Maharakshak
Elsewhere with Raghav
Raghav woke in his own bedroom—surprisingly peaceful, sunlight filtering through curtains. He sat up slowly, blinking at the familiarity of it all.
He looked down at himself—still in yesterday's clothes. Then his hand drifted to his neck, where the little fish had touched him.
Something was there.
He walked to the bathroom mirror.
A small tattoo now sat on the side of his neck—not a goldfish, but a delicate catfish, elegantly curved, almost glowing faintly under the light. He tilted his head—then noticed the metal bracers on the counter. The right one now bore a carved fish symbol matching the tattoo.
He stared at them.
Raised his hands—about to try the transformation motion.
His phone rang.
He paused, glanced at the screen.
Daisy.
He answered.
"Sir—you're not coming in today?" Her voice was tight with worry.
Raghav rubbed his temple.
"My head's killing me. I won't be in."
There was a stunned silence.
"Sir… do you know what date it is today?"
"Don't talk in riddles, Dizzy."
"Today is the launch of Drishyam News Channel. You haven't answered my calls for three days. Media from other channels, guests—everyone's already arriving. You've missed critical meetings. Investors and partners are… not happy. And—have you written your speech? This is your first big-screen appearance."
Raghav exhaled.
"Is Mahen there?"
"Who?"
"The Prime Minister."
"Of… India?"
"He's coming."
A sharp intake of breath.
"What? No one told me!"
"Quiet. Listen—does anyone else know he's coming?"
A quick pause.
"No… no one."
"Good. I'll be there. Don't let anyone know yet. Have our cameraman and lead reporter ready at the front gate—we'll arrive together. And one more thing."
He paused.
"Is Maya there?"
A rustle—Daisy looking around.
"Yes."
"Start the program. Tell Supriya to handle hosting and begin the history segment. Keep things moving."
He hung up.
Sat on the edge of the bed for a moment.
Then dialed another number.
"Hey, Mahi."
Drishyam Complex – Launch Event
The auditorium was packed—executives, editors, investors, media personnel, guests. Lights dimmed dramatically.
Supriya—poised and professional—stood center stage as the face of Sunday Morning Daily, now transitioning to lead voice of the new channel.
A large projector screen lit up behind her.
She began narrating the history of Drishyam—calm, measured, respectful.
Old black-and-white photos faded in: Raghav's grandfather starting the newspaper from almost nothing—tiny office, hand-operated press, endless struggles.
Then—Ram Charan Suryavanshi.
The revolutionary.
The man who turned debt into dominance.
Supriya's voice softened as she reached his era.
"His biggest legacy wasn't just circulation numbers… it was truth. And courage."
She lifted a printed sheet.
"One day, when I was going to school with my father in our car… the car stopped at traffic lights. I looked out the window and saw children playing on the roadside—dirty, ragged clothes. I asked my father: 'Why aren't they going to school like me?'"
She read slowly—letting every word land.
"'They don't have money to go to school,' he said. I remembered Mother saying there were free government schools. Father explained they couldn't go—because hunger came first. Education wasn't their priority. Food was."
She continued—voice steady.
"I couldn't understand. In my child's mind, mothers give food. Father said they didn't have enough money for food either. I asked why. 'Because we earn it,' he replied. 'They don't work hard.'"
The hall was silent.
"Then why don't I work? 'Because your mother and I have enough.' Why don't they? 'They don't work hard.' What did you do that they don't? 'People always look for the easy way. They avoid the hard path.'"
She paused—eyes scanning the crowd.
"The traffic light turned green. The car moved on. But that conversation stayed. I drew a triangle on my notepad. Asked my teacher: 'Why is this shape a triangle?' She said, 'Because you made it that way.'"
Supriya looked up.
"The world is the way it is… because someone made it that way. My question was—whom?"
She folded the paper gently.
"By Ram Charan Suryavanshi."
Applause erupted—warm, respectful.
Lights slowly rose.
Little far away in a car, two men watched on a monitor.
"She talks too much," Mahen Yadav—Prime Minister of India—said dryly.
Raghav—sitting beside him—grinned.
"Same thing I said when I first heard her. That's why she's the voice of my channel."
He opened a whisky bottle.
Mahen raised an eyebrow.
"Who made this documentary? It's… far-fetched. One-sided."
Raghav poured himself a glass.
"Don't know. Don't care. False publicity. No one will remember."
He offered the bottle.
Mahen shook his head—firm.
"You know what happens if anyone sees me drinking."
Raghav smirked.
"Who's going to tell them?"
They both glanced at the two black-suited men standing silently near the door—Mahen's personal security.
Mahen gave a small smile.
"They won't say anything."
Raghav poured two more glasses anyway—offered them.
The bodyguards didn't even glance at the drinks.
"Are they always like this… or is it because of me?" Raghav asked, sipping.
"They're trained soldiers, Raghu. If they see a threat—they won't hesitate."
Mahen leaned back.
"So—what's your big plan today?"
"To surprise them."
The car slowed to a stop outside the main entrance.
A tight security cordon of black suits immediately formed—clearing a path.
Cameras flashed like lightning.
Media rushed forward—recognizing the black Rovers, the formation.
Then the rear door opened.
Raghav stepped out—dressed in traditional blue-and-white kurta, a light coat draped over his shoulders. No three-piece suit. No modern edge.
A ripple went through the crowd.
"Mr. Raghav!"
Before questions could fly, security blocked them gently but firmly.
Then—the second door.
Mahen Yadav stepped out—matching traditional attire.
The flashes became blinding.
Voices rose to a roar.
Raghav and Mahen walked side by side—calm, regal—like old friends who'd done this a hundred times.
Inside the foyer, the entire team waited—executives, editors, vice presidents, Supriya, Daisy, Maya, and dozens more.
Raghav introduced everyone—first Supriya (whom Mahen already knew), then editors, news heads, department leads.
When he reached Daisy—
"Miss Daisy."
Mahen smiled warmly.
"Raghav talks a lot about you."
Daisy froze—stunned.
"How much trouble you're in," Mahen added with a wink.
Her face fell—then he laughed.
"Joking. It's good to meet you."
Daisy managed a shaky smile.
They moved toward the lift.
Supriya briefed them quietly.
"Everyone's waiting for the opening ceremony—ribbon cutting."
Raghav raised an eyebrow.
"Ribbon? We thought we were doing it the old-fashioned way."
Supriya flushed.
"Sorry—I misspoke. Coconut breaking."
They reached the entrance.
Supriya handed them a large coconut tied with red thread.
Raghav offered it to Mahen.
"You should do it—the guest of honour."
Mahen pushed it back.
"It's your right—you're the owner."
Raghav pushed it back.
"You're the guest."
Laughter rippled around them.
They went back and forth—playful argument—until they decided:
"We'll both try—one after the other."
Mahen went first.
He knelt, raised the coconut.
"Ganpati Bappa…"
Slam.
It didn't break.
Laughter erupted—even from Mahen.
"Need more force," Raghav said, grinning.
He took the coconut.
"My turn."
Raised it high.
" Jai Bajrangbali!"
Slam.
The stone cracked—but the coconut stayed whole.
More laughter.
"Too much force," Raghav muttered, separating the broken pieces.
He handed it back to Mahen.
"Your turn. Something stronger."
Mahen raised it again.
"Har Har Mahadev!"
Slam.
The coconut shattered cleanly.
Applause thundered.
"Now that's the most powerful word," Raghav said with a grin.
Inside the Lift – Private Moment
Raghav and Mahen stepped in with the two bodyguards.
The doors closed.
Both men sighed at the exact same moment—cheek muscles finally relaxing.
Raghav rubbed his face.
"Didn't your cheeks hurt? You smile all the time."
"Practice, my friend. Practice. When you're destined to lead a nation—you learn everything."
Mahen glanced around the lift.
"How many lifts in this building?"
"Four. One always reserved for emergencies—or functions."
"Are they all this old? This one has a missing button."
Raghav shrugged.
"Yes. And I don't know about that button."
A comfortable silence.
Mahen leaned against the wall.
"What are you doing these days?"
"Nothing much. Just… trying to connect with the gods."
Mahen chuckled.
"Really? Looks like it's my turn to tease."
"Bad luck. How's your life? How's Leena? Last I heard she was nominated for Best Actress at the Golden Globes. Still in touch?"
Mahen's smile faded slightly.
"No."
"Really? You were head-over-heels."
Mahen pressed a finger to his lips.
"Walls have ears, my friend. And yes… you know politics. It's a mud pit. You enter in white—come out in every colour. She's a global sensation now. I'm a politician. Politicians and actresses… it doesn't work."
Raghav nodded.
"I can already see the headline: 'Indian Prime Minister dating Christian actress from Israel.' War drums."
"She's secular," Mahen said quietly.
"So is India. But headlines don't need truth."
Mahen gave a dry laugh.
"Here I thought her being a foreigner would be the problem."
"Love stories don't survive politics. Not indian atleast. And Pakistan's watching—big guns in the corner, waiting for you to slip."
"Conquer's a big word. They used to be part of us."
"So you're on that Akhand Bharat thing?"
"It's a possibility. Can't ignore Father's dying wish."
"That's a long road. I can't see it in my lifetime. We already have enough problems at home."
"Most created by others—or poor management. Many have no real base."
"But give them a tail and they'll grab our legs. Conflict's already at our feet, Mahi. Step on it—they bite."
Mahen nodded slowly.
"Lanka's a good start."
"Yeah. How's the Ram Setu project?"
"Bridge connecting Lanka to India. Longest, most beautiful ever built."
"Length?"
"37 km."
Raghav raised an eyebrow, whistled.
"How is that even possible?"
"Come on—Lord Ram built one seven thousand years ago. We can do it now. Blueprints by the world's best minds. It'll be a landmark—national and international."
"Budget? I heard there was heat—might get shelved?"
"You can ask that in the interview. And after the Carl-Krish incident… things got complicated."
"Nice. You coming to the opening of Ram Setu? I was thinking of giving you satellite rights and viewership contract."
"No."
Raghav looked surprised.
"Do an auction. Sell it if you can. I don't care if I get it or not. People will watch my channel anyway. I'll personally be there."
"Glad."
The lift doors opened.
Tons of camera flashes erupted.
They stepped out—perfect fake smiles locked in place.