Chapter 3: The March to Delhi

The deputy general and I reviewed the Northern Frontier army.

Stepping onto the parade ground, I was hit by the scent of sweat, gun oil, and hot chai simmering in battered kettles. Rows upon rows of soldiers stood at attention, uniforms crisp, eyes shining. A stray dog darted between the ranks, chased off by a laughing jawan. The smell of burning diesel from a nearby generator mixed with the sharp tang of sweat.

To be honest, this army is truly formidable: sturdy uniforms, sharp rifles, disciplined formations, high morale.

It was a sight to stir the blood. The air was electric with anticipation—the murmured prayers, the clinking of dog tags, the silent blessings of mothers sent with each son.

But what pleased me most was the loyalty I saw in their eyes.

Loyalty that would not bend, not for all the threats in Delhi. I could see my own hope reflected in their faces—the hope that comes only to those who have lost and rebuilt everything.

With such an army, how could I not pacify the country?

I felt taller, shoulders squared with new resolve. No Delhi neta, no order from above, could break the bond I shared with my men.

Suppressing my excitement, I put on an expression of grief and indignation.

A leader must be both steel and silk. My eyes glistened with unshed tears, my jaw clenched as if fighting back rage—every soldier understood such silent signals.

The deputy general then, as if by chance, revealed that Rajeev had forcibly taken Ananya and summoned me to Delhi.

He played his part perfectly, voice trembling, gaze lowered as if weighed by sorrow. Around us, soldiers stiffened, glances sharp with outrage.

In no time, the soldiers began to stir.

It started as whispers, then grew—like the hum of a train gathering speed before it thunders through the station.

The officers pretended not to notice, letting the soldiers murmur among themselves.

Their silence was a blessing; it gave the grumbling a chance to bloom into open rebellion. Sometimes, discipline means knowing when not to interfere.

“Back then, when I was starving, it was Miss Ananya who gave me a roti and saved my life.”

A soldier, voice rough with emotion, blinked rapidly, as if recalling the taste of warm bread after weeks of hunger. Others nodded, murmurs of agreement rising.

“If not for the bowl of dal chawal Ananya didi cooked, my whole family would’ve starved.”

A younger jawan clenched his fist, as if holding invisible grains of rice. The memory was vivid; Ananya’s kindness, for many, was the only reason they stood here today.

“Our whole village survived thanks to the fishing net Miss Ananya gave us… wuwuwu…”

Tears rolled down a weathered cheek, and the man’s friends thumped his back, embarrassed but moved. In India, a man may cry for his maa or his didi, but rarely for a leader’s wife. That Ananya had inspired such devotion spoke volumes.

“Sir, lead us to Delhi and rescue Miss Ananya!”

The cry broke free, raw and urgent. The officers exchanged glances, lips tight, but none dared silence the plea.

…

The scattered voices gradually merged into one.

From a low rumble to a thunderous chant, the army’s resolve became a living thing, impossible to ignore.

“We beg you to lead us to Delhi and rescue Miss Ananya!”

It was not just a request—it was a promise. I saw old veterans and fresh recruits alike, united by loyalty and gratitude.

I smiled in satisfaction. The army’s morale was now in my hands.

I let myself bask for a heartbeat in their faith. Their strength surged into me, as real as the earth beneath our boots.

Taking a deep breath, I shouted, “March south! Rescue Miss Ananya!”

The words soared, carried by the wind, echoing off the distant hills. A flock of mynas scattered into the sky.

All the soldiers echoed, “March south! Rescue Miss Ananya!”

The chant shook the very air, like the rolling beat of dhols before a festival. We were no longer an army—we were a force of destiny.

…

[Harshvardhan, muddle-headed, forcibly took the wife of the Grand Founder. The Grand Founder’s soldiers were all furious. The Grand Founder, loyal by nature and fearing chaos, comforted them: ‘This must be the work of corrupt politicians deceiving the PM, causing this disaster.’ The soldiers, hearing this, calmed down again.] —Annals of Grand Founder Arya

But in this world, loyalty was as fragile as a diya in the wind.