The Cost

I'm back!!! But my return from this laziness induced sabbatical is not the result of some dramatic-life changing  epiphany, rather its just a byproduct of a mundane writing competition which I certainly hope to lose.
So here is my entry. Its a (seriously) short story wherein I refute the theory "'Dictatorship can be the only savior for corrupt India". And don't blame me if the topic sounds pompous, I had no say in the matter.......so here goes.........btw the word limit was 500 words, so my style was cramped, again nothing I could do about it.........(Ah, excuses, how I love thee).

THE COST

Ishant was very happy that day. The promotion had come as a happy surprise. He had worked hard and accomplished a lot that year, but still, to be made the youngest ever ‘Senior Executive Officer’ in the Department of Education was something he had not expected. So, when the gold embossed invitation from ‘The Schools Board’ arrived at his doorstep and regaled the words “Dear Sir, We would be much obliged if you accept our invitation to be the Chief Guest at our Independence Day function” he couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed with pride and anticipation. He could feel his lifelong dream of giving back to the young taking shape; this was the cake, the promotion was just the icing.

The date was 2^nd September 2024, Bharat was celebrating its 11^th Independence Day. It was a murky day: the gloomy weather seemed out of place, at odds with the air of jubilation spread all over the country. The people had every reason to celebrate; their motherland had risen to become the richest, most powerful country in the world. There was no disease, no famine, no crime.

The 30,000 strong audience from schools all across the capital sat in rapt attention as the compere wrapped up his eulogical introduction of Shri Ishant and he took the dias. “Eleven years, just eleven years it took us to throw off the shackles of backwardness and claim our rightful place in this world. So rise my young friends and join me in our national anthem to celebrate our victory over ‘democracy’, to thank our High Commander, Shri Vijendra, for redeeming our pledge in full measure, the tryst we made with destiny so long ago has been honoured at last. Today we truly wake up to life and freedom”. The applause that followed was thunderous, and the hall was filled with the music of patriotism, Ishant had meant every word of it and sang along with a child’s enthusiasm. Then, as the anthem ended and the crowd settled down again he went on to speak for a few more minutes, motivating the audience and leaving them with a sense of purpose.  As he descended the stage, he felt infused with a burst of energy himself, but there was one thing that bothered him; an old man, he seemed to be a janitor, standing in the corner, the way he looked at Ishant unnerved him. His eyes hinted at pity, but his jaw was clenched in hatred.

 Ishant could not shake the image of the old man’s face from his mind. The next day he came back to the now deserted auditorium and found him sweeping the floor. Ishant walked upto him. The old man growled without turning to face him:

 “You actually believe it don’t you, that this is paradise you live in and Vijendra is God”.

”Yes”.

 “Did you ever know your father?”.

 “No, he died when I was one.”

“Do you know why”.

“No.”

 “I am your uncle, you fool, they killed your father because he would not let go of his last name, his language, his religion, his identity, his individuality. Have you never wondered what your paradise cost??”