Manmohan Singh enters his bedroom. His gait is weary. He looks tired as he sinks into the sofa. He plucks his spectacles and places them on a side-table and stares at a peg on the wall. He sighs. Reluctantly, he slips his pagdi off his head, gets off the couch, trudges over to the peg and loops it over. The phone rings.

“Hello”.

It’s his wife.

“You’ve reached? How’s Amrit? Don’t worry about me. Hanh…I have just come back home. I will take the medicine… Yes. Yes. Goodnight”.

Singh replaces the receiver. He sits at the edge of his bed, shoulders hunched. He calls out to an aide.

“Ghanshyam…. Ghanshyam ek glass dudh le aao.”

He walks to the bathroom to change into his sleeping robe. When he steps out, neither milk nor Ghanshyam await him.

“Ghanshyam. Ghanshyam?”

He gives up and lies down. The clock strikes one. It’s quiet. So quiet, that one can hear Singh’s breath give the ticking of the clock a run for its money.

The clock strikes again. It’s three in the morning. From a corner in the room, there’s a rustling sound.

“Ghanshyam? Kaun hai?”

Singh stirs, puts on a dim light. His eyes follow the sound. There’s someone lying on the floor. Unconscious, but breathing hoarsely. His unusual robes and skin are soiled with earth and blood. Singh grabs a tumbler, pours a glass of water and slips some down the man’s throat. As he peers at him, the fallen stranger appears to return to his senses. He gulps down a few mouthfuls of water. He asks hoarsely.

“Who are you?”

“You are in bad shape. You need help”, says Manmohan Singh.

“I do not think so. I do not have long… but who… who are you? Are you one of them?”
“Them? I am Manmohan… Manmohan Singh. I live here.”

“Here? You live here. Singh… did you say your name is Singh?”

“Yes. But there isn’t time to be wasted on introductions. I must get you some medical attention first. We can talk later.”

As Singh is about to rise, the injured stranger lunges at him and grabs his arm. His face is now a shade paler and his voice weaker. It looks as if he’s used his last ounce of strength in the lunge.

“Singh! Look… my man. My time is up. My ears echo with the thunder of hooves and the bellow of death. Yama will be here soon. But I know I can… I know can thwart him for a while. But only for a while.”

“But we must get you some help!”

“And what if these wounds were to heal, Singh? How am I to escape this trap?” The fallen man blindly gestures around the room. Singh’s gaze follows the uneven, unsteady sweep of his arm around the bare room.

“Can’t you see them surrounding us… waiting? Can’t you hear their cries behind this screen of dust? They are out there waiting for me to show up. That’s all they need to do. Wait.”

“Who? There is no one here. Who are you?”

“Time is short. Perhaps I was only born to challenge and die. Perhaps I was destined to die here. Singh, I am Abhimanyu.”

“You are Abhimanyu? Abhimanyu! Who? Abhimanyu… from the Mahabharat?” Manmohan is shocked by his own revelation.

He looks at the warrior, then lifts his gaze and stares around the sparsely furnished room. The four-poster bed, the side-table next to it, the work desk and chair, the white coloured door. This was his bedroom inside his official residence 7 Race Course road alright. The most secure and sanitised place in the country. And yet, here he was, with a wounded man dying in his arms. This wasn’t a dream. His fingers were sticky with the warm blood of the fallen man. And there were red smudges on the fawn coloured carpet. Had he missed them earlier? Was the carpet stained before he assumed charge here? Had another resident of Race Course Road encountered this?

Abhimanyu’s words broke his chain of thoughts.

“Yes. The son of Arjun and Subhadra is before you, Singh. Breathing his last, here, in the eye of the Chakravyuh.”

“Yes. History says you never made it out of the Chakravyuh.”

“History! History has a habit of treating headstrong characters with disdain. It is for the weak to seek excuses. Finally I lie here wasted because of my own folly. As a child, still waddling in birth fluid, I’d overheard my father discussing the vagaries of warfare. The great Arjun was narrating how to breach the most deceptively lethal technique in warfare – the Chakravyuh. I listened eagerly and memorised every word he uttered about breaking into the Chakravyuh. Then the child behaved as only a child would. I thought I knew it all. And just as my father went on to explain how to break out of the formation, I got bored and lulled my mother to sleep along with me. I lacked the patience to listen through the entire discourse. But, perhaps as death awaits me now, I can make amends for my lack of patience then. Perhaps I can force myself to live long enough to patiently hear you out. Tell me about yourself?”

Singh is too stunned by Abhimanyu’s monologue to react.

“Me… what do I say?”

“You could begin by telling me what brings you here? Really! What does bring you here Singh? How did you land up in this Chakravyuh?”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Singh. You remember what history has taught you, don’t you? You look like you’ve pored through books all your life. What did your history books say? Didn’t they say I was killed here? Crushed in the cursed grip of the Chakravyuh? Look here, look at me. I am dying. Dying the way history dictated. But what are you doing here? Who are you?”

“I am a prime minister.”

“What is that?”

“Well. A prime minister is someone who governs a country. I govern a democratically ruled nation.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Democracy is rule by a consensus of the majority.”

“But how can the majority rule in cohesion? You can’t have a 1000 leaders can you? How can many winds define direction? Don’t you get stuck?”

“One finds a way. There is always a way out.”

“You confuse me Singh. If there is a way out, then how do I find you here? In the womb of this mother of all puzzles?”

“This here is the residence of the prime minister of the country. 7 Race Course Road. I woke up to a noise and saw you here lying in my bedroom.”

“Your home? In this battle formation? And you were sleeping? How can you sleep amidst this din? In the midst of warring armies?”

Singh pulls a pillow from the bed, places Abhimanyu’s head carefully on it and stands up.

“Singh. Listen to me. Although I was aware of the art of piercing the Chakravyuh, I still had to fight my way through here. Fence swords, duck lances, dodge arrows. Look at these scars on my body and this one here on my chest.”

Slowly, bracing for pain, Abhimanyu gestures towards his wounds.

“They bear testimony to my struggle getting here. But how did you reach here unhurt? Your skin is without blemish. Your face shows no fatigue. There is a tiredness… and yes. There is fear. I see fear in your eyes. Please talk to me. Do not let me die in ignorance.”

“Are you sure you are going to die? Shouldn’t we do something about it?”

“Ha ha. Don’t you believe the history you’ve read?”

“I do not know if I can. It’s a little complicated. We have had a few disagreements over the correctness of our history. The last government had virtually changed the course of history, we also had to cave in a few banks and dig a few trenches in key places in order to bring her back on the right track again.”

“Singh, I can feel life slipping out of my body. I won’t live long. I know I won’t live long. Tell me… tell me all.”

Singh settles down on his haunches. But his knees do not seem to allow that position for long. He folds his legs under his knees in one direction; in the legendary seating posture of the Mahatma and with a deep breath begins.

“You may have not heard about this Abhimanyu, but I was placed here. I did not come in myself.”

“Who did it?”

“The people who wanted a consensus.”

“If I understand correctly, you did say you are a ruler. Aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“How can it be? How can any country be run with a ruler himself trapped in a Chakravyuh? How did they bring you here?”

“There were too many powerful claimants. They told me I was chosen because I was a simple and honest man. They told me I was the only one who could run a country by consensus.”

“Why didn’t they rule themselves? They had power too didn’t they?”

“They did. But they did not trust each other.”

“You speak in riddles. Tell me. You say they have consensus, but they don’t trust each other? And they do not trust each other and yet arrive at consensus? Is this the way affairs in your country are managed? But how did they manage to slip you inside the Chakravyuh?”

Singh ponders for an answer, but is unable to come up with a conclusive answer.

“I do not know. Until I saw you lying here. I wasn’t even aware this was the Chakravyuh.”

“One moment Singh. Do democracies need an army?”

“Yes. Every democracy has a standing army at its disposal.”

“Then what are they waiting for. Why doesn’t your commander smash his way through? Perhaps a diversion or something? Someone should try to save the ruler from here.”

“I had never felt the need for such an action, until now. But…”

“What kind of a ruler are you Singh? What are soldiers for? Their flesh is meant to be bartered. Either to win power or subdue it. You must order them.”

Singh fumbles for an answer. He can’t find the right words. Abhimanyu senses his difficulty.

“What is it?”

Singh looks up. Red-faced.

“I do not command our council of war.”

Abhimanyu manages a smile and sighs in despair.

“You are a simple man aren’t you! Who commands them then?”

“They are loyal to her.”

“Ah! A woman. Here we are, languishing in the middle of confusion and not to have spoken of a woman yet. Go on Singh, speak of your woman.”

“No she is not the bad sort. She inspires us all. She made me prime minister after ordering a consensus.”

“Singh, how does one order a consensus in a democracy?”

“It’s possible in a democracy. She did it. She can do anything. She shows us the way.”

“She led you here Singh. Do you realise that?”

“She could have been prime minister. But she let me have the honour. That’s how noble she is.”

Abhimanyu smiles.

“You know, when you called yourself a simple and honest man, I merely took your word for it. Now I have begun to believe it. Do you realise that the crown you speak of, is on your head and at her feet at the same time.”

“What do you mean?”

“You may be the ruler, but she has your measure.”

“That’s very easy to say. She is the light that leads us. She gives us the direction. She does not impose on me in any manner.”

“She may be the light, but it is you who walks the path, Singh! If you stumble, no one will blame the light. It would appear that your feet wavered. Perhaps it was the light that led you onto this path to the Chakravyuh. And left you alone here to fend off the enemy.”

“What does she get out of it?”

“She is the power Singh, you are the tool. She is the invisible slash, you are the blood-stained blade. She is intent, you are the action. She is morality, you are the meddler. Don’t you see it yet? Don’t you?”

Singh is taken aback by the sudden aggression in Abhimanyu’s tone. He steps back.

There is crash of glass splintering. The milk has spilled on the floor. Two safari-clad men rush in, ramrod straight their hands poised over their semi-automatic guns tucked by the waist. Ghanshyam clad in starched white also enters, head bowed.

“Sorry sir, you dozed off, I had kept the milk on the side-table.”

Singh is stunned. “It’s all right. I must have hit the glass in my sleep. Clear up the mess Ghanshyam.”

After Ghanshyam and the soldiers leave Singh gets up from his bed. He walks to the spot where he had held Abhimanyu in his arms and looks around the sparsely furnished room. The four-poster bed, the side-table next to it, the work desk and chair, the white coloured door. Everything is in place. There are no bloodstains on the fawn coloured carpet. He sighs, walks to the bathroom sink and turns the tap on.

“What a dream!”, he sighs as he shakes his head in disbelief. The water trickles off his hands. It’s pink when it hits the ceramic basin, washing the dried blood under his nails.