Chapter 7: The Siege of Delhi

The young attendant pointed at himself, bewildered. “Me?”

His voice squeaked, barely above a whisper. In India, no one wanted to be the first to deliver bad news—or to face the wrath of a wronged general.

Rajeev’s face fell instantly.

The mask of bravado slipped, and for a moment, the PM looked less like a leader and more like a petulant child denied a second helping of kheer.

The chief secretary barked, “Insolence! How dare you question the PM’s order!”

He jabbed a finger at the boy, puffing up like a rooster defending his territory. The attendants shuffled back, eyes fixed on their feet.

The young attendant dropped to his knees, stammering, “Sir… The Commander… he didn’t come alone…”

Tears glistened in his eyes. He clutched the hem of his kurta, desperate for mercy.

The chief secretary’s eyes narrowed. “How many did he bring into Delhi?”

His voice was as sharp as a lawyer’s cross-examination. Silence hung heavy until the boy forced out the words.

The young attendant trembled. “Flags everywhere, soldiers like a sea… at least… at least a lakh…”

His voice cracked. The words seemed to echo off the marble walls, sending a fresh wave of panic through the house.

Rajeev collapsed to the ground, face ashen, eyes lifeless, muttering, “I clearly wrote in the order that he should come alone… How dare he defy my order…”

The great leader was reduced to a trembling wreck, his grand plans dashed by the simplest of truths: India is never ruled by decree alone.

But who truly holds the power—the man in the palace, or the people at the gates?