Resistance

October 21, 2010

4:30 AM — BVM Bihar Headquarters, Patna

The war room inside the BVM headquarters in Patna felt like a furnace, thick with the heat of anxiety and the stale scent of cigarettes. Dim overhead lights flickered slightly, barely illuminating the long table where a cluster of men sat, their faces drawn with exhaustion.

Half-drunk cups of tea littered the surface, along with stacks of reports, voter lists, and hastily scribbled notes from party workers across the state. Some messages were smeared with sweat stains, others with blood—silent proof of the battleground that Bihar had become.

Aditya Pratap, the Chief Minister of Maharashtra and BVM's second-in-command, stood at the head of the table, his palms pressed firmly against the wood. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing the tense muscles in his forearms, his jaw clenched as he absorbed the latest updates.

"We're being butchered out there," he said finally, his voice rough from too many sleepless nights and too many cigarettes.

A heavy silence followed.

Across the table, Arvind Mishra, BVM's chief election strategist, rubbed his forehead, his fingers smudging the ink on the voter map he had been studying. His eyes were bloodshot, but his mind was still sharp.

"The rural vote is gone," he said grimly. "They've locked it down."

Aditya exhaled sharply, pacing back and forth. "And what about the cities?"

Mishra tapped a separate data sheet, his voice only slightly more hopeful. "Urban voter turnout is sky-high. Patna, Bhagalpur, Gaya—they're with us."

"But that won't be enough," a voice murmured from the corner. It was Vikas Thakur, one of BVM's senior campaign managers. "Bihar's power isn't in the cities. It's in the villages."

Everyone knew it. Urban Bihar belonged to BVM—but it was the rural vote that decided elections.

And right now, that vote was being stolen in broad daylight.

—

4:45 AM — Rural Bihar, Somewhere in Sitamarhi

The morning air was still cold, carrying the distant scent of burning wood from village kitchens. The polling station in Sitamarhi was one of the many locations where BVM's local workers had planned to monitor the voting process.

Instead, they found themselves watching a massacre.

Vikram Sinha, a BVM booth agent, crouched behind a crumbling brick wall, his hands trembling as he clutched his phone, trying to record the scene without being seen.

Near the entrance of the polling station, a group of masked men stood guard, their expressions hidden behind cloth coverings, their hands resting on lathis and crude pistols.

Inside the booth, the presiding officer sat stiffly behind his desk, his face pale, as a man in a white kurta stood beside him, dictating voter rolls.

"This one votes for us," the man in the kurta said, pointing at a name.

The election official nodded mechanically, marking the vote without even looking up.

At the back of the room, four women stood frozen, their hands clutching the edges of their sarees.

One of them, an old lady with deep lines of age etched into her face, finally found the courage to speak.

"But I want to vote for—"

A slap echoed through the room, cutting her off.

She stumbled slightly, her frail frame trembling as one of the masked men leaned in close.

"You'll vote for who we tell you to, Maai," the man sneered, his voice low and dangerous.

Outside, Vikram's stomach twisted, bile rising in his throat.

This isn't an election. This is a robbery.

His grip tightened around his phone, his camera still rolling.

He had to get this footage out.

The world needed to see this.

—

5:15 AM — BVM War Room, Patna

Back at headquarters, a group of BVM tech workers huddled around a screen as the first videos of booth rigging began coming in.

One of the interns, a young woman barely out of college, gasped as the footage played. "Oh my god."

The clip showed a polling station in Aurangabad, where a group of men had stormed the booth, smashing EVM machines and forcing voters to leave.

Aditya leaned over her shoulder, watching stone-faced.

"We need to get this online. Immediately."

Mishra frowned. "We should wait. We need more—"

"No," Aditya snapped. "We don't wait. We put it out now."

They had no choice but to fight back with the only weapon they had left—the truth.

—

5:30 AM — National Media Outlets

By sunrise, the first leaked footage had already begun spreading like wildfire.

News anchors scrambled to cover the breaking story, but none of the mainstream media dared to point fingers.

On News24, a female anchor spoke cautiously:

"We are receiving unverified reports of alleged irregularities at some polling stations across rural Bihar. The Election Commission has stated that it is monitoring the situation, but so far, there has been no official confirmation."

On Zee News, the coverage was even more measured.

"Political parties are trading allegations of voter suppression, with some videos circulating online. However, the Election Commission has urged voters to remain patient and allow the process to continue."

The truth was out there, but the national channels were still playing it safe.

But on the ground, independent journalists were telling a different story.

—

6:00 AM — Journalist Report, Rural Bihar

In a dusty field near Nalanda, a journalist named Rohit Sharma held a small hidden camera, his voice barely above a whisper.

"We are standing outside a polling station where—" He paused, ducking as a group of armed men passed by. His breath was shaky when he continued.

"We've spoken to multiple voters who say they were prevented from entering the booth. Others claim they were forced to vote under threat."

His cameraman, a thin man named Arjun, zoomed in on a group of villagers huddled under a tree.

One woman, her face partially covered with a dupatta, hesitated before speaking.

"They told us… told us if we vote for BVM, they'll know. They'll come for us later."

Her voice broke, her fear palpable.

Rohit turned back to the camera. "This is not an isolated incident. We have received multiple reports of this happening across rural Bihar. The question is—will anything be done?"

The feed cut off.

The battle wasn't just on the ground. It was a war for the truth itself.

And so far, the truth was losing.

—

6:30 AM — BVM Headquarters, Patna

As more videos flooded in, Aditya stood motionless, staring at the growing list of confirmed booth captures, voter intimidation cases, and missing ballots.

A cold rage settled in his chest.

"We're fighting a losing battle," Mishra said quietly.

Aditya clenched his jaw.

No.

Not yet.

Not while they still had breath left in their lungs.

"We release everything. Every single piece of evidence. Every video, every testimony."

Mishra hesitated. "It won't change the votes."

"No," Aditya admitted. "But it will change the people."

If they couldn't win this election, they would make damn sure the people of Bihar knew why.

October 21, 2010

10:00 AM — A Remote Village in Sitamarhi

The sun had risen high, bathing the dusty roads in a harsh golden glow, but the tension in the air was thick and suffocating. There was no festival-like excitement, no cheerful chatter of people waiting in line, no journalists recording the voices of hopeful voters.

Instead, there was silence.

Men and women stood in tight clusters, their faces downcast, eyes shifting nervously between the polling station entrance and the masked men standing outside it.

There were eight of them—dressed in white kurtas and dark sunglasses, their hands resting casually on wooden lathis. Their presence was a silent message to the village.

Vote wisely. Or suffer the consequences.

Inside the polling station, BVM booth agent Amit Kumar sat stiffly behind a wooden desk, his palms damp with sweat. He wasn't supposed to be here. He was supposed to be monitoring the voting process, ensuring a fair election.

But the men at the door had other plans.

Amit cast a quick glance toward the presiding officer, an aging man with thin-rimmed glasses and a balding head. The officer sat rigidly, avoiding eye contact, his fingers shaking as he recorded names in the voter list.

Amit opened his mouth to protest when the door creaked open.

A new man entered—dressed in a spotless white kurta, his hair slicked back, a thick gold chain glinting at his collar. His very presence commanded obedience.

It was Suraj Yadav—the local strongman, the ruling party's unofficial enforcer.

Amit's throat went dry.

Yadav didn't speak immediately. He simply walked toward the officer's desk, leaned down, and placed a single finger on the voter list.

"This one," he murmured, tapping a name. "He votes for us."

The officer swallowed hard, hesitated, but then slowly checked the box and moved on to the next name.

Yadav smiled. "Good."

Amit gritted his teeth.

"This is illegal," he hissed under his breath. "This is voter fraud!"

Yadav turned slowly, as if only now noticing him. His lazy smile never faded, but his eyes darkened.

"Amit ji," he said softly, walking toward him. "Do you know what happens to men who talk too much?"

Amit stiffened. "I—"

CRACK.

A lathi slammed against his chair, just inches from his knee.

The room fell deathly silent.

Yadav crouched beside him, his voice still eerily soft.

"You're an educated man, Amit ji," he murmured. "You should know that in Bihar, elections are not won by votes. They are won by who counts them."

Amit's hands curled into fists.

But he said nothing.

Because he knew that if he did, he wouldn't walk out of this room alive.

—

10:30 AM — BVM War Room, Patna

The war room was a storm of voices.

Reports were flooding in from across Bihar—booth captures, missing ballots, voters turned away. The rigging wasn't subtle anymore. It was happening in broad daylight, and no one was stopping it.

Aditya Pratap stood at the center of it all, his hands clenched into fists, his face carved from stone.

"We need action, not reports," he snapped. "Where the hell is the Election Commission?"

A junior aide, his shirt damp with sweat, stammered, "They—they say they are monitoring the situation."

Aditya let out a harsh laugh. "Monitoring? That's all?"

Another aide, a woman named Ritika, hesitated before speaking. "Sir… the police aren't responding either. They're letting it happen."

A bitter silence settled over the room.

Of course, they were.

The police, the bureaucracy, the local administration—they all belonged to the ruling party.

Aditya exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "And the media?"

Ritika shook her head. "The mainstream channels are playing it safe. They're reporting on the high turnout in urban areas, but they won't touch the rural rigging."

Aditya's fingers drummed against the table.

"We have our own people on the ground, right?"

Mishra, the election strategist, nodded. "Yes. Our volunteers are filming everything."

"Then we go all in," Aditya said, his voice firm. "We push every single video out. On Omnilink, on WhatsApp, on every digital platform we control."

Mishra hesitated. "Won't that make things worse?"

Aditya's eyes were dark.

"It's already worse."

—

11:00 AM — News Media Coverage

By midday, Bihar was burning—not with fire, but with whispers.

The television channels played it safe.

NDTV: "Bihar sees record voter turnout. Some reports of minor disruptions."

Zee News: "Heavy polling in Bihar—democracy in action!"

But on Omnilink, Twitter, and WhatsApp, the story was different.

BVM's digital wing had begun leaking real footage—videos of men like Suraj Yadav controlling voter lists, of booths being taken over, of innocent voters being turned away.

One clip went particularly viral.

It showed a middle-aged woman in a pink saree, standing outside a polling station, her voice trembling with suppressed rage.

"They told me I had already voted," she said, clutching her election card. "But I never even entered the booth!"

By noon, the video had millions of views.

But for every BVM video that surfaced, the ruling party had a counter-narrative ready.

"BVM is spreading fake propaganda."

"They are trying to delegitimize the election."

"Their supporters are creating violence to disrupt voting."

And to many rural voters, those lies sounded convincing.

—

11:30 AM — Rural Bihar

In a small village in Purnia, an old farmer named Mahendra Rai sat on the steps of a temple, listening as a local party worker spoke.

"BVM will take your land," the man insisted. "They will bring outsiders. They will destroy our way of life."

Mahendra frowned, his fingers gripping his wooden cane. "But… aren't they building factories? Schools?"

The worker laughed. "For whom? Not for you."

Another man, standing nearby, nodded. "If you vote for BVM, you'll wake up one day and your sons will have no fields left to plow."

Mahendra looked away, his mind torn.

The cities were celebrating BVM. But here, in the villages, the story was different.

Here, fear was stronger than facts.

—

12:00 PM — The Turning Point

Back in Patna, Aditya's phone buzzed.

He picked it up. "What?"

The voice on the other end was frantic.

"Sir, they've shut down the internet in some areas."

Aditya went still. "What?"

"Their local networks are blocking Omnilink. We're being cut off from the rural belt."

For the first time that day, a chill ran down Aditya's spine.

This wasn't just an election.

This was a war.

And BVM was losing.

October 21, 2010

12:30 PM — A Polling Booth in Darbhanga

The air was stifling, thick with the scent of dust and sweat. The polling station—a small government school with faded walls—was packed, but there was no noise, no celebration, no energy.

People stood in nervous clusters, their eyes darting toward the men in white kurtas, stationed near the door. The booth enforcers. The ones who decided who would vote and who wouldn't.

A BVM booth agent, Rakesh Jha, sat behind a desk near the voter rolls, his fingers clenched so tight around his pen that his knuckles turned white.

He wasn't here to change the election. He knew that was impossible.

He was here to bear witness.

To document the fraud, the threats, the stolen votes.

But right now, he could do nothing.

Because the police officers standing in the corner weren't protecting the election.

They were watching in silence as democracy was beaten into submission.

The door swung open, and a man in his mid-forties, dressed in a bright saffron kurta, strode inside. He had the look of someone who owned the place.

Vinod Thakur.

One of the ruling party's district-level strongmen.

He glanced at the presiding officer, barely acknowledging the older man's presence, and then walked straight toward Rakesh.

A slow, easy smile spread across Vinod's lips.

"Bhaiyya," he said, his tone almost friendly. "Kaisi chal rahi hai chunaav ki tayari?"

("Brother, how's the election going?")

Rakesh forced himself to stay calm. "The turnout is high," he said stiffly.

Vinod chuckled, shaking his head. "No, no, I mean, how is it going for you?"

Rakesh's stomach twisted.

Before he could answer, Vinod turned to one of his men near the entrance and gave a small nod.

CRACK.

A lathi smashed against Rakesh's shoulder.

Pain exploded through his body as he staggered backward, barely catching himself against the desk.

Around the room, no one moved.

The voters—men, women, the elderly—stood frozen, their faces blank with fear.

The police officers near the wall?

They didn't even blink.

Vinod sighed, crouching beside Rakesh, who was still struggling to breathe.

"See, bhaiyya," he murmured. "Yahan sab apni aukat mein rehte hain."

("Here, everyone stays in their place.")

He leaned in closer. "Samjhe?"

("Understood?")

Rakesh didn't answer.

Because if he did, he knew the next hit would kill him.

—

1:00 PM — BVM War Room, Patna

The air inside the BVM headquarters was suffocating.

Screens lined the walls, showing live footage from polling stations, but the videos weren't being broadcasted on any news channels.

They were being sent directly to BVM.

On one screen, a booth in Begusarai showed men forcefully marking ballots.

On another, a BVM worker lay unconscious on the ground, blood pooling beneath his head.

And on the largest screen, a live video feed showed Rakesh Jha, still slumped against his desk in Darbhanga, while the police stood by.

Aditya Pratap's hands curled into fists.

"This is a goddamn slaughter," he muttered, pacing the room.

Arvind Mishra, BVM's chief election strategist, wiped sweat from his forehead. "Our people can't fight back. The police won't help. If they even try, they'll be next."

Aditya stopped pacing. "Then we need to make this public."

Mishra hesitated. "We've already put out the videos. The ruling party's counter-narrative is drowning us."

Aditya turned sharply. "Then we make it louder."

He grabbed his phone and dialed a number.

"Put the footage on every international news platform. CNN, BBC, Al Jazeera—all of them."

Mishra stiffened. "That's… risky."

Aditya's voice was deadly calm. "This isn't an election anymore. It's a crime scene."

—

1:30 PM — A Journalist's Hidden Camera

Rohit Sharma, an independent journalist, crouched behind an abandoned cart, gripping his hidden camera tightly.

He had seen election rigging before, but this?

This was worse.

At a polling station in Madhubani, a man was being dragged out by his collar, his screams barely audible over the cheers of ruling party workers.

A police officer stood nearby, smoking a cigarette.

Rohit's breath was shaky as he whispered into his microphone.

"This is not an election," he murmured. "This is a war zone."

He tapped his earpiece. "Arjun, do you have the footage?"

His cameraman's voice came through the receiver. "Yes. But if they catch us—"

"They won't," Rohit cut in. "We send it now."

He reached for his phone and hit upload.

Within minutes, the footage was live.

—

2:00 PM — Social Media Erupts

By the afternoon, Bihar was no longer just a state election.

It had become a global controversy.

On Twitter, hashtags like SaveBiharVotes and ElectionRigging began trending.

On Omnilink, millions of users flooded BVM's page, demanding action.

Even international news channels picked up the videos.

CNN: "Reports of severe election violence emerge in Bihar, India."

BBC: "Shocking footage shows booth capturing and voter suppression."

For the first time, the ruling party was on the defensive.

But they had already planned for this.

—

2:30 PM — The Government's Counterattack

In a conference room in Patna, a group of ruling party leaders sat around a long table, watching the news coverage.

The Home Minister of Bihar, a sharp-eyed man in a beige Nehru jacket, exhaled slowly.

"They're making a lot of noise," he murmured.

One of his aides, a younger man, frowned. "Should we respond?"

The Home Minister chuckled. "We already have."

He gestured toward the television.

On News18 Bihar, a familiar face appeared—Sudhir Tripathi, a pro-government journalist.

"We are hearing wild allegations from BVM and their allies," Tripathi said smoothly. "But our sources on the ground confirm that no major disruptions have taken place. The election process has been smooth and fair."

The Home Minister leaned back, satisfied. "See? Perception matters more than reality."

His phone buzzed.

A message flashed on the screen:

"Internet shutdown successful in 32 districts."

He smiled.

Now, it didn't matter what videos BVM leaked.

Because no one in Bihar's villages would see them.

—

3:00 PM — BVM Headquarters, Patna

Aditya slammed his fist against the table.

"They shut down the internet," Ritika confirmed, her voice shaking. "Thirty-two districts are completely cut off."

The room fell into stunned silence.

For the first time that day, fear crept into Aditya's heart.

Not because they were losing.

But because it meant the ruling party wasn't afraid anymore.

They had already won.