace and war. To order and chaos. To misery and madness. To freedom and loneliness. To love and indifference. To reason and faith. And, to Laksh Maheshwari.

He slashed through time like a hawk through the wind. Lean as a whip, wiry with restless reverberation, he moved sharp—shoulders hunched under a coat flecked with chronite, glinting like stars snared in soot. His hands, scarred and quick, cradled a pocket watch: a battered beast, gears snarling, heavy with years he’d snatched and burned. Green eyes blazed, fierce, haunted—flicking to horizons he’d torn open, futures he’d glimpsed, pasts he’d left smoldering. He breathed in jolts, ragged and thin, a man running on hunger and grit. In a hunt for meaning. He’d carve it from time’s bones, leave his echo ringing.

She walked the earth like she would never die. So far, she had been right. Tall, her frame softened by a strength that hummed "quiet". She stepped her sure-footed boots scuffed from roads without end. Her hair spilled dark, wild, streaked with gray that never spread, framing a face etched with calm: high cheeks, eyes deep brown, warm as soil kissed by dusk. Her hands moved slow, deliberate—rough from kneading dough, tending wounds, tracing stone. She breathed deep, full, pulling in the world: salt on the breeze, smoke in the air, the sweet rot of fallen fruit. Death could knock. It just never did. She lived in the now—each heartbeat a glow she held close, steady, flickering, alive.

Their first spark flared raw. Paris, 1793. The guillotine’s blade hissed, a wet chop through the mob’s roar. He leapt in, boots skidding on blood-slick stone, chasing a journal. He cursed, English barking through French snarls, and the crowd spun, eyes wild. He bolted, chest a forge, watch spitting sparks in his fist. An alley twisted. A tavern flickered. He crashed into her. Her bread basket tipped, her grip clamped his wrist, firm as oak. “Hide in that barrel by the wall,” she said, voice low, smooth, cutting the din like a bell. “They’ll stumble past soon.”

He froze, sweat stinging, her calm a slap to his frenzy. “Who are you to order me around?” he snarled, journal crushed to his ribs, breath a ragged saw.

“Just a woman with some bread and a hunch,” she said, brushing flour from her sleeve, her brown eyes locking his green. He ducked, waited, the mob’s shouts fading. He leapt, was gone. But her face... high, unbowed—stuck like ash in his throat, a burr he couldn’t shake.

Time whirled. Constantinople, 1455. Cannons thundered, walls split, and the city wept dust. He slipped a under tent, air thick with blood and groans, hunting a gear laced with chronite. There she was. Kneeling in the muck, her hands red, stitching a soldier’s gash. Same hair. Same eyes. Untouched by centuries. He stopped, breath snagged, watch trembling. “You,” he rasped, green eyes wide. “Paris. How?”

She looked up, brow creasing, hands pausing on the thread. “Paris? I see...” taking a moment to realize unspoken words. “I’ve wandered there, sure but I saw you first in a burning village—flames high, you running through,” she said, her tone even, searching. “That was long ago. You don’t stay, do you?”

“You don’t age,” he said, stepping back, voice tight. “What are you—something endless?”

“I’m alive, that’s what I know. Alive through more seasons than I can tally,” she replied, wiping the blood on her skirt, gaze steady. “And you’re a gust that keeps blowing in.” He snatched the gear, leapt. Her words sank, a weight in his gut. She didn’t chase time. She stood firm in its flood.

Their paths brushed again, rare, uncalled. Bombay, 1880. The market sang—cumin bit the air, voices wove tight. He crept a vault, palms slick, lifting a sextant warped by time’s hand. Below, she bartered, her laugh a light breeze, saffron dusting her fingers like the Sun. She glanced up as he slipped past, a shadow with a prize.

Spain, 1936. War gnawed the hills, gunfire a jagged pulse. He raided a stash, boots crunching glass, a chronal shard cold in his grip. She sat near, pouring wine for a weary farmer, her hum low against the blasts. Her brown eyes caught his green for a heartbeat. A rune on his watch—etched in a stone she had once touched—sang faint, pulling him across time and space to where she’d be. He didn’t know its pull. She didn’t either.

Florence, 1506. Dust hung thick, hammers rang on marble. He slipped through a workshop, chasing a lens carved with time’s secrets, Leonardo’s hands too slow to guard it. The air smelled of chisel and oil, the light slanting gold through cracked shutters. He moved fast, breath sharp, fingers brushing the lens—cool, heavy with promise. Outside, she haggled for figs, her voice rolling soft through the clamor, a basket balanced on her hip. She caught his eye as he fled, lens clutched tight. “Always taking, never staying,” she called, her tone light but edged, brown eyes glinting like dusk on water.

“I’m building something—something that lasts beyond this dust and noise,” he shot back, breath sharp, watch ticking fast against his chest. “You just let it all slip through your fingers, don’t you?”

“I hold what’s here—the juice of this fruit, the heat of this sun, the hum of this street,” she said, biting a fig, juice staining her lips red, her gaze steady. “You’re running from what’s real, not towards anything.” He leapt, her words a splinter he couldn’t pull, her calm a mirror to his storm.

Kyoto, 1701. Lanterns glowed soft, the air crisp with pine and frost. He crept a temple, snow crunching underfoot, hunting a scroll—its ink laced with chronite dust, a monk’s forbidden work. Shadows stretched long, the bell’s toll deep and slow. He slipped through a hall, breath fogging, fingers brushing the scroll’s edge. She stood outside, feeding koi in a frozen pond, her coat dusted white, her laugh a puff of mist as fish nipped her crumbs. “You again,” she said, turning, her voice warm, rolling like tea poured slow. “What’s this one for?”

“A piece of the puzzle—something to make time bend my way,” he said, tucking the scroll inside his coat, green eyes flicking to her hands, steady even in the cold. “You’re just feeding fish while the world turns.”

“These fish, this ice, this breath—they’re mine, right now,” she replied, tossing another crumb, her smile faint, eyes tracing the ripples. “You’re chasing a shadow that’ll never sit still.” He leapt, her peace was a jab he couldn’t dodge, the scroll’s weight was a promise in his grip.

Berlin, 1989. The Wall cracked, dust choked the air, freedom roared raw. He landed amid the chaos, boots grinding concrete, watch humming fast. He’d come for a chip—a Cold War relic twisted by time, buried in a guard’s pack. The crowd surged, voices a tide, the air sharp with smoke and hope. She stood near, handing him a pretzel, steam curling, her breath slow in the chill. “Why do you keep tearing through like this?” she asked, her voice warm, flowing like a river over worn stone, her eyes searching his. “What’s out there that’s worth missing this—this breaking? This life?”

“Meaning—a name carved deep, something bigger than me, bigger than this fleeting roar,” he said, biting in, crumbs dusting his coat, hands jittery with the watch’s pulse. “You’re just breathing it away, letting it fade into nothing.”

“This moment’s mine—the salt of this bread, the shout of these people tearing free,” she said, eyes tracing the crowd, a smile tugging her lips, her fingers brushing his sleeve. “You chase shadows when the light’s right here, warm and loud.” He leapt, her calm a blade he couldn’t blunt, the chip a cold weight in his pocket.

Cairo, 1922. The desert bit, sand swirling hot, the air thick with dust and secrets. He slipped a dig site, chasing a scarab—gold, chronite-veined, unearthed from a tomb. Torches flickered, voices hushed, the night heavy with stars. He moved low, breath shallow, fingers brushing the scarab’s edge—cool, ancient, alive. She sat near, sketching hieroglyphs on a crate, her pencil scratching soft, her coat dusted yellow. “Back again,” she said, glancing up, her voice a thread through the wind. “What’s this one worth?”

“Everything—control, a legacy that doesn’t crumble like this sand,” he said, tucking the scarab close, green eyes glinting in the torchlight. “You’re just drawing pictures while time moves on.”

“I’m here—the grit of this dust, the weight of this night, the stories in these stones,” she replied, her sketch sharp, her gaze steady, brown eyes warm against the dark. “You’re running so fast you don’t even feel it.” He leapt, her words a burr in his chest, the scarab a pulse against his ribs.

Venice, 2041. Water claimed the city, lapping stone, algae glowing green in the murk. He landed hard, boots splashing, hunting a chronal core—his last stab at breaking time’s neck. The air hung wet, heavy, the sky bruised purple. Buildings leaned, sinking slow, their reflections trembling. He moved fast, breath sharp, green eyes scanning the flood. She stood on a bridge, weaving a net from salvaged twine, her coat patched, hair damp and clinging to her cheeks. “You,” he said, voice rough, stopping short, watch ticking wild in his fist.

“Always now,” she said, setting her net down, brown eyes meeting his with a spark, her hands steady despite the damp. The bridge groaned, wood creaking under their weight. She reached into her pack, pulled a thin, worn book—its cover stamped with a rune, the same on his watch, faded but sharp. “I found this in Cairo, after you ran with that scarab,” she said, her voice low, rising like a tide. “It’s a tally—every place you’ve hit, every piece you’ve taken, scratched in ink older than me. I’ve been crossing your shadow too long not to see it.”

He stepped closer, breath catching, fingers brushing the book’s edge—leather cracked, pages yellow. “That rune—I lifted it from a Norse ruin in 1120,” he said, voice climbing, green eyes locked on hers, fierce and wide. “It’s on my watch. It’s why I keep crashing into you—some thread we didn’t ask for, pulling us tight.”

Her laugh broke, soft and raw, a sound like wind through dry grass, her hands trembling just a touch. “I traded for this in 1922—a digger said it came from a thief’s wake, someone who moved too fast to catch,” she said, her gaze fierce, warm, pulling him in. “I thought I was just wandering, living my days free and clear. But you’ve been weaving me into your chaos, haven’t you—all this time?”

The bridge shuddered, wood splitting, water surging below. He could leap—grab the core, chase his end, lock time in his grip. But the book’s weight sank deep: every leap he’d made, she’d felt, her life a quiet echo to his storm, her moments stitched to his hunt. He dropped the watch into the flood—a splash, a hush, the rune’s hum fading. “I thought I was running alone, carving my name into the dark,” he said, low, raw, a grin cracking his face, green eyes softening. “Turns out I’ve been chasing you—every damn step.”

She tossed the book after it, pages sinking slow, and stepped to him, boots splashing, her breath fogging fast. “And I thought I was just living my moments, holding them close, free of any pull,” she said, her voice a thread tightening, warm with wonder, brown eyes glinting like embers in the dusk. “But they’ve all been yours too, tied to your fire, echoing back to me.” The bridge buckled, a groan, a snap. They fell—water bit, cold, fierce, alive. He swam, grabbed her, hauled them to a drifting beam, his arm strong around her waist. They clung, soaked, her hand hot in his, breath fogging wild. The core sank with his watch, his meaning drowned in the tide. Her now stretched wide, folding him in—steady, flickering, alive.

They drifted, the city sinking slow around them, algae glowing faint. He laughed, sharp and free, his green eyes catching hers. “No more running,” he said, voice rough, warm, a promise breaking through. “What’s here—what’s now—it’s enough.”

She smiled, her laugh a soft glow, her fingers tightening in his. “It always was,” she said, her voice rolling soft, deep, a flame that wouldn’t fade. “You just didn't have the time to see it.” The water lapped, the night pressed close. His hunt for meaning drowned with the watch; her life in the moment held him fast. Time didn’t flinch—they did, together, alive in the flood, their echoes and embers entwined at last.

Vishal Gupta

26 March 2025

Naya Bharat 8/8 - Vikas in Blunderland

This steamy tumble into chaos is for giggles, not gospel. Any hint of rising tensions, throbbing markets, or unmet sexual desires is accidental. We’re not liable for your fantasies about potholes or power cuts. Satisfaction not guaranteed.

Once upon a time, in the chaotic sprawl of Mumbai – where the trains ran late, the rents ran high, and the dreams ran on fumes – there lived a boy named Vikas. He was a lanky 20-something with a mop of hair that defied gravity and a job at a call center where he convinced irate Americans that rebooting their routers was a spiritual experience. Vikas was, by all accounts, an ordinary chap, except for one thing: his girlfriend, Smriti, was mad at him, and he had no clue why.

It started on a humid Tuesday. Smriti, a fiery graphic designer with a penchant for filter coffee and feminist rants, had been dropping hints thicker than Mumbai’s smog. She’d sigh dramatically over their WhatsApp chats, reply with “K” to his memes, and once, during a date at Marine Drive, muttered, “You just don’t get it, do you?” Vikas, ever the optimist, assumed she was upset about the overpriced vada pav they’d shared. “I’ll get extra chutney next time!” he promised. Smriti’s glare could’ve melted the Gateway of India.

Desperate to fix things, Vikas decided to take a walk to clear his head. He wandered into a narrow gully near Dadar, where the air smelled of fish and unfulfilled promises, and stumbled upon a peculiar sight: a white stray dog with a pocket watch tied to its collar, muttering, “I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date!” Before Vikas could process this, the dog bolted down a manhole. Curiosity – or perhaps a lack of better options – prompted Vikas to follow, and down he tumbled, headfirst, into a doghole of absurdity.

Vikas landed with a thud in Blunderland, a topsy–turvy version of India where the surreal met the satirical. The sky was a smoggy orange, the ground a patchwork of potholes, and the air buzzed with the sound of honking horns and election promises. Vikas dusted off his jeans and gaped as the White Dog scampered off, shouting, “The Queen’s rally waits for no one!”

First, he met the Cheshire Chai–Wallah, a grinning man perched on a floating cart, stirring a vat of tea that never emptied. His smile stretched ear to ear, vanishing and reappearing like a bad Wi–Fi signal. “Mitron! Welcome to Blunderland,” he purred, handing Vikas a chipped glass. “Everything here is brewed: opinions, facts, GDP numbers. Drink?” Vikas sipped the chai – burnt sugar and bureaucracy. “Ye koi chai hai BC?" Vikas wanted to say. But remembering the fate of others who had made such comments, he chose instead to say “Why is Smriti mad at me?” The Chai–Wallah’s grin widened. “Oh, she’ll tell you when the Sensex hits 100,000. Until then, enjoy the ride!” And with that, he dissolved into a cloud of steam.

A loud ding! Vikas’ phone lit up. “Text from Smriti: You’re always late. You don’t even show up!” Vikas sighed. “I just wanted things to calm down first.” “You’re in the wrong country for that,” said the dog.

Vikas trudged on, tripping into a tea party hosted by Bakshesh the auto–wallah, a Marching Bureaucrat, and a sleepy Traffic Cop. The table was a dented autorickshaw hood, piled with stale vada pavs and stacks of dusty files. “Have a seat!” bellowed Bakshesh, revving his engine for emphasis. “We’re celebrating the Un-Birthday of the 5-Trillion Dream!” The Bureaucrat, scribbling on a form titled “Application to Apply,” nodded sagely. “Sign here, pay there, wait forever – it’s progress!” The Traffic Cop snored, a whistle dangling from his lips, waking only to fine Vikas 500 rupees for “imaginary jaywalking.”

“Why is Smriti upset?” Vikas pleaded, dodging a flying samosa. The Auto–Wallah cackled. “Maybe she’s tired of waiting for the bullet train!” The Bureaucrat stamped a rejection on Vikas’s question, muttering, “Not in my jurisdiction.” The Cop fined him again for “excessive curiosity.” Vikas fled, clutching his wallet and his confusion.

Next, he stumbled into a forest of billboards – giant posters proclaiming “New India Rising!” and “Digital Bharat Rocks!” – where a Caterpillar in a khadi kurta smoked a hookah atop a crumbling flyover. “Who are you?” it wheezed, exhaling rings of smog. “I’m Vikas, and I just want to know why Smriti’s mad!” The Caterpillar puffed thoughtfully. “Maybe she’s fed up with inflation eating her dosas, or the ED raiding her feminist book club. Or maybe – she’s just mad. Ask the Queen! She's good with this sort-of stuff.” And with a cough, it vanished into the haze.

The Queen of Blunderland ruled from a gaudy throne in a palace of red tape, surrounded by a court of yes-men and a pack of playing cards painted with party logos. She was a towering figure in a saree of gold lamé, her crown a jumble of satellite dishes and broken promises. Some had argued that she was not the ideal ruler for Blunderland, but it always came back with the quick rebuttal, “if not she then who?”

The White Dog knelt at her feet, panting, “The rally’s ready, Your Majesty!” Vikas, dragged before her by card–guards wielding batons, bowed awkwardly.

“Why is Smriti upset with me?” he asked, trembling. The Queen’s eyes narrowed. “Silence! In Blunderland, we don’t ask why –  we clap! She’s upset because… reasons! Maybe the onions cost more than your salary, or the markets crashed again, or the neighbors won’t stop fighting over whose God’s louder. Or maybe – ” she leaned closer, whispering – “it’s because you don’t come when she needs you to!” The court gasped, then applauded furiously, drowning out Vikas’s “Huh?”

“Off with his head!” the Queen shrieked, but the cards fumbled, arguing over whose turn it was to swing the axe. “Form a committee!” one shouted. “File an FIR!” cried another. In the chaos, Vikas bolted, chased by a mob of slogans – “Bharat Mata Ki Jai!” “Acche Din!” – and a stray cow wielding a selfie stick.

He ran through a maze of GST forms, dodging tax notices and communal pamphlet wars, until he crashed into a croquet match where flamingos were mallets and hedgehogs were balls. The players – saffron–clad Hooligans and blue–turbaned Reformers – bickered over rules while the hedgehogs rolled away, muttering about secularism. “Smriti’s mad because you’re clueless!” a flamingo squawked. “Or because the Wi–Fi’s down!” added a hedgehog. Vikas ducked a flying wicket and kept running.

At last, he reached a courtroom where the Queen presided over a trial. The accused? A sheepish Wolf from Gaonpur, muttering, “I only ate the sheep because the boy didn’t cry properly!” The jury – a mix of Twitter trolls and WhatsApp uncles – shouted verdicts like “Fake news!” and “Anti–national!” Vikas, shoved into the witness box, pleaded, “Just tell me why Smriti is upset!” The Queen slammed her gavel – a cracked mobile phone – and roared, “She’s upset because Blunderland’s a mess, and you’re too busy chasing dogs to notice! Case dismissed!”

Before the cards could grab him, Vikas spotted a tiny door marked “Exit.” He shrank – thanks to a dubious laddoo labeled “Eat Me* (Terms and Conditions Apply)” – and squeezed through, tumbling back into the Mumbai gully. The White Dog waved from the manhole, barking, “Next time, bring cash!” Vikas staggered home, head spinning with flamingos, chai, and Queenly rants.

That night, Smriti called. “You’re late,” she snapped. Vikas, still dazed, stammered, “I fell into Blunderland trying to figure out why you’re mad!” She sighed, softer now. “You still don’t get it, do you?” He pictured the Queen’s whisper – “You don’t come when she needs you!” – and ventured, “Is it… because I don’t show up on time?” Priya laughed, a rare sound. “Close enough. Next time, just ask. And bring protection.”

And so, Vikas learned a Blunderland truth: Smriti’s anger was a riddle wrapped in a stale dosa, and all he needed was to see it – really see it – amid the potholes, promises, and pandemonium of their world. Blunderland faded like a bad signal, but the lesson lingered: in a land of chaos, Vikas just needed to come. Not answers. Just presence. And maybe extra chutney.

Naya Bharat 7/8 - Old Supremo had a Land

For Democracy–
My love for you shall live forever.
You, however, did not.

 

Old Supremo had a land,

Aiya-aiya-ho!

He took his plane, and waved his hand,

Aiya-aiya-ho!

With a court case here, a blind eye there,

Here a gag, there a drag,

Everywhere saffron flag–

Old Supremo had a land,

Aiya-aiya-no!

 

A joke was made, a court was red,

Aiya-aiya-ho!

And justice groaned, then softly bled,

Aiya-aiya-ho!

With a shaming here, and a scolding there,

Here a fine, there a whine,

Everywhere, moral line–

Old Supremo had a land,

Aiya-aiya-no!

 

A leader spoke, the cops did come,

Aiya-aiya-ho!

They picked him up, and jailed his bum,

Aiya-aiya-ho!

With a warrant here, a scandal there,

Here a raid, there a fade,

Everywhere a case was made–

Old Supremo had a land,

Aiya-aiya-no!

 

The stocks did drop, the wallets thinned,

Aiya-aiya-ho!

But in this land, it was no sin,

Aiya-aiya-ho!

With a “profit booked,” a “world effect,”

Here a spin, there a grin,

Everywhere a story thin–

Old Supremo had a land,

Aiya-aiya-no!

 

The numbers shrank, the debt did rake,

Aiya-aiya-ho!

And in this land, the math was fake,

Aiya-aiya-ho!

With a cut right here, a slip right there,

Here blame, there claim,

Everywhere, same old game–

Old Supremo had a land,

Aiya-aiya-no!

 

A virus spread, the world shut down,

Aiya-aiya-ho!

But in this land, the faith was sound,

Aiya-aiya-ho!

With a bath right here, no mask there,

Here dip, there trip,

Everywhere a blame did slip–

Old Supremo had a land,

Aiya-aiya-no!

 

The rupee fell, they blamed the Fed,

Aiya-aiya-ho!

And in this land, the spin was spread,

Aiya-aiya-ho!

With a “strong at heart,” a “global tide,”

Here a slip, there a dip,

Everywhere a sinking ship–

Old Supremo had a land,

Aiya-aiya-no!

 

They launched a plan to unify tax

Aiya-aiya-ho!

It broke the backs of little shacks

Aiya-aiya-ho!

With a slab right here, a fine right there,

Here glitch, there switch,

Everywhere a trader ditched–

Old Supremo had a land,

Aiya-aiya-no!

 

A judge was picked, the rules were bent,

Aiya-aiya-ho!

And in this land, the call was sent,

Aiya-aiya-ho!

With a nudge right here, a nod right there,

Here call, there stall,

Everywhere a judgment tall–

Old Supremo had a land,

Aiya-aiya-no!

 

A ban was made, the cash ran dry,

Aiya-aiya-ho!

And in this land, the queues ran high,

Aiya-aiya-ho!

With a swap right here, a scam right there,

Here hoard, there board,

Everywhere the rich restored–

Old Supremo had a land,

Aiya-aiya-no!

 

A deal was made, the files got lost,

Aiya-aiya-ho!

And in this land, the bribes got tossed,

Aiya-aiya-ho!

With a cut right here, a leak right there,

Here name, there game,

Everywhere it’s all the same–

Old Supreme had a land,

Aiya-aiya-no!

 

The King still marched, his chest was wide,

Aiya-aiya-ho!

And in this land, the truth had died,

Aiya-aiya-ho!

With a robe so bright, a lie so tight,

Here boast, there toast,

Everywhere a silent ghost–

Old Supremo had a land,

Ai-ai-yo!

Naya Bharat 6/8 - The King is Naked... or are We?

This story is not intended to be a commentary on current events, inflation, or drone surveillance. If you see a naked king, kindly bang your plates and move along.

Once upon a time, in the glittering kingdom of New Bharat – a land of soaring ambitions and crumbling realities – there ruled a King. He was a man of grand proclamations, his voice booming across the airwaves like a monsoon thunderclap, promising a golden age where every citizen would dine on silver plates and ride bullet trains to their chai stalls. His palace, perched atop a hill in the capital of Dilli Nagar, shimmered with LED lights and billboards proclaiming “New Bharat: Shining Bright!” – even as the power grid flickered like a tired butterfly.

The King was obsessed with appearances. His wardrobe was a sprawling maze of silks, satins, and sequins, each outfit more ostentatious than the last. But lately, he’d grown bored of mere fabric. “I need something extraordinary,” he declared one day, stroking his waxed beard. “Something that proves New Bharat is the envy of the world!” Enter two Gujarati tailors – no not the ones you were thinking about. Enter Suresh and Ramesh – two smooth-talking conmen with LinkedIn profiles boasting “Textile Innovators” and “Visionary Disruptors.” They bowed low, their grins revealing stains of 5-Star on their teeth.

“Your Majesty,” Suresh purred, “we’ve woven a robe so magnificent, so cutting-edge, that only the truly enlightened can see it. It’s invisible to fools, skeptics, and those who don’t clap at your speeches.” Ramesh nodded, adding, “It’s made of pure aspiration – light as a startup pitch, strong as a WhatsApp forward. Perfect for New Bharat’s rise!”

The King clapped his hands, delighted. “Brilliant! I’ll wear it at the Grand Progress Parade. Let the world see my greatness!” The tailors pocketed a hefty advance – rumoured to be enough to buy a flat in Gurgaon – or an island in Dubai – and set to work, pretending to stitch air with imaginary needles. The court buzzed with excitement, though some whispered doubts behind their chai cups. “Invisible robes?” muttered a clerk. “Sounds like my last increment.”

The day of the parade arrived, a sweltering afternoon where the sun baked Dilli Nagar like a tandoori naan. The streets thronged with citizens – auto drivers, IT workers, aunties with shopping bags – all waving saffron flags for some reason. The King emerged from his palace, strutting down the avenue in what he believed was the finest robe ever crafted. In truth, he wore nothing but his royal undergarments – a faded pair of baniyan and chaddi, the elastic sagging from years of pompous feasts.

His ministers, advisors, and PR team trailed behind, clapping furiously. “What a vision!” cried the Finance Vizier, wiping sweat from her brow as she ignored the plummeting stock tickers on her phone. “Such elegance!” cooed the Culture Mantri, adjusting his saffron shawl while sidestepping a heated argument about whose festival was louder. “A masterpiece!” cheered the Commerce Secretary, pretending not to notice the shopkeepers grumbling about unsold inventory and rising flour prices.

The crowd joined the chorus, partly out of habit, partly because the king’s new surveillance drones hovered overhead, their cameras glinting ominously. “So modern!” they shouted. “So prosperous!” Never mind the potholes swallowing scooters, the vegetable carts charging gold for onions, or the headlines about raided journalists and tax notices to outspoken writers. New Bharat was shining, wasn’t it? The billboards said so.

But not everyone was convinced. At the edge of the parade, perched on a crumbling wall near a flyover under construction since 2012, sat Humpu Pappu. Yes, that Humpu Pappu – an egg-shaped fellow with a cracked grin and a penchant for mischief. He wasn’t a local; he’d stumbled into politics like a philosophy student into a bodybuilding competition – with good intentions, bad timing, and a backpack full of inherited slogans. Now, he watched the king’s procession with a raised eyebrow.

Humpu squinted, rubbed his shell, and squinted again. “Hang on a tick,” he muttered, loud enough for the nearby paan-wallah to perk up. “That King’s got no clothes on! He’s strutting about in his skivvies!” His voice, high and wobbly like a badly tuned sitar, cut through the applause. A gasp rippled through the crowd, followed by a nervous titter. The paan-wallah spat red juice and whispered, “He’s right, yaar, but shh – don’t say it!”

The King froze mid-strut, his beard quivering. “Who dares?” he bellowed, spinning toward the wall. His guards – burly men in airy khaki with batons and aviators – zeroed in on Humpu. “That egg!” the King roared. “He’s spreading misinformation! Off with him!” Before Humpu could protest, the guards yanked him off the wall. With a dramatic shove, they sent him tumbling to the cracked pavement below, where he shattered into a dozen yolky pieces. The crowd winced, then clapped – because clapping was safer than thinking.

But the King wasn’t done. He saw an opportunity to turn disaster into spectacle. “Behold!” he cried, raising his arms (and revealing more of his baniyan). “This insolent egg dared to question my grandeur, but I am a merciful king! I shall mend him!” He snapped his fingers, summoning all his horses and men – though in New Bharat, this meant a ragtag crew of overworked constables, a few swayamsevaks on scooters, and a retired cavalry horse who’d seen better days.

The repair effort was a circus. The constables bickered over jurisdiction – “This is an ED case!” “No, CBI!” – while the swayamsevaks chanted slogans about unity and glued Humpu’s shell with fevicol. The horse, unimpressed, nibbled on a nearby poster promising “5 Trillion Economy Soon!” A TV crew arrived, beaming the fiasco live: “King’s Compassion Shines as Egg Gets VIP Treatment!” The ticker scrolled with unrelated boasts – new highways, space missions, yoga records – while the anchors debated whether Humpu was a foreign agent or just jealous.

Hours passed. The glue dried unevenly, leaving Humpu a lumpy, off-kilter mess. “Good as new!” declared the king, though Humpu’s left eye now faced backward. The crowd cheered again, less out of conviction and more because the drones were still watching. “See?” The King beamed, adjusting his non-existent robe. “New Bharat fixes all! No problem too big, no critic too loud!” He marched on, leaving Humpu propped against the wall like a cautionary tale with a bad haircut.

The tailors, Suresh and Ramesh, had long vanished – rumor had it they’d opened a “luxury AC” startup in London. The ministers resumed their praise, louder now to drown out the memory of Humpu’s words. “Such leadership!” “Such resilience!” The citizens nodded along, clutching their overpriced tomatoes and dodging tax notices, because what else could they do? The King was clothed in glory, wasn’t he? The parade said so.

Yet, as night fell over Dilli Nagar, a quiet unease lingered. The paan-wallah whispered to his wife, “That Humpu wasn’t wrong, you know.” A student doodled a naked king on her notebook, then erased it quick. An auto driver, stuck in traffic, muttered, “All I want is someone else to say it too – that he’s got nothing on. Just so I know I’m not mad.”

And there it was, the unfairy truth of New Bharat: the king was bare, his splendor a sham woven from hype and denial. The markets wobbled, the prices soared, the agencies prowled, and the chants grew shriller, but nobody dared cry “Naked!” again – not after Humpu. They clapped instead, hoping the noise would hide the cracks, praying someone else would see what they saw, so they wouldn’t feel so alone in the silence.

As for the King, he strutted back to his palace, ordering a new invisible crown to match his robe. The constables and swayamsevaks dispersed, the horse ate another poster, and Humpu – poor, patched-up Humpu – sat on his wall, dreaming of a day when the kingdom might laugh at itself, just once, and admit the obvious. But in New Bharat, that day was as distant as a punctual metro or a cheap kilo of dal. And so, the parade rolled on – glitzy, loud, and stark naked – while the people watched, and waited, and wondered.

Naya Bharat 5/8 - The Committee that Cried Wolf

This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any real IAS officers, corrupt shepherds, or wolves is purely coincidental.

Once upon a time, in a dusty village on the outskirts of Bihar – let’s call it Gaonpur, because every satire needs a generic yet plausible name – there lived a boy named Bunty. Bunty wasn’t just any boy; he was the son of Shri Vikram Singh Yadav, a mid-tier IAS officer who’d spent his career perfecting the art of sanctioned corruption while maintaining a spotless cream kurta. Gaonpur was a place where the cows outnumbered the people, the people outnumbered the jobs, and the red tape outnumbered everything else.

Bunty’s job was simple: watch the village’s flock of sheep and yell “Wolf!” if a predator came sniffing around. The villagers had devised this system after losing half their livestock in 2022 to a particularly crafty jackal who kept changing political alliances skins.

“We need a reliable alarm!” the people of Gaonpur had declared, pooling their meagre savings to hire a shepherd boy. Bunty got the gig – not because he was qualified (he once lost a goat to a nap-induced oversight), but because his father’s signature graced every land deed and ration card in Gaonpur. Nepotism, after all, was the village’s unofficial currency.

Bunty took to the role with the enthusiasm of a government clerk on a Monday morning. He’d lounge on a charpoy under a peepal tree, scrolling Instagram on his father’s old iPhone, occasionally glancing at the sheep grazing in the patchy fields. The flock was Gaonpur’s pride – 200 woolly beasts that fuelled their dreams of a cooperative wool empire. But Bunty had other priorities. “Oi, Ramesh bhai,” he’d call to a passing farmer, “slip me 50 rupees, and I’ll make sure the wolf stays away today.” Ramesh, grumbling about inflation, would comply, because who wants to risk an IAS officer’s wrath?

The first time Bunty cried “Wolf!” was on a Tuesday, mid-afternoon, when the sun was frying the earth like a roadside omelette. “Wolf! Wolf!” he shrieked. The villagers dropped their sickles, chai cups, and dignity, sprinting to the field with sticks and stones. They found Bunty pointing at… a stray dog chewing on a discarded roti. “Mock drill, heh,” Bunty grinned, pocketing the 100-rupee note he’d just extorted from a panicked shepherd. The villagers muttered but returned to their chores. After all, he was Vikram Singh Yadav’s son. What could they do?

The second time came a week later. “Wolf! Wolf!” Bunty hollered, this time waving his arms like a Bollywood hero in a rain song. The villagers, slower to react but still dutiful, trudged out again. This time, it was a cow with a limp, looking mildly offended by the accusation. “Close enough,” Bunty shrugged, counting the 200 rupees he’d collected from three gullible aunties who’d rushed over with rolling pins. The grumbling grew louder, but nobody dared confront the boy. “His father controls the water pump permits,” they whispered. “Better safe than thirsty.”

The third time, Bunty didn’t even bother with creativity. “Wolf! Wolf!” he yelled, barely looking up from a TikTok dance tutorial. The villagers peeked out of their homes, saw him lounging with a lassi, and went back to their soaps. “Fool us thrice, shame on us,” said old Lallan Chacha, who’d once lost a toe to a real jackal and considered himself the village’s resident cynic. “That boy’s a walking scam, but what can we do? His papa’s got the stamp.”

Here’s where the tale takes its unfortunate twist. The villagers, fed up with Bunty’s false alarms, didn’t sack him. No, that would’ve been too logical, too efficient, too… un-Indian. Instead, they formed a committee. The Gaonpur Observance Board Against Ruckus (GOBAR) was born in a haze of chai fumes and self-importance, chaired by Lallan Chacha because he owned the loudest voice and the only functional chair. “We’ll investigate the boy’s reliability,” Lallan declared, banging a ladle on a tin plate. “No hasty decisions! Process is king!”

GOBAR met thrice weekly under the peepal tree, debating Bunty’s performance with the intensity of a Lok Sabha session. “He’s young, give him time!” argued Shanti Devi, who secretly hoped Bunty would marry her daughter. “He’s a crook!” countered Ramesh, still sore about the 50 rupees. Minutes were scribbled on the back of a fertilizer bill, and sub-committees sprouted like weeds: the Wolf Observation and Logging Forum, the Surveillance of Human Errors and Egregious Practices, and the Rural Untruths and Fabrications Forum. Each meeting ended with a resolution to form another meeting, and the sheep grazed on, oblivious.

Meanwhile, Bunty upped his game. He started charging “protection fees” per sheep – 10 rupees a head, or 20 if you wanted “premium wolf defense”. The villagers paid, because refusing meant risking a surprise visit from Vikram Singh Yadav’s peon, who had once “inspected” a dissenter’s house until it mysteriously lost its electricity connection. Bunty’s wallet fattened, his charpoy got a cushion, and the wolf – yes, a real one this time – watched from the bushes, licking its chops.

The wolf struck on a moonless night, while GOBAR was deep in its 17th meeting, debating whether to allocate funds for a “Bunty Motivation Workshop.” Bunty, half-asleep and dreaming of a new i-phone, didn’t notice the shadow slinking toward the flock. When he finally did, he leapt up, screaming, “Wolf! Wolf! For real this time!” His voice cracked with genuine panic, but the village was silent. Lallan Chacha snorted from his chair. “Another scam,” he muttered. Shanti Devi turned up her TV. Ramesh locked his door, muttering about karma.

The wolf, unburdened by bureaucracy, had a field day. It ate sheep like a politician eats promises – methodically, voraciously, and with zero remorse. By morning, Gaonpur’s flock was down to three bleating survivors, hiding behind the optimism of the villagers. Bunty stood amid the carnage, still clutching his phone, looking less like a shepherd and more like a start-up founder who’d just tanked his Series A funding.

The villagers emerged at dawn, bleary-eyed and furious, only to find the GOBAR already reconvening. “We need an inquiry!” Lallan Chacha bellowed, waving a stick. “Who’s to blame? The boy? The wolf? The system?” A new committee – the Sheep Loss Accountability Panel – was formed on the spot, with a mandate to report findings by next monsoon. Sub-committees multiplied: one to count the carcasses, another to draft a condolence letter to the sheep, and a third to investigate whether the wolf was an infiltrate from Bangladesh.

Bunty, unscathed, sauntered off to his father’s office in the district headquarters, where Vikram Singh Yadav was busy signing off on a flyover that would never be built. “Papa, the sheep are gone,” Bunty whined. Vikram didn’t look up from his files. “Good. Now we can sell the land to a builder. Say it was a wolf attack – force majeure, no liability.” Bunty grinned, already mentally upgrading to a OnePlus.

The villagers, meanwhile, mourned their losses but not their choices. “We should’ve replaced him,” Ramesh sighed, kicking a pebble. “Too late now,” Shanti Devi replied, adjusting her dupatta. “Committees take time.” Lallan Chacha nodded sagely. “Process is process. At least we have minutes to show the tehsildar.”

And so, Gaonpur’s sheep empire crumbled, devoured by a wolf and digested by red tape. The wolf moved on to richer pastures, Bunty got his new phone, and the villagers got a 47-page SLAP report concluding that concluded: “further investigation is required.” The moral? In a land where alarms are ignored and committees reign supreme, the only winners are the wolves – and the ones who bribe them.

As for Gaonpur, it carried on, holding meetings about meetings, dreaming of sheep that no longer grazed, and wondering why replacing one boy was harder than rebuilding a nation – one chai at a time.

Naya Bharat 4/8 - Four Blind Men, the Elephant, and Internet

No elephants were misrepresented in the writing of this piece. Truth is subjective and beauty lies in the eyes of the beer holder. The content here reflects the internet’s chaos. Accuracy is not guaranteed. Any resemblance to X posts, WhatsApp forwards, or troll wars is inevitable. We’re not liable for your echo chamber. Scroll at your own risk.

Once upon a time, in a land where logic went to retire, four blind men were led to an elephant. No one knows exactly why. Some say it was an ancient wisdom test. Others believe it was a prank gone too far. But the most reliable source, the palace janitor, claimed that the public needed a distraction from an ongoing scandal about funnelling taxpayers’ money in a dubious “King’s Care” fund.

The four men had no sight, but what they lacked in optics they made up for in confidence. "Describe what you feel," said the royal scholar, who had the weary expression of a man who had explained the same thing too many times and had long given up on expecting a sensible answer.

The first blind man reached out and touched the elephant’s side. His fingers ran across the vast, sturdy surface. His face lit up.

"This," he declared, "is obviously a wall!"

"A wall?" asked the second man.

"Yes! A grand, immovable wall! Likely built to keep enemies out! Or maybe to divide people! Or perhaps to keep out misinformation! Or immigrants! Or Trojan viruses."

Nobody knew what he meant by misinformation, but the scholar quickly realized this man had been spending too much time on Twitter, which mostly consisted of people yelling about walls.

"I shall call for reinforcements to protect this wall!" the man continued. "We must guard it!"

He pulled out his phone (yes, blind men in this kingdom had phones, don’t question it) and started a group chat titled “Watchers on the Wall”. Within minutes, thousands of people joined, none of whom had ever seen the elephant. They were, however, very passionate about defending the wall.

 The second blind man reached out and grabbed the elephant’s trunk. It wriggled slightly in his hands. He gasped.

"This is no wall!" he cried. "This is a snake!"

"A snake?"

"Yes! And not just any snake. A giant, powerful snake that has infiltrated our land, disguised as an elephant! A deception so massive, so insidious, that only a few enlightened souls can see the truth!"

"But what about the tusks?" asked the scholar.

"Obviously fake. CGI, perhaps. Meant to keep us blind to the real danger!"

Within minutes, this man had started a deep-dive investigative thread on Reddit, where people discussed conspiracies about lizard kings and how pigeons were government spies. His post was shared millions of times, and soon, thousands of people, none of whom had ever seen the elephant, or any elephant, were absolutely convinced that elephants were, in fact, snakes in disguise. The Ministry of Culture flagged it as a threat, then quietly reshared it from an anonymous burner account.

 The third blind man reached out and grasped one of the elephant’s legs. He patted it, nodding wisely.

"You are both wrong," he said. "This is clearly a tree. A mighty, wise tree. The tree of life. The tree of wisdom. A symbol of strength and growth!"

The first two men scoffed, but the third man had already pulled out his phone and was recording a motivational reel.

"In life, we must be like this tree," he preached. "Strong. Rooted. Unshaken by the winds of doubt. If you believe in yourself, you can grow as mighty as this elephant-tree!"

Within seconds, the video had gone viral. People, again none of whom had ever seen an elephant, began writing inspirational posts about how they, too, were strong trees. Merchandise was launched. T-shirts with “Be the Elephant Tree” were sold. A self-help book titled “Grow Like an Elephant: 10 Steps to Unshakable Success” was released, instantly hitting bestseller lists.

Nobody knew what it meant. But it felt meaningful, which was enough.

 The fourth blind man, who was easily the happiest of the group, grabbed the elephant’s ear. He gave it a delighted pat.

"Oh my goodness," he whispered. "It’s a giant, fluffy dog!"

The scholar put his head in his hands.

"A dog?"

"Yes! A big, adorable, floppy-eared dog! And look, it wags its tail! Who’s a good boy? Who’s a big, good boy?"

The elephant, who had been putting up with this nonsense quietly until now, flapped its ears. The man squealed with joy.

"This is the best dog I have ever touched!" he shouted, pulling out his phone to take a selfie with the elephant’s ear. "I must share this with my followers!"

 And just like that, Instagram exploded. Pictures of the "giant dog" spread like wildfire. Soon, people, of course none of whom had ever seen an elephant, were convinced that elephants were, in fact, just very large golden retrievers.

 Within hours, the kingdom was in chaos.

The Wall Defenders demanded that the government protect the sacred elephant-wall from foreign threats.

The Snake Truthers accused the palace of hiding the fact that elephants were just snakes wearing disguises.

The Motivational Gurus started charging people for exclusive Elephant Tree Growth Seminars.

The Cute Dog Fans began campaigning to have elephants recognized as "the bestest boys in the world," demanding funding for oversized chew toys.

The actual elephant, meanwhile, stood there, questioning the choices it had made in life that led it to this moment.

 Meanwhile, an activist, or an influencer, it was difficult to say, upon seeing the chaos, sighed and addressed his people:

"You have the power to access all the knowledge in the world," he said. "Yet you choose only to believe what confirms your existing opinions. You argue not to understand, but to be right. You are blind not because you cannot see, but because you refuse to look beyond your own perspective."

The people nodded.

Then another activist shouted, "THE KING IS HIDING THE REAL ELEPHANT FROM US!"

The chaos resumed.

And the elephant, in an act of deep philosophical despair, packed its bags and left for a quieter kingdom where nobody wanted to know what an elephant was.

Naya Bharat 3/8 - 3 Little Pigs and Affordable Housing

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to reality is to be blamed on the results of the last elections. Readers prone to home loan anxiety, parental pressure, or dreams of affordable housing are advised to proceed with caution – and possibly therapy.

Once upon a time, in a world where financial security was an elaborate myth and the cost of living multiplied faster than mice on espresso, there lived three little pigs. These were not your typical pigs who rolled in the mud carefree. Instead, these pigs were modern, hardworking citizens desperately trying to find affordable housing in an economy where even a cardboard box in a decent neighbourhood cost more than their annual salaries combined.

The first pig, let’s call him Moosa, was what financial experts refer to as "optimistic but deeply misinformed." He had spent the bulk of his savings on avocado toast and online subscription services he had forgotten to cancel. When the time came to purchase property, he was left with very few options: a straw house, or moving back in with his parents. He chose the former because he was a modern pig who believed in independence, even if it meant sleeping in something that could be legally classified as a decorative hay bale.

Moosa's house was…not great. It had no insulation, no structural integrity, and when the wind blew too hard, the walls swayed in a way that would make any engineer sob. But Moosa consoled himself with the idea that he was now a "homeowner," even if his "home" technically belonged to whatever cow wandered by and decided to eat the living room wall. But he could walk to the metro, he liked the local momo guy, and his landlord only increased the rent by 18% a year. It was fine. He had a mattress on the floor and ambition in the sky.

The second pig, Danda, was slightly more financially responsible. He had read an article online about the importance of homeownership and decided that straw was too risky, but bricks were too expensive. So, he settled for sticks, which was the perfect compromise between affordability and imminent collapse.

Danda took out a loan with a suspiciously high-interest rate, as advised by his friendly neighborhood bank (which, coincidentally, was also in the business of foreclosing on stick houses). His house had walls that could technically be classified as "wooden panels held together by sheer willpower," and he had a door that could be locked—but only if you didn’t breathe too hard near the hinges. He called it "cozy." His financial advisor called it "a terrible investment."

The third pig, Roda, believed in long-term investments and financial stability, which is why he took out a 30-year mortgage at an interest rate that made him feel slightly nauseous. His brick house was sturdy, reliable, and would likely still be standing long after the sun exploded—but at the cost of crippling debt, a diet consisting mainly of instant noodles, and working three jobs just to afford the property taxes.

Roda’s house had functioning plumbing, a fireplace, and walls that didn’t sway when someone sneezed, which put him far ahead of his brothers in terms of housing security. However, every night he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering if he'd made a huge mistake by purchasing something that required paying a lifetime of interest to people who already had too much money.

Now, as these three pigs were settling into their wildly different housing situations, along came The Big Bad Wolf.

However, it is important to note that "Big Bad" was more of a marketing exaggeration than a factual description. His reputation had taken a serious hit since the whole incident with Little Red Riding Hood. The wolf was now working as an urban planner and housing consultant who had been trying to warn the pigs about structural instability, unsustainable mortgages, and reckless spending. Unfortunately, he had severe asthma (probably acquired since “mingling” with the grandmother) which made it difficult to talk without wheezing dramatically, leading to a series of misunderstandings that would later become the foundation for an inaccurate fable.

When the wolf arrived at Moosa’s straw house, he didn’t "huff and puff" in a fit of rage. He simply coughed—because the air quality was terrible—and the house immediately collapsed.

Moosa, who had just spent an obscene amount of money on an artisanal oat milk subscription, barely had time to react before his home was reclassified as "lawn debris". The wolf, concerned, tried to offer advice on sustainable homebuilding, but Moosa had already run off to Danda’s stick house, screaming about "economic sabotage."

At Danda’s house, the wolf attempted to knock politely, but due to a combination of faulty construction and mild weather conditions, the entire structure collapsed before he even made contact with the door. This was deeply embarrassing for Danda, who had spent the past week bragging about how his house was "basically indestructible."

As Danda and Moosa stood in the wreckage of what used to be a house but now resembled an abandoned beaver project, the wolf tried, once again, to explain the importance of financial literacy, sustainable materials, and the dangers of predatory lending. However, the pigs were too busy blaming him for "attacking their economic freedom" to listen.

So, naturally, they ran off to Roda’s brick house, convinced that the wolf was some kind of anarchist trying to overthrow the housing market.

Upon reaching Roda’s house, the pigs bolted inside and locked the door, ignoring the fact that Roda looked mildly irritated to suddenly have two homeless siblings crashing on his couch.

The wolf, now thoroughly exhausted, stood outside and called out, “I am literally just trying to help you.”

The pigs refused to believe him. "Go away! We worked hard for this!"

"Did you, though?" the wolf sighed. "Moosa, your house fell apart because you spent your savings on avocado toast. Danda, your house collapsed because you took out a terrible loan on a structure made of twigs. Roda, you’re drowning in a mortgage so bad that in three years, you’ll be renting out your own kitchen to afford the interest payments."

Roda stiffened. "That’s…none of your business."

"Fine," said the wolf, rubbing his temples. "But don’t say I didn’t warn you when the next economic downturn happens."

And with that, he left.

Over time, Moosa took out another ill-advised loan to build yet another cheaply made house, which also collapsed in a mild breeze. Danda moved into Roda’s guest room, bringing half of his stick-based wreckage with him. Roda, now supporting two freeloading brothers, eventually had to refinance his mortgage, leading to further financial distress.

As for the wolf? Well, he moved to a different neighborhood, where people actually listened to economic advice. And he lived happily ever after. Unlike the pigs.

Naya Bharat 2/8 - The Hare vs. the Turtle (vs. Pollution)

Disclaimer: No Hares or Tortoises were harmed during the writing of this story. Or maybe they were harmed. Who knows? We were busy writing.

 

It started one Monday, like all disasters do. The urban jungle had woken up to yet another Air Quality Index of “Are you kidding me?” The birds were coughing through their beaks. The bees were packing the hive. And the frogs were holding a referendum on emigration. The air was as thick as lies; and purifiers weren’t helping.

 

In the jungle lived a Hare that could run faster than logic on a WhatsApp forward; and a Tortoise who moved with the gentle grace of government paperwork. The Hare was lean, toned, and wore knockoff Playboy shoes made from the recycled guilt of urban vegans. He was the kind of creature who referred to breathing as “oxygenating”, eating as “fuelling”, and anything delicious as “carbs”. His fur was perpetually tousled, not from wind but from the sheer velocity of his own narcissism.

 

The Tortoise, on the other hand, was… slow. He carried a large backpack the size of a small ration shop stuffed with what he called “essentials for survival.” These included a battered thermos flask, a pack of Parle-G biscuits, and most crucially – an N-95 mask, which he treated with the reverence one might reserve for a family heirloom, or a packet of cocaine. The Tortoise was not fast, but he was prepared. His shell, already a natural armour, was adorned with stickers that read “Honk OK Please” and “Wait Side” though no one had ever been able to wait that long. He generally referred to the AQI as “severe”. The locals called it “4 pm”. Proud that he didn’t contribute at all to air pollution, he preferred to carry his home wherever he went so he never needed to take an Uber. In fact, he hadn’t even farted since 1984.

 

And so it began. It was a sweltering summer day. The papers reported that it was the hottest summer of the century. The Tortoise simply said “I’ve heard that before.” There was a haze of burnt leaves, burnt crops, and burnt hopes in the air. Visibility was low. Morality was lower. The Hare challenged the Tortoise for a race through the jungle. The Tortoise initially refused. He had given up racing since the whole incident with Zeno where he was blamed for messing up Achilles’ heel.

 

 

But someone important-looking overheard them – possibly a municipal officer, possibly a brand ambassador for ‘Breathe Bharat’ – and decided that a public race would be just the thing to boost civic morale. And so the race was declared. Posters were printed. At least six trees were cut down to make them. The prize? A lifetime supply of filtered water and a ridiculously overpriced apartment in Gurugram, which everyone knew was a scam but pretended to covet anyway.

 

So the race was set. The track wound through the jungle that had been molested by development. The starting point was a mall. The finish line was another mall. Neither was visible through the thick haze. In between, there were broken roads, a metro construction project, and areas marked as "green zones" which meant they had at least one potted plant.

 

“Ready, steady, choke!” shouted the unofficial referee, a street dog who promptly scampered off to chase a discarded samosa. And with that, the race began.

 

The Hare, fuelled by protein powder and his father’s unmet expectations, dashed off like ambition at a college reunion. “See you at the finish line, backpack boy!” he yelled over his shoulder as he zig-zagged around potholes, leapt over plastic bags, and overtook three fitness influencers shooting a reel titled “cardio is casteist”. The air was a thick soup of dust, diesel fumes, and the faint regret of a million morning commutes. The Hare didn’t care. He huffed and puffed, sucking in the atmosphere like it was a power-up in a video game. “Speed is life!” he declared, vaulting over a pile of garbage that might have once been a mattress.

 

Meanwhile the Tortoise moved like climate change – slow, deliberate, and likely to be dismissed. He adjusted his backpack straps, muttered something about “sustainable living,” and pulled out his N-95 mask. With the solemnity of a priest performing a ritual, he strapped it over his snout, the elastic snapping into place with a satisfying thwack. He trudged forward, slowly, past choking rivers and concrete jungles. On his way he found a signboard that said “plant a tree today” next to a bulldozer. A child tried to sell him a packet of incense sticks for “purification”.

 

The first kilometer was a disaster for the Hare. He zipped past a traffic jam so dense it resembled a modern art installation titled “Despair in Three Lanes.” Horns blared in a symphony of rage, and a truck driver leaned out to yell, “Oye, Usain Bolt ki Aulad! Jaanta hai mera Baap kaun hai?” The Hare ignored him, sucking in a lungful of exhaust as he darted between a bus and a cow that had decided the middle of the road was a fine place to relieve itself. His chest heaved, his Ray-Bans fogged up, and a faint wheeze crept into his breathing. “Just allergies,” he muttered, spitting out a gob of paan-stained phlegm that landed perilously close to a street vendor’s pile of roasted corn.

 

By kilometer three, the Hare’s bravado was unravelling. The pollution had thickened into a gray curtain, and his lungs felt like they were auditioning for a role in a horror movie. He coughed — a wet, rattling sound — and stumbled into a crowd of office-goers shoving their way toward a Metro station. “Move, move, I’m in a race!” he shouted, only to be elbowed in the ribs by a man carrying a briefcase and a grudge. The Hare’s pace slowed. His eyes watered. His Ray-Bans slipped down his nose, revealing bloodshot eyes that screamed for mercy. “This air,” he gasped, “is a conspiracy by the Tortoises to win!”

 

The Tortoise, now a full kilometer behind, was having a different experience. His N-95 mask filtered out the worst of the filth, and his backpack bobbed rhythmically as he navigated the chaos. He passed a group of schoolchildren wearing masks that matched their navy blue uniforms, with a logo that said “Study Hard, Breathe Harder” One of them waved at him. “Go, Tortoise Uncle!” she cheered. The Tortoise nodded gravely. “Thank you, small citizen,” he replied. “May your lungs outlast your textbooks.”

 

At kilometer five, the Hare hit a wall – figuratively and then literally. The figurative wall was his collapsing respiratory system; the literal one was a billboard advertising for luxury flats in Noida. He’d been weaving through a snarl of traffic when a tempo loaded with cement bags swerved, forcing him to leap aside and crash into the sign. He slumped to the ground, coughing so hard his ears flopped like wet laundry. “I’m fine,” he wheezed to a stray dog that had wandered over to investigate. “Totally fine. Winning. Definitely winning.” The dog peed on the billboard and trotted off.

 

The Tortoise, meanwhile, had reached a stretch of road lined with street vendors selling everything from knockoff N-95s to “pollution-proof” herbal teas. One vendor, a wiry man with an abdomen that had a will of its own, called out, “Oye, Tortoise bhai, buy my special chai! Clears the lungs, guaranteed!” The Tortoise paused, considered the offer, then shook his head. “I trust science, not chai,” he said, and kept moving. His backpack jingled faintly – perhaps the Parle-G biscuits were staging a minor rebellion.

 

By kilometer eight, the Hare was a wreck. His lungs sounded like a broken harmonium, and his once-proud sprint had devolved into a staggering limp. The crowds had thickened near Connaugh Place, where hawkers, tourists, and traffic cops jostled in a dance of mutual irritation. A cloud of dust kicked up by a passing bus enveloped him, and he collapsed onto a bench, hacking up something that looked suspiciously like a dung cake. “I should’ve bought a mask,” he croaked, as a pigeon landed nearby and promptly keeled over from the fumes.

 

The Tortoise, now closing the gap, trudged past a protest march – something about stubble burning, or maybe it was about the price of onions; no one could tell through the noise and the haze. His mask was smudged with grime, but his resolve was intact. “Slow and steady,” he muttered, “survives the race.” A traffic cop waved him through an intersection, mistaking him for some kind of eco-activist mascot.

 

At kilometer nine, the Hare made his last stand. He staggered to his feet, determined to reclaim his dignity. He took three steps, inhaled a lungful of what felt like molten tar, and collapsed again, this time into a pile of leaves that had been swept into the gutter by an overzealous municipal worker. His Playboy shoes fell off, revealing eyes that begged for an oxygen tank. “Pollution,” he whispered, “you’ve beaten me.”

 

The Tortoise crossed the finish line at just as the sun dipped below the horizon, turning the smog into a sickly orange glow. A small crowd had gathered – mostly street dogs and a few bored tourists – and they clapped politely as he raised a claw in triumph. The referee dog reappeared, dragging half a chapatti from somewhere. “Winner!” he barked, then wandered off again.

 

The Hare arrived an hour later, carried on a makeshift stretcher by two autorickshaw drivers who’d taken pity on him. His fur was gray with dust, his lungs were a symphony of despair, and his ego was in tatters. “I demand a rematch,” he croaked. “On a treadmill. Indoors. With an air purifier.”

 

The Tortoise, sipping from his steel bottle, looked at him with pity. “Speed is a delusion,” he said, “when the air itself is your enemy.” He offered the Hare a spare N-95 mask from his backpack. The Hare took it, too broken to argue.

 

And so, the tale of the Hare and the Tortoise became legend, whispered between sips of chai and honks of traffic. It was said that the Hare founded a start-up called “HareCare” that provided oxygen as a service. Meanwhile, the Tortoise was last seen trudging towards his new apartment that had once been a landfill, now renamed “Eco Heights”.

Naya Bharat 1/8 - Tinderella and the Fairy God-Tai

Once upon a time, in a land far-far away – because modern public discourse requires that we avoid talking of here and now – there was a crumbling haveli inherited in alimony from a disgruntled husband. There lived Tinderella. CA Tinderella as per her Facebook profile. She spent her days drowning in an ocean of paperwork and swiping left on a multitude of dating apps. Her stepmother, a beady-eyed woman named G. Esti Devi, and her two stepsisters, Formika and Redtapia, had turned her life into a nightmare of compliance forms and tax audits. “File INC-28!” G. Esti Devi would shriek whenever a guest would visit, “and make a disclosure in the notes while you’re at it!”

 

Tinderella’s days were spent sweeping, swiping, and filling out forms – all signed, stamped, notarized, scanned, and placed in an easily findable folder. The forms would be filed in triplicate – always in triplicate – because the tax office needed one copy for themselves, one copy for their files, and one to lose to mice. Tinderella’s only companions were a pair of overworked parrots who were trying to form a union, and a stray dog named PANkaj, who barked every time someone mentioned “Aadhaar linkage.”

 

One day a courier arrived – sweaty, late, and demanding chai-paani despite delivering an already opened envelope. Inside was a garish invitation: the King was throwing a grand ball to find a bride for young prince Upi. “All eligible maidens must attend,” it read, “subject to biometric verification. Dress code: taxable silk.” G. Esti Devi cackled, “Formika and Redtapia will go. Tinderella, you stay here and calculate our input tax credit.”

 

The night of the ball arrived and Tinderella sat alone, surrounding by stacks of payment vouchers, muttering, “if only I could escape this cess-pit.” Suddenly, the room filled with a haze of incense and the faint whiff of rotting papers. Before her stood a figure in a saree so crisp it could slice through the bureaucracy – not that it would. A woman adorning it with a stern gaze from bespectacled eyes and the annual budget floating beside her.

 

“Are you a genie?” Tinderella asked.

“Genie?”, the woman said quizzically. “Surely you know there’s no such things. Haven’t you not read about them in your NCERT books? No, I’m your fairy God-Tai. I’ve come to fix your life, though I must warn you: it might cause a slowdown in the auto industry.”

 

Tinderella blinked, “auto industry? I’m just trying to survive my stepmother’s tax evasion schemes!”

 

The God-Tai waved a dismissive hand. “Markets are all about sentiment my dear. Now let’s get you to that ball. But first, we need to rationalize your… asset.”

“What do you mean?” Tinderella said self-consciously.

The God-Tai ignored Tinderella like a Finance Minister who doesn’t contest elections and snapped her fingers. A swarm of glowing forms descended – GST-TRAN-1, 26AS, MGT-7, and something called “Declaration of intent of compliance towards enforcement agencies”.

“Fill these out,” the God-Tai said. “No ball without compliance.”

 

“But I don’t have a dress!” Tinderella protested.

 

The God-Tai smirked. “There are enough incentives in the textile sector – didn’t you hear my last speech? Here’s a saree with 5% GST included. Though the Gujarati loom it came from is mysteriously untaxed.” With a flourish, she conjured a shimmering silk saree, slightly frayed at the edges because “we must promote handloom, even if it’s substandard.” Next, she pointed at a pumpkin rotting in the courtyard. “That’ll be your chariot. Low emissions, high depreciation.”

 

The pumpkin shuddered as if being molested by a wet weasel, and transformed into a creaky autorickshaw with a meter that ticked on even while stationary. A driver materialized, chewing paan and spitting crimson streaks onto the ground. “Name’s Bakshesh,” he grunted through rotting teeth that would put Ajay Devgan to shame. “Where to madam? Fifty rupees extra.”

 

Tinderella hesitated. “But my shoes…”

 

The God-Tai, now getting visibly irritated by the endless demands of this entitled Gen-Z brat, thrust forward a pair of glass slippers. “Imported. No tariffs, because I say so. Consider it a gift from the Make in India initiative.” Then with a grave tone straight out of a budget address, she added, “be back by midnight, or the ED will find you. Also, I’ve rationalized midnight to 11:45 PM to align with fiscal discipline.”

 

Off Tinderella went, rattling through potholed streets in the autorickshaw. Bakshesh turned mid-journey and leered, “nice saree. You got cash? No UPI. Also, toll ahead – gimme hundred rupees.” Tinderella, having no money thanks to G. Esti Devi siphoning her savings into an offshore shell company, offered a sheepish smile, “can’t you… let it slide?”

 

Bakshesh spa out the window. “No money, no ball. Rules are rules. Unless you’ve got a friend in the ministry.”

 

At that moment, the autorickshaw hit a speed bump, or possibly a sleeping cow, and one glass slipper flew out, landing in a gutter. Tinderella, now one-shoe-ed and desperate, begged Bakshesh to keep going. Grumbling, he did, but only after extorting a promise of chai-paani later.

 

The King’s palace was a gaudy monstrosity of marble and unpaid contractor bills. Inside, Prince Upi twirled maidens across the dance floor, scanning their QR codes. Formika and Redtapia were there, drowning in cheap perfume and arguing over who’d claim the prince’s digital wallet. Then Tinderella entered, hobbling on one slipper, her saree shimmering under the disco lights, after installing which the contractor was able to buy a safe haven in the Caribbean islands.

 

The prince spotted her instantly. “Who is this glitch in the system?” he murmured, captivated by her aura of quiet rebellion. They danced, awkwardly because Tinderella wore only one ill-fitted shoe, and he asked, “What’s your name?”

 

“Tinderella,” she replied. “But my salary is below the taxation threshold. So I never got a PAN card made.”

 

“Fascinating,” said Prince Upi. “I’ve never met anyone so… untaxable.”

 

Just then, the palace clock chimed 11:45 PM. The God-Tai’s warning echoed in Tinderella’s mind. “I’ve got to go!” she cried, bolting for the exit. In her haste, the second glass slipper slipped off, clattering onto the marble. Prince Upi lunged for it, shouting, “Wait! I didn’t get your account details!” But she was gone, vanishing into the night with Bakshesh honking behind her.

 

The next morning the streets buzzed with news: Prince Upi was scouring the city for the owner of the glass slipper. “It’s a matter of national security,” he declared. “Also, I’m in love.” He dispatched his royal bureaucrats, armed with measuring tape and Form KYC-1, to every household.

 

Back at the haveli, G. Esti Devi was livid. “She went to the ball!?” she screeched like an old tyre, shoving Formika and Redtapia forward. “Fit that slipper on them! Forge the receipts if you have to!” The bureaucrats arrived, sweating in polyester uniforms, and demanded Formika’s foot. It was too wide – years of stomping over Cinderella’s dreams had bloated it. Redtapia’s was too long, a side effect of chasing tax loopholes. Both tried bribery, but the bureaucrats, for once, were incorruptible – mostly because Prince Upi had promised them a Diwali bonus.

 

Tinderella cowered in the corner, clutching PANkaj. “She’s just a servant!” G. Esti Devi snapped. “No PAN, no slipper!” But Prince Upi pushed past, holding the glass slipper aloft like a budget surplus. “Let’s see your foot,” he said. It fir perfectly.

 

“It’s her,” Prince Upi exclaimed, despite the bureaucrats wondering if this was the proper way of identifying a girl the prince claimed to love. “My untaxable love!” He turned to the God-Tai, who’d appeared in a puff of incense, ledger still floating. “Fairy God-Tai, how do we marry? What’s the process?”

 

The God-Tai adjusted her saree. “Simple. File Form MAR-69 in triplicate, pay 28% GST on the catering, and submit an affidavit swearing your love isn’t an immigration scheme. Oh and the onion prices are rising, so don’t blame me if the food is subpar – it’s market forces.”

 

The wedding was a bureaucratic circus. Bakshesh demanded Rs. 500 to drive the couple to the mandap, muttering, “no tip, no trip.” The priest insisted on a fee to appease the Gods and the guests grumbled about the cess on gifts. The God-Tai gave a speech: “This union proves that the country is a 5-trillion-rupee economy in sentiment, if not in reality. Now, please, link your blessings to Aadhaar.”

 

And so, Tinderella and Prince Upi lived happily ever after – or as happily as one can in a country where the taxman lurks behind every joke. G. Esti Devi was audited into oblivion, Formika and Redtapia opened a failing compliance consultancy, and the God-Tai vanished to deliver another cryptic budget speech. As for Bakshesh, he’s still out there, overcharging for rides and spitting paan at the system.