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.