July 15, 2001 The Tajview Hotel, Agra, India 08:30 AM
The orange juice was lukewarm. The toast was like cardboard. And the silence in the banquet hall was heavy enough to crush a main battle tank.
I sat at the head of the long mahogany table, stiff in my commando uniform. The stars on my shoulders gleamed under the chandeliers, but I felt like an imposter.
Across from me sat Atal Bihari Vajpayee, the Prime Minister of India. To the world, we looked like two apex predators circling each other, waiting for the other to blink. To the hundreds of cameras zoomed in on our faces from the press gallery, this was the "Agra Summit"—the last chance to stop a nuclear war.
But inside my head? Inside the skull of General Pervez Musharraf? I was just Aditya. And I was incredibly bored.
'Look at them,' I thought, scanning the room.
To my right, the Pakistani Foreign Minister was sweating, terrified that I would say something unscripted. To my left, the Indian National Security Advisor, Brajesh Mishra, looked like he had swallowed a lemon. Everyone was terrified. Everyone was expecting me to slam my fist on the table and demand Kashmir.
I looked into Vajpayee's eyes. Behind his thick, black-rimmed glasses, I saw a tiny, almost invisible spark. It was the signal. The play begins now.
We had planned this scenario late last night, in a secure room with no aides, no spies, and absolutely no microphones. We had agreed that standard diplomacy was dead. If we wanted to stop the nukes, we had to start a different kind of war.
I pushed my porcelain plate away. It clattered loudly against the table. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the silent hall.
The room froze. A waiter dropped a silver spoon. The Pakistani Corps Commanders reached for their holsters. The Indian SPG (Special Protection Group) agents tensed, hands hovering near their hidden MP5s.
I stood up slowly. My chair scraped against the marble floor—a harsh, violent sound.
"What happened, Musharraf-ji?" Vajpayee asked. His voice projected perfectly for the microphones. He looked genuinely concerned. He was a surprisingly good actor for a poet.
I looked down at the plate of boiled eggs and soggy toast with utter disdain. I channeled every ounce of the "arrogant dictator" persona I had perfected over the last two years.
"I am fed up," I announced, my voice booming in the hall.
The Indian Foreign Minister gasped. The journalists in the back row started typing furiously. Breaking News: Talks Collapse! War Imminent!
"I am fed up with this bland breakfast," I continued, my face stone cold. "And with this type of breakfast, Mr. Prime Minister, we cannot talk peace. How can we discuss the future of one billion people with tasteless food in our mouths?"
The confusion in the room was palpable. Was this a metaphor? Was it a code?
Vajpayee stood up, leaning his palms on the table. "Then why not we bring something here of your liking, General? The hotel kitchen can prepare—"
"No, Sir," I cut him off, raising a hand sharply. "If we are having breakfast, we will do it in Agra style."
Vajpayee paused for dramatic effect. He looked at me, then looked at the terrified hotel manager. "Agra style?" he mused. "You mean..."
"I mean the street," I said. "Real food. For real talk."
I turned and began to walk towards the exit.
For three seconds, nobody moved. The sheer absurdity of the statement paralyzed the most powerful men in South Asia. Then, chaos erupted.
"General!" my Chief of Staff hissed, running after me. "Protocol! Security! You cannot just—"
"I am the Chief Executive," I snapped without stopping. "I am the protocol."
Vajpayee was right behind me. He was smiling—a warm, grandfatherly smile that disarmed the tension in the room even as he shattered the rules. He walked past his own stunned security chief.
"Come then, General," Vajpayee said loud enough for the press to hear. "Let us find some heat."
As we walked past the stunned reporters, I leaned close to him, whispering in Hindi so only he could hear. "You missed your calling, Atal-ji. You should have been in Bollywood."
He chuckled softly. "And you, General, write excellent scripts."
08:50 AM The Convoy
The drive was a nightmare for the security teams, but a joyride for us. We were in Vajpayee's armored BMW. Just the two of us in the back. No translators. No spies.
Outside the bulletproof glass, the streets of Agra were a blur of color. But ahead of us, the road was suspiciously clear. My "Secret Service" and his "SPG" had already swept the route at 4:00 AM. They knew. They just hadn't told the diplomats.
"The Americans are going to panic," Vajpayee remarked, watching the Taj Mahal pass by in the distance. "The CIA probably thinks I'm kidnapping you."
"Let them panic," I said, adjusting my beret. "Panic is good. It means they are paying attention."
The car slowed down. We had arrived. Deviram Sweets, Pratap Pura Crossing.
It wasn't a 5-star establishment. It was a hole-in-the-wall shop, famous for two things: the best Bedai Kachori in India, and flies.
"Ready?" I asked.
"After you, General," Vajpayee gestured.
We stepped out. The humid heat of July hit us instantly, carrying the smell of boiling oil, hing (asafoetida), and diesel fumes. The crowd that had gathered was being held back by a wall of black-clad commandos, but they weren't chanting angry slogans. They were silent, watching with wide eyes.
They saw the impossible. The Military Dictator of Pakistan and the Prime Minister of India, sitting on cheap, wobbly plastic stools on the footpath.
"Bhaiya!" I shouted to the shop owner, my voice slipping easily into the local dialect of my past life. "Two plates! Spicy kachodi chutney! And hot Jalebis!"
The shopkeeper, a man named Deviram who looked like he was about to faint, shakily poured the curry.
I took the leaf bowl (pattal). It burned my fingers. I took a bite of the crisp, deep-fried Bedai. The explosion of spices hit my tongue—fennel, chili, coriander.
God, I missed this.
For a second, the illusion broke. I wasn't General Pervez Musharraf. I wasn't the man who had launched the Kargil War. I was Aditya. I was the civil servant who used to sneak out of the Mussoorie Academy to eat food exactly like this.
I looked at the cameras flashing like strobe lights across the street. I knew what I had to do next. I had to play the villain, the hero, and the clown, all at once.
"Let them in," I ordered the security chief.
"Sir?" The commando looked horrified. "It's not safe—"
"I said, let the media in. If I can conquer a country, I can handle a few journalists."
As the floodgates opened and the reporters rushed towards us like hungry wolves, I took a bite of a hot, orange Jalebi.
How the hell did I get here?
How did a dead Indian bureaucrat end up in the body of the man who tried to destroy his country, only to become the only man who could save it?
I chewed the sweet, sticky dough, closing my eyes against the flashbulbs.
It all started with a corrupt politician, a heart attack, and a very strange sense of humor from the Universe.
It started with a file I refused to sign.