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.