The Battlefield

October 15, 2010

7:30 AM — Aritra's Villa, Jadavpur

The morning air was cooler, carrying the sweet scent of shiuli flowers that had fallen overnight, scattering like tiny white stars across the damp earth. The city had barely begun to stir, but the anticipation of Maha Ashtami, the most sacred day of Durga Puja, was already thick in the air.

From the open balcony, the distant beats of dhak drums could be heard, the rhythm slow and deliberate, like a heart preparing for something grand.

Aritra stood by the window, coffee in hand, watching the first rays of the sun paint the Dakuria Lake in gold. For once, there were no urgent calls, no meetings, no news alerts demanding his attention.

Today wasn't about the world.

Today was about Durga Maa.

Behind him, Katherine stirred, stretching lazily on the bed, wrapped in the soft folds of the yellow saree his mother had chosen for her.

She groaned softly, rolling onto her stomach. "I can't feel my feet."

Aritra chuckled, setting his cup down. "That's what happens when you walk through half of Kolkata in one night."

She lifted her head, eyes half-lidded with sleep. "Half of Kolkata? You mean all of it."

He smirked. "Welcome to your first real Durga Puja."

She flopped back onto the pillows dramatically. "How do you all do this for five days? My legs are rebelling."

Aritra walked over, sitting at the edge of the bed. "You get used to it."

She peeked at him through her lashes, lips curving. "Will you carry me to the mandap today?"

He leaned in, voice teasing. "Do you want me to?"

She pretended to think before grinning. "No. But a foot massage wouldn't hurt."

Aritra sighed in mock suffering, but his hands found her aching feet, kneading gently. Katherine exhaled in bliss, stretching like a cat.

"You know," she murmured, "I think I like Durga Puja."

He smirked. "It only took you two days of suffering to figure that out."

She nudged him playfully. "I'll remember this next year. Flat shoes only."

He shook his head. "You say that now. Next year, you'll be running through crowds like a pro."

Katherine smiled, eyes soft. "Maybe."

For a moment, the world outside faded—the protests, the political struggles, the constant weight of power.

It was just them.

And for once, that was enough.

An hour later, they stepped out of the house, walking toward the local mandap, where the Ashtami Puja and Anjali were about to begin.

The streets were already alive with devotion. Women in golden-yellow sarees walked in groups, carrying trays of flowers and incense. Children, dressed in bright new clothes, ran between the lanes, their laughter mixing with the distant conch shells.

The local mandap wasn't as grand as the famous ones in North Kolkata, but it held a different kind of magic. It wasn't just a place to worship—it was a place where everyone knew each other.

As they entered, heads turned.

Some of the older women smiled approvingly at Katherine in her yellow saree, whispering among themselves. She might have been an outsider once, but today, she was one of them.

Aritra noticed but said nothing.

Katherine seemed unaware, too absorbed in the atmosphere.

The idol of Durga Maa was breathtaking—her face glowing in the morning light, her gaze both fierce and compassionate.

The priest's voice filled the air, chanting the sacred mantras.

As the Anjali began, Aritra and Katherine stood side by side, their hands folded, offering their prayers.

Katherine closed her eyes, letting the words wash over her.

She didn't understand every line, but she felt it. The power, the devotion, the sheer magnitude of faith that surrounded her.

And in that moment, something settled inside her—a sense of peace, of belonging.

She opened her eyes, looking up at Durga Maa's face.

And for the first time, she truly understood why they called her The Mother.

While Aritra and Katherine stood in the peace of the mandap, offering their Anjali, the world outside remained far from still. The fires of protest that had been raging in Mumbai had not gone out completely, but they had begun to sputter, contained by careful political maneuvering.

The government had moved swiftly, issuing public statements, holding press briefings, and deploying trusted bureaucrats to calm the narrative before it spiraled out of control. For the last two days, the opposition had found its strongest weapon in public discontent over the monorail and bullet train projects, but now, that weapon was being dulled.

By the time October 15 arrived, the protest had already begun to lose momentum.

——

Mumbai 

The protest leaders, once fiery and determined, had started pulling back as the government's assurance spread through media channels. Across Mumbai, local news anchors repeated the key message:

"The government has confirmed that the monorail and bullet train will remain affordable for the common people. Low-cost tickets will be introduced alongside premium services to ensure access for all."

The wording was calculated, designed to disarm the opposition's accusations while keeping the projects untouched.

More importantly, the government announced that subsidies would be introduced for daily commuters, with discounts for students and senior citizens.

It was a tactical retreat, but one that worked.

By the afternoon of October 15, many protestors had begun to disperse, their momentum broken. Some still remained—hardliners backed by opposition parties and industrial rivals—but the general public was no longer as angry.

At Azad Maidan, where the largest protests had taken place, a veteran journalist observed the change and muttered to himself, "The fire's still there, but the fuel is gone."

——

Bihar

While the Mumbai crisis was cooling, BVM's war in Bihar was still far from over.

In urban Bihar, the situation had improved. Cities like Patna, Bhagalpur, and Muzaffarpur had responded positively to BVM's recovery efforts. Newspaper campaigns, public speeches, and direct engagement with youth leaders had begun repairing their image.

Young professionals and students, who had initially admired BVM's infrastructure-driven vision, had returned to their side, reassured by the party's guarantees on job creation and economic development.

But in rural Bihar, nothing had changed.

There, the fear-mongering by opposition workers had deeply embedded itself into local consciousness.

In the villages of Darbhanga, Munger, and Gaya, BVM campaigners still faced resistance. Farmers and laborers remained skeptical, their minds flooded with rumors of forced land acquisitions, unfair economic policies, and urban elitism.

Even though the urban population was stabilizing in BVM's favor, rural Bihar remained a battlefield—one where words were no longer enough.

By the time the sun set on Maha Ashtami, two realities had unfolded.

In Mumbai, the protests that once seemed like a massive threat had been reduced to scattered voices, their demands neutralized by careful political maneuvering.

But in Bihar, the battle was far from over.

And in his study, as Aritra looked over the latest intelligence reports, he knew one thing—

Winning Bihar would take more than just promises.

It would take something bigger.