Chitrasena’s Plea
Aarav walked out of the house, changing into fresh clothes after a bath, and headed toward the beach. Kajjo was already there, sitting near a broken boat with the half-erased text Jes scratched across its side, reading a book.
He approached her slowly. “Hello,” he said, awkwardly.
Kajjo didn’t look up immediately. She finished a few more lines, then closed the book. Two talwars lay beside her. She picked them up, stood, and without a word, threw one toward him.
Aarav jumped aside, narrowly avoiding it.
Kajjo sighed.
Aarav frowned. “You want me to fight with a sword right away?”
She nodded, already taking her stance.
He stared at her for a moment. No reaction.
Slowly, cautiously, he bent to pick up the sword.
Kajjo lunged.
The blade sank deep into the side of his abdomen.
Aarav screamed, his body jerking as pain exploded through him. Kajjo kicked him away from the sword and pulled her blade free. He collapsed onto the sand, writhing.
“You b—” He stopped himself, gritting his teeth. “You told me to pick up the sword and fight, right?”
Blood soaked his abdomen, but the wound began to heal.
“I don’t want to do this shit,” he muttered, turning to leave.
Kajjo moved instantly—appearing in front of him—and swung at his neck.
Aarav leaned back on instinct. The blade missed by a hair. Kajjo’s eyes widened a bit in surprise.
He fell to the ground, propping himself up, anger burning across his face. “I told you—I don’t want to do this shit anymore!”
Kajjo lunged again, low and fast. Her sword pierced his thigh.
He cried out.
Grabbing a fistful of sand, he threw it at her. She ducked, unfazed, and twisted the blade inside his leg.
“Please stop this!” he screamed.
She twisted again.
Aarav forced himself forward, grabbing her neck with shaking hands. She twisted once more. His grip weakened.
Teeth clenched, eyes burning, something flickered in his mind—flashes of battlefields, of a warrior he didn’t remember being.
With a sudden burst, he grabbed the back of her neck with his other hand, planted his foot against her abdomen, and pushed.
Kajjo’s eyes widened as he flipped her over.
They both lay there, breathing heavily. His thigh slowly healed.
They got up.
“Neither will you let me leave, nor will you let me pick up the sword. What do you want me to do?” he shouted.
Kajjo tapped the sword on the ground.
“You want me to pick it up?”
She nodded.
Aarav walked toward it, cautious, eyes locked on her. As he bent down—
She moved.
A swift rotation. A killing swing.
Aarav pulled himself back, grabbed the sword, and avoided the strike. He stumbled and fell.
Kajjo smirked and drove her blade down.
Aarav raised his hands in reflex.
The sword pierced through his palms, through his face, into his skull.
His body went still.
The sword slipped from his hand.
Kajjo pulled her blade out slowly and sighed in quiet disappointment. Then she sat beside him, waiting.
Aarav watched from above.
His body lay lifeless. Kajjo sat beside it. The ocean behind them was frozen mid-wave, the world paused like a broken frame.
I remember something like this…
Suddenly, something pulled him—ripping him away from the earth, past stars, beyond galaxies, through endless universes.
This has happened before.
He tried to recall what came next.
Then he began to fall.
Faster. Faster. Faster.
Right… I am dead now.
Darkness crept in.
“Open your eyes, my dear Vajra.”
A soft female voice.
He opened his eyes.
Warmth.
He was feeding from the bosom of a young woman in a ragged maroon saree.
What is happening…?
His thoughts slipped away.
And somewhere, like a whisper carried across lifetimes, a poem echoed—
He was born without a rightful name,
A child wrapped tight in borrowed shame.
His mother’s arms, his only grace,
A trembling world in her embrace.
The streets raised him on blows and spite,
Each scar a mark, each day a fight.
They called him nothing, less than man,
A life condemned before it began.
Then war consumed the sky and land,
But he chose peace with empty hand.
Through fire and rage, he walked alone,
Till hardened hearts were slowly shown.
The guns fell quiet, the screams grew still,
Not bent by force, but broken will.
Yet fate arrived with a final breath,
A single shot, a silent death.
And as he fell, his fading sight
Found his mother in the light—
The only truth he came to keep,
As he closed his eyes in endless sleep.
Aarav slowly opened his eyes as water from the waves spattered on his face as they reached the shore. He slowly got up. He looked to the side. Kajjo was still reading the book.
“Can we continue the training later?” Aarav asked.
Kajjo lifted her hand to show him a thumbs up without looking up from the book.
Aarav slowly got up from the ground. He looked at his clothes, which were torn everywhere. He slowly walked towards the house.
What is happening to me? he thought to himself as flashes of wars and destruction went through his mind.
“Hello, Mr. Nambiar. I hope I didn’t make you wait,” Prime Minister Bheeshma said as he walked into his office at the Prime Minister’s residence. Dressed in his usual lounge wear, he glanced at his party head, Mahesh Nambiar.
Nambiar, wearing a white long shirt and black pants, sat on the couch with one leg crossed over the other. There was a hint of anger on his face, and he didn’t respond.
“What happened? Not a friendly visit?” Bheeshma asked with a slight smirk as he sat on the couch opposite him.
“Why haven’t you responded to Sharma’s calls about attending our election campaign programs?” Nambiar asked bluntly.
Bheeshma’s expression turned serious for a split second before a faint grin returned. “You do know that I’m running a country, right?” he replied calmly.
“So? We want to continue our governance in the next term too, right? To continue our rule—”
“Service,” Bheeshma interrupted.
“What?” Nambiar asked, irritated.
“Service. Not rule.”
Nambiar clenched his jaw. “Whatever. If we want to continue our government, we need to win the upcoming election. If you don’t show up, how are we supposed to present ourselves during the campaign?” he said, raising his voice.
Bheeshma stared at him coldly. “You brought me into politics so you could win. Because of my reputation from my time in the army. I joined because I wanted to continue my service to the country. Do you remember?”
Nambiar’s face reddened. “What are you trying to say?”
“When we won last election, I told you I would serve only the country, not the party, for the next five years. Do you remember?” Bheeshma said, still unfazed.
“So you’re not going to join the campaign?”
“External forces are attacking us from all sides. If we blink even once, our security will be breached. That’s the situation we’re in. Our entire security staff—internal and external—is working tirelessly to prevent that. I’ll continue working with them at the same pace. So no, I won’t be joining the campaign.”
“Bheeshma!” Nambiar shouted, standing up.
Bheeshma remained seated, unmoving. After a brief pause, he said quietly, “Don’t forget where you’re standing.”
Nambiar clenched his fists and stood there for a moment. Then he took a deep breath and slowly sat back down.
After a long silence, he spoke again, his voice lower. “I understand your intentions. But tell me—do you actually want to win this election or not?”
Bheeshma met his gaze. “If the people believe the decisions we made and the actions we took over the last five years were right, we’ll win. If not, we won’t.”
Nambiar let out a short, humourless laugh. “Stop living in your fantasies. This isn’t a school textbook. This is the real world. We need visibility. We need to influence people, push things in our favour. It’s not just external forces trying to tear this country apart. The opposition will use everything they have. If we don’t do the same, they’ll win. And then you won’t be able to ‘serve’ this country anymore.”
Bheeshma leaned forward, resting his chin on his right palm. “You don’t have to worry about that. It will all be over soon.”
Nambiar frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing.”
Nambiar sighed and looked down. Suddenly, his phone vibrated. He checked the message.
Check the news. Now!
His expression tightened. “What is it?” Bheeshma asked.
“I don’t know. It’s from Sharma. Turn on the news.”
Bheeshma stood, walked to the table, picked up the remote, and switched on the television mounted on the side wall.
A live press conference was playing.
Chitrasena Mallik, leader of the opposition party IPK, sat behind a table in front of a group of reporters. In his right hand, he held up a printed document. In his left, a closed file.
“This is the evidence I mentioned,” Chitrasena said. “It contains records of transactions over the past four years from an offshore account linked to the terrorist group I.N.A.Z.—the same group that claimed responsibility for the Jaipur blast and the twin blasts in Mexico. This folder,” Chitrasena raised the folder in his other hand, “includes verified records from multiple sources. It shows transactions from various terrorist organizations across the world to accounts connected to members of the JPL party—ministers currently serving in the government.”
He paused.
“Including Prime Minister Bheeshma.”
Nambiar shot up from his seat in shock.
Bheeshma continued watching, calm and expressionless.
Nambiar stared at the screen, frozen.
“My fellow countrymen,” Chitrasena continued, his tone steady, “Me and my party opposed many of this government’s reforms in the past. At times, we believed they were being imposed. But like you, we eventually trusted that they were for the nation’s development.”
He took a breath.
“We even began to believe that this government was performing better than any before it—both internally and externally. We thought that even if we lost this election, we would support them in the next term.”
His voice hardened.
“But we were wrong. We were all deceived.”
His volume rose.
“They were, are, and will continue to sell this country for personal gain. They will drag it into darkness. That is why we have decided to fight—to take our country back.”
A murmur spread across the reporters.
“We are not asking you to take up arms,” he continued. “We already have a weapon—our votes. Use them. I don’t care if you vote for us. But do not—do not—bring them back to power. Whoever forms the next government, let it be one that keeps this country stable and peaceful.”
He folded his hands in a Namaskara. “Thank you.”
Questions erupted from the press.
But his assistant raised a hand. “This press conference was only to present the evidence. Mr. Chitrasena will not be answering any questions.”
The camera slowly zoomed out as Chitrasena stood up. He turned his head slightly.
At the far end of the table stood Rudraaj.
Chitrasena nodded at him.
The broadcast cut to a heated panel debate.
“We… we’re finished,” Nambiar whispered, collapsing onto the couch.
Bheeshma slowly walked to the couch opposite to him and sat. He leaned back, closed his eyes, and remained perfectly calm.
Is that how you want to play?
(To be continued)
Karun G Nath 
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