Ek anarchy, sau beemar ki

Jantar Mantar was built to watch all things go round. The sun, the shadow, the season, the same slow circle etched in stone. What begins there begins again there. Above and below. The sky does not fall. A few mortals do. The rest go along, naal naal, copy to all. For some it is a dream. For some, a traffic nightmare. For powers that be, a horrific one. Last night, I had a terrific one.

As the republic sleepwalks through its 77th year, the weekend opens with a Loktantra Live Show outside the old observatory. The dharna began on Gandhi Jayanti with one demand: the chief election commissioner must go. The government knows it could not sack him even if it wished to. A CEC leaves only the way a Supreme Court judge does, by a two-thirds vote in both Houses. The Constitution wrote that to protect him from the government. The government wrote a law that protects him after he goes. Both forgot to protect the government from him.

By the third week, young men from the neighbouring states drive into Delhi to defend democracy from its defenders. The Left came for the commissioner, the Right came for the Left, and the police came for overtime. The gym boys want the Delhi Police to "latth bajao, hum tumhare saath hain". Delhi Police, under orders from the home ministry, does not bajao. The force that shut 11 metro stations to keep peaceful people out cannot keep violent people apart. There are casualties. More people are provoked to come. A crore for each victim's kin is added to the already long list of demands. One press conference for the victims' families. A counter for the policemen's families. A third whose purpose and characters make everyone ask why.

Winter Session. Impeachment season. Mahua Moitra moves a motion to much thumping of desks. The BJP and its allies do not vote for it, and it falls. Then the government does quietly what it refused to do loudly. The commissioner is coaxed out with a promise that nobody will trouble him later. He is not removed. He moves. Out. Everybody takes it EC. The shadow on the samrat yantra has shifted. The sun has not.

The protesters vacate the pavement and clear the road. At the farewell press conference, they want Gyanesh Kumar prosecuted. The law does not permit it. They claim Naddaji has agreed to every demand, including ballot papers, so all demands means all demands. Nobody confirms. Nobody denies. In Delhi, that counts as a signed agreement. Neither signed, nor agreement.

Before the spot is scrubbed of oil from Junaidbhai's korma nights, they are back. This time the Chief Justice must resign. He does not. The sit-in sits on. CJI retires. They declare victory. The movement has found its most committed comrade, the calendar. Sit long enough in this country and somebody will retire. It is February 2027. They go home. A new chief justice takes the chair. Five state elections produce a mixed bag.

Then, a horrific crime against a girl student brings the candles back, a police commissioner goes, the home minister's head is demanded, an early-morning crackdown clears the spot. Everybody posts a victory display picture. But the tide goes low.

A year passes in the elections. Too many state elections. The BJP loses little and takes states the Congress had kept. Cockroaches crawl out asking what happened to the promise. The Commission says it never made one, ask the government. The young are certain vote chori is still on. A generation that scans a QR code to pay 10 rupees for chai insists that only paper can be trusted. The EVM is hacked, they know, because the viral Reels showed how. After a clash near Nirvachan Sadan, every party backs the demand, because no party wants to be on the wrong side of a crowd. The Commission, house-trained by now, agrees.

The election takes 10 phases, three more than 2024. The ballot is back and so is the bahubali. Booth capturing, retired with full honours, returns for an election tour. Everybody votes, some more than once. For the first time, all parties agree on something: the election was rigged by the rival. Paper can only be stamped, stuffed and snatched. Counting and recounting takes six days, which is what the Abrahamic God took for the whole world.

Then the result. The BJP falls short of a majority but betters the 240 of 2024. The allies supply the arithmetic. The same PM takes the oath a fourth time, past Nehru's last electoral mark. The gossip is that he would hand over power to his successor. Delhi's drawing rooms do the counting. Who, who, who. Six months, they say, and he will hand it over.

Nobody marches, because the vote was on paper and the commissioner was not Gyanesh Kumar. "India is healing", a girl posted on X, and collected 2.3 million views, 11,000 retweets and 377 comments. 188 called her a Sanghi sucker. 188 called her Rahul's bi*ch. Only one posted a heart.

This was not to last. In September 2029 a paper leaks. Not the ballot. The exam. Students march to Jantar Mantar. Deja vu, is that you? What begins there begins again there. It is an observatory. Built to watch revolutions. Of planets. In orbit. Full circle.

That's when the alarm cried out. And I woke up, telling myself none of this will happen and not in this order at all.