Boo! Thoo!

That was how it started. Before long, explosions pierced the air. There was no warning. No tear gas. And the bullets were not aimed at the legs but straight at the chests of unarmed protestors. Gajendra paced around his room, smoking, scrolling, and cursing the Sarkar for its lethal crackdown. He read the news of a schoolkid being shot dead in the crowd. From his window, he could see the agitated mob advancing with purpose. In a while, he heard a knock on his door. Cautiously, he approached the door and asked, “Who is it?”

“I am your master. Your guru,” came the reply.

Kunwar was clad in a crisp white shirt and looked unusually relaxed. “How come you look so happy?”

“Arey! Don’t you see? The status you posted last night has worked, bro. From kids to grandpas, aunties to grandmas, everyone has gathered and is building pressure against the pathetic Sarkar,” Kunwar said in one breath and reached for a cigarette on the table.

“The kids are being killed. How can the Sarkar be so ruthless? Murdering citizens in broad daylight?” Gajendra heaved a sigh and added, “Some people on Facebook are blaming me for provoking the kids to take to the streets.”

“You’re worried for no reason. We haven’t urged the kids or any particular age group,” Kunwar stood up to face Gajendra.

Gajendra took the already-lit cigarette from Kunwar and looked into his eyes. This roly-poly of a man, Gajendra thought, shouldn’t be judged by his appearance. It seemed as though Kunwar had answers to all the questions troubling his friend. Gajendra started thinking there was something about this pudgy man—a master plan, perhaps, or nothing but a foolish hunger for power.

“It’s sad that people are being killed, but it is only making matters worse for the Sarkar. In the public’s eyes, the Sarkar is a murderer.” Kunwar’s eyes lit up as though he had emerged victorious on a battlefield.

“Do you think the Sarkar is behind all this? Or have some external forces infiltrated the protests?”

“Could be anything. Everyone is looking to exploit the Sarkar while it’s vulnerable,” Kunwar replied, reaching into his pocket for his phone.

“I can see that it’s an opportune time for anti-Sarkar forces. Isn’t it, guru?” A smile appeared on Gajendra’s lips, which Kunwar acknowledged with a gentle pat on the shoulder.

At the end of the day, when the reports emerged that 19 people were killed, Sarkar’s loyalists conjectured that the protests were hijacked, and that the opposition forces had deployed goons to shoot down the protestors. One of the ministers in Sarkar’s cabinet spoke to the popular media: “Whatever happened today was a part of a larger scheme. The Sarkar didn’t order the security officials to shoot. I have nothing more to say. We will find out every traitor involved in bringing us down.” 

People across Deshbhumi were offended by the minister’s briefing, especially by the arrogance with which he delivered it. As if the deaths of 19 people were not enough, the minister rubbed salt into the public’s wounds with his disdainful stand. As evening fell, people across Deshbhumi took to the streets, weeping and shouting. Placards demanding the resignation of the MM (Main man) were everywhere. Photos featuring the MM were printed out and burnt. 

Fathers whose children had been killed came out on the streets, while other members stayed behind with grieving mothers. Small groups formed at street corners, and no one spoke in a low voice.

“We can’t stay quiet like this.”

“They are criminals. They deserve the gallows.”

“Let’s beat them to death.”

“We citizens should be united tomorrow. Make a group on some online app and devise a unified plan.”

“No one should be spared—those criminals.”

That night, Deshbhumi didn’t sleep a wink. In the wee hours, people emerged from the inner alleys and gathered at major chowks. Most of the people had carried backpacks.

“This way, first.”

“Have you carried matchsticks? Lighters?”

“Yes, yes. Let’s move.”

At the crack of dawn, the sky over Kathland had blackened, with ashes billowing into the air. Hawkers, barbers, day laborers, thieves, and plumbers had taken the day off from their work. One after another, imposing buildings in Kathland began to ignite, the VIP proprietors escaping by the barest of margins. An old politician stayed home with his wife, thinking the raging mob wouldn’t come for him. 

Demonstrators barged in and gave him a sound thrashing. Afterward, the husband and wife were dragged onto the front lawn and tortured. A scraggy hoodlum used the opportunity to enter the kitchen and poured himself a glass of whiskey. Some riffraff scanned the basement and found dollars stacked up to the ceiling. The wise thieves kept some notes in their pockets.

In response to the last day’s mayhem, almost all the Sarkar’s offices were set ablaze by evening. Politicians secretly dashed into their relatives’ houses. The MM also escaped, but no one knew where. Had the MM not resigned, as the public had demanded, the situation would have gotten even worse. As night fell, a tight curfew was imposed. Threatened by long rifles, the crowd went home, recalling the rampage they had caused. Once back home, people were thrilled because Gajendra had written something on his Facebook account.

“The nation is now in your hands. Your next demand should be the dissolution of the Parliament.”

Gajendra, Kunwar, and Gaudel were seated at the table in Gajendra’s room. All of them were surprised by the overwhelming comments on the post.

“Now, you are our only hope, Gajendra. We are with you.”

“We have waited for this moment since forever. Now or never, Gajendra, please!”

Gajendra took a swig and propped his palm on his head. Kunwar seemed to be thinking, plotting, and calculating the next move.

“People are pinning their hopes on me. It’s time to get serious now,” Gajendra said, looking down at the floor.

“Right. People are with us. That’s our greatest asset. We will have to meet people and hear what they have to say.”

The silent Gaudel now spoke slowly, “Most likely a temporary Sarkar will be formed only to conduct elections.”

“We aren’t here to fill the gaps,” Kunwar said.

After hours of drinking, Gajendra made a sleeping arrangement for his friends. Once in his bed, Gajendra scrolled through Facebook, where the disturbing scenes never seemed to end. The room, smelling of alcohol and cigarettes, made him feel guilty. He imagined people crying on the streets, mourning the death of those killed in the mayhem. 

An image came to his mind: a schoolkid from his neighborhood goes to the protest, hoists a placard, yells at politicians, and, without even knowing it, gets shot in the head. 

When he dozed off, the kid returned once again. He wasn’t wearing his usual white school shirt. This time, he was wearing a red shirt, perhaps the white shirt reddened by the blood oozing down from his head. Without saying a word to his Gajendra Uncle, the schoolkid ambled up to the drawer next to the bed. 

With great caution, he opened his backpack and produced a bulky volume whose cover read: ‘Constitution of Deshbhumi 2072’.