Chapter 10: The King of Rajahmundry
The Sound of Victory
While Arjun was scrubbing latrines in a concrete box, the city of Rajahmundry was exploding with color.
Pink and saffron powder filled the air, turning the streets into a haze of celebration. Firecrackers popped like gunfire—endless strings of them, deafening and smoky. Drums beat a frantic rhythm that shook the windows of shops and homes.
On every street corner, giant cutouts of Virender Rao towered over the people.
In the pictures, he looked humble. He was shown with a bandage on his chest, hands folded in namaste, gazing protectively at the city.
The slogan beneath his face read:
Raktha Charitra Kaadu. Tyaga Charitra.
(Not a History of Blood. A History of Sacrifice.)
The irony would have been funny if it weren't so tragic.
The Throne Room
The epicenter of the celebration was a large, colonial-style bungalow in the upscale river-view district.
It was a beautiful house. Four bedrooms. A spacious garden. A porch meant for quiet family evenings.
It was the house Arjun's father, Ramesh, had bought with his life savings. The house where Arjun was supposed to grow up.
Now, it was the "Virender Seva Bhavan" (Virender Service Hall).
Party flags fluttered from the roof. The garden, where Arjun's mother had wanted to plant roses, was now trampled by hundreds of party workers eating biryani and drinking alcohol.
Luxury cars—Toyotas, Scorpios, a Benz—blocked the driveway.
Inside the living room, where Arjun had once played video games, the air conditioner was humming at full blast.
Virender Rao sat on the sofa—the same sofa Ramesh had imported from Italy.
Virender looked healthy. The hospital pallor was gone, replaced by the glow of absolute power. He wore a fresh silk kurta. A heavy garland of jasmine and roses weighed on his shoulders.
"Sir, the numbers are coming in," his PA, Ravi, shouted over the noise of the TV. "We are sweeping! 70,000 majority! It's a record!"
Virender sipped his scotch. He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"Of course it's a record," he said calmly. "People love a victim."
The Sycophants
A stream of people came in to touch his feet.
Businessmen with thick gold chains. Police officers in uniform. Builders. Contractors.
They came bearing gifts—sweets, silver idols, briefcases that were never opened but heavily guarded.
"You are a god, Anna," a local builder gushed, bowing low. "That boy tried to stop you, but he only made you stronger! It was destiny!"
Virender chuckled. He touched the spot on his abdomen beneath the silk. The wound had healed into a jagged, ugly scar.
"Destiny," Virender repeated. "Yes. Let's call it that."
He looked around the room. He looked at the high ceilings, the expensive marble floors.
"Nice house," Virender muttered to himself. "Ramesh had good taste."
He didn't feel a shred of guilt. In his mind, the weak existed to feed the strong. Ramesh had been a sheep who wandered into a wolf's den. The sheep was eaten. The den now belonged to the wolf.
That was nature.
The Loose End
Later that night, the crowd thinned out. Only the inner circle remained.
The Circle Inspector (CI)—the same man who had beaten Arjun in the interrogation room—sat opposite Virender, nursing a drink.
"Congratulations, MLA sir," the CI said, raising his glass.
Virender nodded. "You did good work, Inspector. The security arrangements today were excellent."
"Thank you, Sir."
Virender swirled the ice in his glass. "And the other matter?"
The CI paused. He knew what 'the other matter' was.
"The boy? 1179?"
"Is he quiet?"
"Silent as a grave, Sir," the CI laughed. "He's in the Juvenile Home. My contact there says the boy has been broken. Shaved head. Cleans toilets. Gets beaten by the yard gangs. He's nobody now."
Virender leaned back. "Does he talk? About me?"
"Who would listen?" the CI scoffed. "He's a convicted terrorist in the eyes of the law. A mad kid who killed his own parents and tried to kill a saint. Even if he screams, the world will just say he's crazy."
Virender stared at the amber liquid in his glass.
He remembered the boy's eyes on the stage. That burning, absolute focus.
It had unsettled him then.
But hearing about the toilets, the beatings, the shaved head... it comforted him.
"Eight years, right?" Virender asked.
"Yes, Sir. He'll be out when he's twenty-two. By then, you will probably be a Minister. He'll just be a street beggar with a criminal record."
Virender smiled. A genuine, relaxed smile.
"Good. Let him rot."
The Speech
"Sir! The crowd is waiting!" Ravi called from the balcony door. "They want to see you!"
Virender Rao stood up. He adjusted his kurta. He put on his "public face"—the humble, suffering servant of the people.
He walked out onto the balcony.
Below him, thousands of people roared.
"VI-REN-DER! VI-REN-DER!"
flags waved. Flashlights from cameras blinded him.
He raised his hands. The crowd went hysterical.
They loved him. They truly, deeply loved the lie he had created.
Virender looked down at them.
He looked at the city of Rajahmundry stretching out along the river Godavari. The lights, the bridges, the land.
It was all his.
He thought of the boy one last time.
Arjun.
The name felt distant, like a mosquito he had swatted weeks ago.
You tried to take my life, boy, Virender thought, waving to the cheering masses.
Instead, you gave me a kingdom.
He stepped up to the microphone, and the roar became deafening.
Virender Rao began to speak, and the city listened, unaware that the true story was not ending.
It was only just beginning.
Meanwhile, in the Dark
Miles away, in a silent, suffocating cell.
Arjun lay awake.
He couldn't hear the firecrackers. He couldn't hear the speech.
But he lay with his eyes open, staring at the concrete ceiling.
In his hand, hidden under his blanket, was the brass key to the library.
He squeezed it tight until the metal bit into his skin.
The King was celebrating on his throne.
But in the dungeon, the Assassin was sharpening his mind.