Echoes of a Fallen Crown

 

As I sat on the plush velvet chair, waiting for my name to be called, the grandeur of the oath-taking ceremony blurred into the background. My heart should have been soaring; this was the moment I had dreamed of my entire life. Instead, it felt heavy, as if a stone had lodged itself in my chest. The hall was filled with the who's who of Indian politics, their faces painted with false smiles and calculated congratulations. Cameras flashed, reporters buzzed, and yet, I felt utterly alone.

My name is Deepak Sukhwinder, the soon-to-be Chief Minister of Delhi. A title I fought for, sacrificed for. A title I now wear like a crown of thorns.

As I leaned back, my thoughts began to wander, pulling me into the labyrinth of memories I’d tried so hard to suppress. My Abba’s voice echoed in my ears, deep and commanding, yet filled with warmth. “Deepak, Dilip, you two are the roots of this family tree. Stay united, no matter what storms come your way.”

Abba and Mama were everything to us. They taught us values, principles, and above all, love. Dilip and I were inseparable, two sides of the same coin. Where I was calculated and reserved, Dilip was impulsive and charismatic. He had a way of lighting up every room he entered, his laughter infectious, his energy boundless. He loved people—not for their votes, but for their stories, their struggles.

Then came the Gujarat riots.

I can still see the flames licking the night sky, hear the screams piercing the air. Mama’s cries as she shielded us, Abba’s futile attempts to reason with the mob. That night, we lost everything. The safe cocoon of our childhood shattered, replaced by ashes and blood.

We had no one but each other after that. Dilip became my strength, and I, his anchor. We vowed to rise above our pain, to honor our parents by dedicating our lives to service.

Politics came naturally to Dilip. He had a way of connecting with people that was almost divine. I stood behind him, working tirelessly to ensure his vision turned into reality. When Dilip became a minister, it felt like both of us had won. His victories were mine; his dreams, ours.

But then came the fateful day when our dreams turned into nightmares. It was just weeks before the election. Dilip was the frontrunner for Chief Minister, a position he deserved more than anyone. And then, he was gone. Murdered.

The news broke me. I could barely process it, the grief so overwhelming that it threatened to drown me. But the party saw an opportunity—a sympathy wave. They proposed my name, urging me to step into the void left by Dilip. I hesitated, but they were persuasive. “Do it for Dilip,” they said. “Carry his legacy forward.” And so, I agreed.

The sound of applause brought me back to the present. My name was announced, and I rose, walking towards the stage with measured steps. The oath lay before me, a string of words that would bind me to this position of power.

“I, Deepak Sukhwinder, do swear in the name of God that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the Constitution of India as by law established, that I will uphold the sovereignty and integrity of India, that I will faithfully and conscientiously discharge my duties as a Minister for the State of Delhi, and that I will do right to all manner of people in accordance with the Constitution and the law, without fear or favor, affection or ill-will.”

The words tasted bitter on my tongue. As I stepped down from the podium, the applause swelled again. My gaze fell on a portrait in the party office—Dilip, smiling, his eyes full of life. My chest tightened. I walked towards it, my vision blurring. “This is for you, brother,” I whispered. But the words felt hollow.

Because I knew the truth.

Dilip’s death was no random act of violence. It was orchestrated. And the mastermind was me.

The memory flooded back, unbidden. The plan was meticulous, designed to leave no trace. A car accident, staged to perfection. The brakes tampered with, the vehicle veering off a cliff. It was swift, efficient. And it worked. The nation mourned a hero, and I, his grieving brother, became the natural successor.

I told myself it was for the greater good. That Dilip’s idealism would have been his downfall in the cutthroat world of politics. That I could achieve what he couldn’t. But deep down, I knew it was greed. Pure, unadulterated greed for power.

Now, as I sat in the Chief Minister’s chair for the first time, the weight of my actions pressed down on me. The cabinet members buzzed around, discussing policies, strategies. I nodded mechanically, my mind elsewhere.

Then, a commotion outside the window caught my attention. A roar of voices, growing louder. The ministers rushed to the window, and I followed, my heart pounding.

In the midst of the crowd, I saw him.

Dilip.

He stood there, bandaged and battered, but unmistakably alive. His eyes met mine, and in them, I saw a storm. He raised a trembling finger, pointing directly at me.

“No,” I whispered, stumbling back. “It… it can’t be.”

But it was. My past, my betrayal, had come back to haunt me.

The room spun, the voices of my colleagues fading into a deafening silence. As I stared at Dilip, a single thought consumed me:

The throne I had fought so hard to claim was built on lies. And now, it was crumbling beneath me.