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The television flickered in the Kutir's living room, spitting chaos in grainy clarity. Headlines screamed in red banners. Anchors were almost foaming at the mouth. Priests of temples and imams of mosques stood outside shuttered gates, microphones shoved against their faces as they muttered words about "security" and "temporary closures" Trains halted on platforms. Airports silent, their boards a graveyard of canceled flights. Buses left standing idle, their paint peeling under a rising sun.
The room itself was quiet. Only the screen spoke, narrating a country I already knew I'd set on fire.
"Breaking News" one anchor barked. "Travel restrictions extended indefinitely across three states. Sources suggest heightened tensions, possible intelligence inputs—"
A lie. My lie.
I leaned back, crossing one ankle over the other, my body sinking lazily into the cushions as if this was entertainment, not politics. And to me, it was. This entire charade, these panicked voices, these carefully scattered rumors—it was my game board.
And yet... I yawned.
The problem with fire is that once you light it, it only does one thing: burn. Predictable. Relentless. Eventually boring. Without Annahita near me, even flames felt like ash. Naa jaane humara ishq kab junoon ki hadd tak badal gaya, par uske bina humein saans hi nahi aati. Hum pehle sochte the hum Annahita ke liye jo mehsoos karte hain vo ishq hai, vo masoom sa ishq jise hum kaabu me rakh sakte hai. Lekin ab samajh aaya, ye sirf ishq nahi hai, ab ye junoon ban chuka hai, jo humein zinda toh rkhta hai par humein uske bina jeene bhi nhi deta.
Log samajhte hain pyaar mein haq hota hai... nahi. Yeh bas haq ka sawal nahi hai. Annahita humari rooh ban gayi hai. Uske bina hum khud ko pehchaan bhi nahi sakte. Aur jo khud ko kho deta hai, woh duniya ko kya bachaaye?
Still, I let the circus continue. Nandini's hands were all over this broadcast—my little sister knew how to bleed the truth into poison. Words shaped riots. Whispers became avalanches. She was my instrument, and tonight, she was playing to perfection.
The ticker at the bottom scrolled: "Unexpected Resignations Continue – Three MLAs step down for 'family reasons'"
Family reasons. Cowards. Every last one of them had either been bought, threatened, or reminded who really owned the soil they stood on. I had tugged their strings days ago, and now they danced in resignation letters, thinking themselves clever for escaping early.
I almost laughed.
The cushions sank as Shivaay sat beside me. No words, just the sigh of a man carrying too much weight.
Another headline splashed: "Sudden Tax Reforms? Rumors of Hike Spark Panic"
More of my doing. Half a word planted in the right bureaucrat's ear, whispered through traders, doubled by media. Markets trembled as easily as people.
