Shourav and Dibendu first met at St. Thomas University, where both had enrolled for a degree in Political Science. United by their keen interest in politics, they closely followed developments around the world, often engaging in discussions about the issues shaping nations and societies. Though they shared a common goal of addressing the world’s problems, their ideologies differed, each believing in a distinct approach to finding solutions.
Their ideological differences often led to heated arguments, sometimes so intense that they would refuse to speak to each other for three or four days. Yet, neither could remain upset for long. Without waiting for anyone to intervene, they would eventually reconcile on their own and return to their usual camaraderie, as though nothing had happened.
During university debates, Shourav and Dibendu invariably found themselves on opposite sides. Their impromptu debates became so popular that the auditorium would be packed to capacity whenever they took the stage. Even the judges thoroughly enjoyed their spirited exchanges, as both presented compelling arguments that left the audience with plenty to think about. Declaring a winner was often the most difficult part, with the judges struggling to decide whose arguments had carried greater weight. Yet, beneath their fierce onstage rivalry, there was never any bitterness. Both genuinely appreciated each other’s performance and were equally happy, regardless of who emerged as the winner.
The Debate: Inclusion and Merit
The auditorium at St. Thomas College was packed. Students occupied every available seat, while several stood along the walls, unwilling to miss the much-anticipated debate between Shourav and Dibendu.
The motion displayed on the screen read:
“In building a nation, should social representation take precedence over individual merit?”
Shourav stood first. He adjusted the microphone, looked across the audience, and began.
Shourav: “My friend Dibendu believes that merit should be the guiding principle in every sphere of life. I respect that belief. But before we decide who deserves an opportunity, we must ask a more fundamental question: Who had the opportunity to become deserving in the first place?”
A murmur of appreciation passed through the auditorium.
“Imagine two students sitting for the same examination. One has attended an excellent school, has books at home, a quiet room to study in, and parents who can afford private tuition. The other studies in a poorly equipped school, shares a room with three siblings, and spends evenings helping the family earn a living.
“Both sit for the same examination. One scores ninety-two per cent; the other scores seventy-eight.
“Now tell me, should we look only at the marks and declare that the first student has greater potential? Or should we also consider the circumstances in which those marks were earned?”
He paused, allowing the question to settle.
“I am not arguing that standards should be abandoned. I am asking whether we can call a competition fair when some participants begin far ahead of others. If a government wants every citizen to contribute to the nation's progress, it must first ensure that talent is not buried beneath poverty, discrimination, or lack of access.”
“ A nation cannot discover the abilities of people it has never given a fair chance to develop.”
The applause was sustained. Shourav acknowledged it and returned to his seat.
Dibendu rose slowly, buttoned his jacket, and walked towards the lectern.
Dibendu: “Shourav has asked an important question. I agree that opportunity must not depend on the family into which a person is born. But I would like to ask another question: Once we have opened the doors, what should determine who gets to walk through them first?”
The audience grew quiet.
“Let us return to his example. One student scores ninety-two per cent and the other scores seventy-eight. We know that their circumstances were different. But do we know everything about their abilities? Perhaps the second student is exceptionally talented in a field the examination does not measure. Perhaps the first student has worked very hard despite having advantages. We cannot assume either person's worth from a single number or from their background.
“The answer, therefore, cannot be to ignore merit. It must be to measure merit more intelligently.”
He turned towards Shourav.
“Suppose we are appointing a surgeon. Would we select someone who has not acquired the necessary skills because we feel sorry for the disadvantages that person has faced? Surely not. The patient on the operating table cannot be asked to bear the consequences of our good intentions.”
A few students nodded. Others shifted in their seats.
“But here is the distinction I want us to understand. We must help disadvantaged students acquire the skills they lack. We must improve their schools, provide financial assistance, offer training, and remove barriers that prevent capable people from competing. We should not confuse the right to receive an opportunity with an unconditional right to receive every position.
“Compassion should open doors. Competence should help determine who is ready to take responsibility once those doors are open.”
The auditorium broke into applause. Shourav smiled faintly, but he was already preparing his response.
When Dibendu returned to his seat, Shourav rose again.
Shourav: “I agree with much of what you have said. But your argument assumes that we can create a fair starting line simply by improving schools and providing assistance. What happens when the disadvantage is not merely financial?”
He stepped away from the lectern.
“What happens when a child grows up believing that certain professions are not meant for people like them? What happens when qualified candidates are overlooked because of their surname, their community, their gender, or the neighbourhood they come from? You may have an excellent selection process on paper, Dibendu, but who ensures that the people applying have not already been discouraged from trying?
“Representation is not always about giving someone an advantage. Sometimes it is about recognising that a system has been overlooking people without even realising it.
“When a young girl sees a woman leading a scientific institution, she begins to imagine that she, too, can get there. When a child from a marginalised community sees someone from that community occupying a position of responsibility, the child begins to see a future that once seemed impossible.
“Representation can change aspirations. It can also reveal talent that an apparently neutral system has failed to recognise.”
The applause returned, this time from a different section of the auditorium.
Dibendu leaned towards his microphone.
Dibendu: “And I agree that a person's background should never become a reason to deny that person an opportunity. But Shourav, representation must not become a substitute for reform.
“Suppose we appoint people to satisfy a numerical target but fail to provide them with the training, resources, or institutional support needed to succeed. Have we helped them? Or have we placed them in positions where they must struggle without adequate preparation? While others, question whether they deserved the opportunity in the first place?
“True inclusion cannot end with an appointment. It must begin much earlier, with good schools, accessible education, proper training, fair recruitment, and a workplace where people can grow.
“And we must apply the same principle to everyone. If someone from a disadvantaged background demonstrates outstanding ability, the system must recognise it. If someone from a privileged background works hard and demonstrates competence, we must recognise that too. Fairness cannot mean that one person's background permanently defines them, whether positively or negatively.”
He paused, then added:
“I do not want a nation where a person's birth decides what they can become. But I also do not want a nation where we stop asking whether the people entrusted with important responsibilities are capable of carrying them out. The citizens who depend on our institutions deserve nothing less.”
The moderator intervened.
“Gentlemen, let me put one final question to both of you. Imagine that tomorrow you are responsible for designing the country's education and employment policy. You have limited public funds. What would you prioritise?”
Shourav took the microphone.
Shourav: “I would begin by identifying where opportunity is missing. I would invest in neglected schools, provide financial assistance to students who need it, strengthen support for underrepresented groups, and ensure that recruitment systems are transparent. I would measure not only how many people succeed, but also who never gets the chance to compete.
“If we measure only the achievements of those who have reached the top, we may never notice the talent left behind at the bottom.”
Dibendu followed.
Dibendu: “I would invest in those same foundations. But I would also insist on measurable outcomes. Are students actually learning? Are training programmes producing the skills employers need? Are public institutions delivering better services? Is recruitment fair, and are appointed candidates performing effectively?
“Money spent in the name of inclusion is not enough. It must produce meaningful opportunities, and those opportunities must lead to real progress. We owe disadvantaged citizens more than promises. We owe them results.”
The moderator looked from one to the other.
“So, Shourav, would you accept that inclusion must be accompanied by standards?”
“Yes,” Shourav replied. “Provided those standards are fair, relevant, and applied without prejudice.”
“And Dibendu,” the moderator continued, “would you accept that merit cannot be assessed fairly unless people have a genuine opportunity to develop their abilities?”
Dibendu nodded.
“Absolutely. A race is not fair merely because everyone hears the same starting signal. We must also examine the conditions under which the runners arrived at the starting line.”
A loud applause passed through the hall.
Shourav extended his hand towards Dibendu.
From Campus to Political Life
Both Shourav and Dibendu were popular campus leaders, each heading a well-established student union. Their ideologies, however, led them towards different approaches to student welfare.
Shourav’s union championed a secular, inclusive campus where every student, regardless of background, could feel represented and access equal opportunities. From admissions to cultural events, it paid particular attention to groups that had historically been underrepresented.
Dibendu’s union stood firmly for merit and excellence. He believed that academic and extracurricular opportunities should be earned through demonstrated competence and that standards must not be compromised. In his view, merit would strengthen the university’s quality, reputation, and performance.
Both wanted a better university, but their differing views on inclusion and merit placed them on opposite sides of many major issues.
During their university years, both Shourav and Dibendu enjoyed their share of electoral victories, each winning support through their distinct ideologies. Over time, a perception took root that Shourav represented the masses, while Dibendu appealed more to the class. Their popularity, debating skills, and leadership abilities did not go unnoticed by the political establishment. Recognising their potential, different political parties began taking an interest in them. Soon after graduation, both were approached by parties whose ideologies aligned with their respective beliefs. Each party sought to impress upon them the opportunities it could offer, hoping to persuade them to join its ranks and become part of its political journey.
They discussed the offers at length, hoping to find common ground. But although both wanted their country to prosper, they could not agree on how best to achieve it. Each remained convinced that his own ideology offered the better path. Eventually, they joined different parties, beginning separate political journeys guided by the principles they had long upheld.
Despite joining different political parties, Shourav and Dibendu continued to live together, their friendship remaining untouched by their political differences. As a matter of principle and professional ethics, they never discussed their respective parties’ strategies or internal affairs. However, there were times when frustration got the better of them, and they would confide in each other about instances where they felt their ideals had been compromised.
With experience, both began to realise that translating idealistic beliefs into political reality was far more complicated than they had imagined. Their vision of how things ought to be was not always accepted in its entirety. Practical compulsions, competing interests, and the deeply entrenched beliefs of their respective party leaders often dictated the course of action. Though they understood that certain compromises might be unavoidable, accepting them was never easy for either of them.
Their competence, dedication, and leadership abilities helped Shourav and Dibendu steadily climb the ranks within their respective parties. However, their rise did not go unnoticed by senior party veterans who had long considered themselves the rightful contenders for such positions. Although displeased by the newcomers’ growing influence, most chose to keep their resentment to themselves rather than express it openly before the party leadership.
As Shourav and Dibendu rose to positions of authority, gaining the power to influence key decisions, both began to question the performance of certain party workers occupying important posts. Convinced that the time had come for change, they wanted to replace underperforming members and bring in fresh talent who aligned with their respective ideologies.
Two Leaders, Two Political Realities
Shourav’s party was in power at the Centre, having scraped through the last general election largely thanks to its alliance partners, whose support had proved crucial in securing the numbers needed to form the government. However, the coalition was an uneasy congregation of parties with differing ideologies, priorities, and political interests. The constant need to accommodate alliance partners and keep the government intact often forced the ruling party to dilute its stand or compromise on key decisions. What should have been a clear mandate to govern frequently turned into a delicate exercise in consensus-building, with political compulsions taking precedence over ideological convictions.
Shourav’s induction into the party and his rapid rise through its ranks were far from smooth. His growing influence created considerable unease, not only within sections of the party but also among its alliance partners. The party leadership had to work hard to convince its allies of Shourav’s potential, while assuring them that his elevation would not disturb the underlying agreements and understandings that held the coalition together.
Within the party, however, there was a firm belief that Shourav had the potential to make a significant impact. His ability to connect effortlessly with ordinary people, listen to their grievances, and make himself accessible without the trappings of power earned him considerable popularity. His growing mass appeal soon became impossible to ignore, even for the alliance partners, who began to recognise that Shourav was emerging as a political force in his own right.
Shourav’s words gradually began to travel far beyond his public meetings. What started as a powerful line in one of his speeches soon became a saying among his followers. “All fingers are not the same. They differ in size, strength, and function, yet together they make a hand. A hand does not reject a finger for being different; it finds strength in accommodating every one of them. That is how a society should be, not by making everyone equal in their abilities, but by giving everyone equal dignity and a place to contribute.” What made the quote particularly powerful was its simplicity. Everyone understood the image of a hand, yet its message ran deep: a nation does not become stronger by making everyone alike, but by finding strength in the differences that bring its people together.
Dibendu’s party, in contrast, had managed to win just a single seat in the last general election. Unlike Shourav’s party, it had no alliance partners to accommodate and no competing political interests to navigate. Consequently, Dibendu’s rise through the party ranks was relatively smooth. His induction and growing influence were seen as a welcome change rather than a threat, as party members could clearly recognise the difference he brought to the organisation. They appreciated his capabilities and vision, and his elevation was accepted gracefully, without the resistance or internal tensions that often accompany the rise of a promising newcomer.
Dibendu was a gifted orator who could effortlessly draw large crowds and hold their attention. His unwavering insistence that competence should matter more than an individual's background resonated with many sections of society, particularly those who believed that merit, rather than privilege or identity, should determine a person's future.
In one of his widely appreciated speeches, he drew an analogy with family life, emphasising how a competent man or woman could contribute immensely to a family's prosperity. Extending the same principle to society, he argued that everyone, irrespective of gender, social standing, or economic background, should have equal opportunities to acquire knowledge and develop skills in schools and colleges. However, once equipped with these opportunities, individuals should advance in their chosen fields based on their competence, performance, and merit.
He maintained that those who demonstrated the required abilities deserved opportunities to grow, while those who fell short had two choices: accept the limitations of their existing skills and take up work suited to their capabilities or make a conscious effort to improve themselves and acquire the competencies demanded by better opportunities. For Dibendu, equality meant giving everyone a fair chance to learn and compete, not guaranteeing everyone the same outcome regardless of merit.
His message was direct, uncompromising, and at times uncomfortable, but it struck a chord with people who believed that a nation's progress depended on recognising talent, rewarding competence, and encouraging every individual to strive for excellence.
Dibendu and his party firmly opposed any form of appeasement, believing that political decisions should be guided by principles, merit, and the larger interests of the nation rather than by the need to please particular groups or secure electoral support.
Dibendu’s growing popularity began to create ripples within the ruling party. What made his rise particularly noteworthy was that he never resorted to bad-mouthing the government or indulging in personal attacks against its leaders. Instead, he used every public speech to focus on development, outlining what needed to be done and how it could be achieved through a systematic, step-by-step approach. Rather than merely criticising the existing system, he presented a vision backed by practical solutions, explaining how each measure could contribute to the nation’s progress. This constructive style of politics increasingly drew public attention, making his growing influence a matter of concern for the ruling establishment.
The Price of Political Loyalty
One day, as Shourav entered the party office, he was informed that he had been summoned to the meeting room. A little surprised, he made his way there, only to find the senior-most leaders of his party and its alliance partners already assembled. The party president gestured for him to take a seat.
“I apologise,” Shourav began. “I wasn't aware that a meeting had been scheduled.”
The president looked at him gravely. “Shourav, this is an emergency meeting, and we need to discuss something that concerns you directly. Given Dibendu’s rising popularity, and the fact that he happens to be your close friend and flatmate, our party and its alliance partners have reached a decision. We want you to vacate the flat you currently share with him.”
Shourav looked taken aback, but the president continued before he could respond.
“There is growing discontent among sections of our party workers. Your living together has begun to raise suspicions and create doubts about where your loyalties lie. With barely eighteen months remaining before the next election, we cannot afford to take any chances that might deepen these divisions. We have therefore decided that you should move to another flat, which the party will arrange for you close to this office.”
Shourav took a moment to absorb what he had heard before attempting to put forward his argument.
“Sir, with due respect, Dibendu and I have never discussed our respective parties’ strategies or internal matters. We have always considered that a matter of professional ethics. Despite living together for the past fourteen months, we have strictly maintained that boundary. Our friendship has never interfered with our political responsibilities, and I can assure you that it never will.”
The president raised his hand, cutting him short.
“I understand what you are saying, Shourav, and I am not questioning your integrity. You may well be telling us the truth. But we cannot run a political party on personal assurances alone. We have to consider the sentiments of our workers and abide by the collective decision of the party. After all, it is the workers who make or break a party.”
He paused before adding, “We cannot afford dissent at this juncture. Several of our own workers have already begun showing an inclination towards Dibendu’s party. Whether their suspicions about your friendship are justified or not is beside the point. We cannot allow this issue to grow into a larger problem, especially with the elections approaching. I hope you understand the larger political compulsions behind this decision.”
Shourav sat silently, struggling to reconcile the decision with the principles he had always upheld. For the first time, he found himself caught between the personal values that had defined his friendship with Dibendu and the political compulsions of the party to which he had pledged his allegiance.
By the time Shourav reached home, a small truck was already waiting outside. The party had insisted that he use its car to save time. Before leaving the party office, he had been asked to leave his mobile phone in the meeting room. He had complied without much thought at the time, but now, with no means of contacting Dibendu, he felt increasingly uneasy.
He entered the flat, hoping to gather his thoughts before breaking the news to his friend. But, to his dismay, the packers had followed him in. They stood waiting for his instructions, ready to begin their work.
Shourav was stunned. He had known that political life demanded compromises, but he had never imagined that the party would intrude into his personal life to such an extent. He was being denied even the privacy to process what had happened in his own home, let alone the opportunity to speak to his closest friend before leaving.
As the packers began their work, Shourav tried to direct them on what to pack. Yet his mind was elsewhere, drifting back to the years he and Dibendu had spent together, ever since their college days.
Memories came flooding in, one after another.
He remembered the endless negotiations with their landlord whenever they fell behind on rent, making promises they were not always sure they could keep. He remembered the days when they cooked for themselves, often producing meals so miserable that neither would dare compliment the other. Yet, somehow, there were never any complaints. They ate what they had made, laughed at their culinary disasters, and carried on as though they had prepared a feast.
He smiled faintly as he recalled their shared fascination with the girls in the building, the furtive glances, the whispered observations, and the elaborate dreams of romance they built around the slightest exchange of smiles. How seriously they had taken those little moments, as though each held the promise of a love story waiting to unfold!
Then there were the photographs scattered across their shelves and tucked into albums, college outings, debates, gatherings with friends, and countless pictures of the two of them together. Each photograph held a story, a joke, or a memory that only they could fully understand.
His eyes fell on the collection of political books they had accumulated over the years. Some had shaped their thinking; others had challenged their beliefs. Many had fuelled their endless debates, sometimes bringing them closer to understanding each other, and at other times driving them into arguments that lasted for days. Those books had, in their own way, helped shape the men they had become.
He remembered how they had borrowed each other's clothes without the slightest hesitation. A shirt or a pair of jeans belonging to one would routinely find its way into the other's wardrobe. Shoes, too, were often exchanged without permission or even a second thought. Neither kept count, and neither ever complained.
The kitchen utensils piled up in the sink were another story altogether. Washing them was a dreaded chore, and they had devised the simplest possible solution: a toss of a coin. The loser washed the dishes, while the winner sat back with an expression of exaggerated triumph, only to face the same fate the next time around.
And the bed! How many days had it remained unmade, with sheets crumpled, pillows scattered, and clothes strewn about? Neither had ever considered it a problem. They had more important things to discuss, more arguments to win, and more dreams to build.
The walls, too, carried their own memories. They had proudly decorated them with posters of their favourite heroines, not heroes, for they had agreed that the heroines were far more pleasing to look at. Every new poster had invited commentary, friendly teasing, and the occasional argument over who deserved the most prominent spot.
Those were the days when life had been uncomplicated, when friendship had meant sharing everything without keeping score, when political differences had remained outside the boundaries of their personal lives. They could disagree fiercely, refuse to speak to each other for days, and yet, somehow, always find their way back to the same old camaraderie.
And now, those very years of togetherness were being dismantled, one carton at a time.
As Shourav watched the packers carefully wrap his belongings, he felt an ache deep within him. Each object they packed seemed to carry away a fragment of their shared past. The flat was not merely a place where two friends lived. It was a home they had built together through years of laughter, quarrels, compromises, and countless ordinary moments that had become extraordinary simply because they had lived them together.
He had entered politics believing that principles were worth standing up for, even when doing so came at a cost. He had understood the demands of party discipline and the compulsions of political alliances. But he had never imagined that one day he would be forced to choose between his political obligations and the simple freedom of living with his closest friend.
What hurt most was that he could not even tell Dibendu what had happened. He could not explain why he was leaving, reassure him that nothing had changed between them, or hear what his friend might have to say. The decision had been made for him, and the arrangements had been set in motion before he could come to terms with it himself.
For the first time since leaving the party office, Shourav felt the full weight of what he was being asked to surrender.
It was not just a flat he was leaving behind.
It was a lifetime of memories, a friendship that had survived every ideological disagreement, and a part of himself that no political decision had the right to take away.
A Friendship Lost in Silence
For nearly two weeks, Shourav was desperate to speak to his friend and explain the circumstances that had forced him to leave their home so abruptly. He even tried calling Dibendu from his new mobile number, but there was no response.
As the days passed without any communication, Shourav began to draw his own conclusions. He wondered whether Dibendu was hurt by the manner in which he had left the flat without so much as an intimation. After all, how could he have known that Shourav had been compelled to move out at such short notice, without being given an opportunity to explain himself?
Shourav longed to tell him that everything had happened in a matter of minutes, leaving him with neither the time nor the means to contact his friend. The decision had been imposed on him, and events had unfolded so swiftly that he had barely been able to comprehend what was happening himself.
Yet, with every unanswered call and each passing day of silence, his anxiety grew. He could only hope that, once Dibendu heard the truth, he would understand that Shourav had never intended to walk away from their friendship without a word.
Ever since leaving the flat he had shared with Dibendu, Shourav had been consumed by the separation. He repeatedly came close to reaching out, desperate to explain what had happened and clear the misunderstanding. Yet each time, something held him back.
Outwardly, Shourav continued to shine. His rallies drew crowds, his speeches moved people, and his connection with the masses remained strong. Inwardly, however, he knew he had changed. At times, his words lacked their usual conviction, and he felt he could have done better. His thoughts kept returning to the one conversation he desperately needed, but could not bring himself, to have with Dibendu.
Dibendu’s popularity was growing by leaps and bounds. His debates and public speeches attracted an increasingly educated and professionally accomplished section of society, many of whom began joining his party in considerable numbers. What had once been a relatively insignificant political outfit was gradually emerging as a force to reckon with, drawing widespread attention from news channels in the run-up to the next general election.
His growing influence began to unsettle the ruling party to such an extent that it was compelled to reconsider its political agenda. To the ruling party’s surprise, the response from the people was quite different from what it had anticipated. Instead of alienating voters, his speeches were drawing support from sections of society that had long felt such issues deserved a serious hearing.
Vaishali: Friendship Becomes Love
Dibendu married his longtime girlfriend, Vaishali, in a simple, low-key ceremony. Shourav had known Vaishali for three years. During their college days, the three of them had often spent time together, and Shourav knew that Vaishali, too, had a keen interest in politics. However, unlike Dibendu and Shourav, she had chosen to pursue a career of her own. She ran a boutique that was doing fairly well and kept her political interests largely confined to discussions and debates within family.
Vaishali and Dibendu had been friends since their early school years, but it was in Class IX that her friendship blossomed into love. She was captivated by his poetry recitations, impressed by the depth and breadth of his arguments during school debates, and drawn to his intolerance for partiality and injustice. His insatiable thirst for knowledge, reflected in the wide variety of books he read, only deepened her admiration for him.
In many ways, Vaishali shared Dibendu’s values and outlook. She too believed in fairness, reason, and standing up for what was right. Yet, there was one subtle difference between them. Dibendu was blunt and uncompromising in expressing his views, saying exactly what he believed without worrying about how his words might be received. Vaishali, while equally firm in her convictions, believed that diplomacy had its place, that sometimes, how a truth is conveyed can matter as much as the truth itself.
One day, Dibendu and Vaishali decided to get married in the presence of a few close friends and register their marriage, with Vaishali’s father and Dibendu’s father standing as witnesses. It was to be a quiet, personal affair, without any fanfare.
But Shourav was not invited.
Vaishali had brought up the subject with Dibendu a couple of times, asking whether Shourav should be invited. Each time, Dibendu firmly rejected the suggestion. To put an end to her doubts, he offered an explanation that sounded convincing enough: Shourav’s presence at their wedding could create problems for him within his party. Given the political tensions between the two men’s parties and the growing scrutiny of their friendship, Dibendu insisted that it was better to keep the ceremony small and avoid anything that might invite unnecessary questions.
Vaishali was not entirely comfortable with the decision, but she eventually let the matter rest. After all, she knew how much their friendship meant to both men and how complicated politics had made it.
A Midnight Visit
The election dates had been announced, and campaigning was in full swing. The contest between the ruling party and an opposition party that was rapidly gaining popularity was becoming more intriguing with each passing day. Political rallies, fiery speeches, and intense media coverage had turned the election into a closely watched battle.
It was well past midnight when Vaishali was startled by the doorbell ringing continuously.
She was alone at home. Hesitating, she wondered who could be at the door at that hour. The security staff had not informed her of any visitor, and Dibendu, caught up in his relentless campaign schedule, had not messaged her about returning home.
The doorbell rang again.
She cautiously approached the door and asked, “Who is it, please?”
“Vaishali, open the door. It’s me.”
Assuming it was Dibendu, she opened the door without further hesitation. A hooded man immediately stepped inside and gently but firmly placed his hand over her mouth.
“Please don’t shout,” he whispered.
He then slowly lowered his hood.
Vaishali’s eyes widened in disbelief. A startled squeak escaped her lips.
“Shourav!”
He quickly removed his hand and spoke in a low, hurried voice.
“Mother has prepared Dibendu’s favourite sweets. She asked me to bring them to you.”
Vaishali stared at him, struggling to comprehend what was happening.
“I know Dibendu is busy campaigning,” Shourav continued. “Given the circumstances, he may not even be comfortable seeing me. I didn’t want to attract attention or have watchful eyes following my every move, so I thought this hour would be safest. I’m sorry for startling you.”
His expression softened.
“Congratulations to you and Dibendu. Stay blessed, always!”
He handed her a small container of sweets and then took out a piece of paper.
“This is Mother’s number. You know how fond she is of Dibendu. If he ever feels like speaking to her, he can call her directly. I’ve asked her not to contact him herself. I don’t want to put him in an awkward position or cause him any embarrassment.”
He paused for a moment, as though there was something more he wanted to say. But he stopped himself.
“I should leave now.”
Before Vaishali could respond, ask him a question, or even fully absorb the unexpected visit, Shourav pulled his hood back over his head and stepped out.
Within seconds, he had disappeared into the darkness.
The security personnel had neither noticed his arrival nor realised that he had left.
Vaishali stood at the doorway, holding the container of sweets and the paper bearing his mother’s number. The encounter had lasted barely a few minutes, yet it left her deeply unsettled.
Shourav had come to offer his blessings to the very friend from whom politics had forced him apart.
Vaishali chose not to tell Dibendu about Shourav’s midnight visit or the sweets his mother had lovingly prepared for him. She kept the encounter to herself, respecting Shourav’s wish not to put Dibendu in an awkward position during the campaign.
The Sweetness of Old Memories
After ten exhausting days of campaigning, Dibendu finally returned home. His schedule had been gruelling: rallies, public meetings, interviews, and conversations with party workers. The media followed him everywhere. His once-insignificant party was now attracting unprecedented attention, with Dibendu at the centre of its rise.
News channels devoted increasing airtime to his speeches and the reasons behind his party’s sudden rise. Election projections became a regular feature of prime-time debates, with some channels speculating that his party could emerge as the single largest party and even form the next government.
For Dibendu and his supporters, it was a remarkable transformation. A party that had once struggled to make its presence felt was now being discussed as a serious contender for power. And at the heart of this unexpected political surge stood Dibendu.
Vaishali had made it a point to prepare all of Dibendu’s favourite dishes. She knew how difficult it was to get a proper meal while constantly travelling from one campaign venue to another. After a long, refreshing bath, Dibendu settled down at the dining table, looking forward to a peaceful meal. Before sitting down, he asked Vaishali to switch off the television. For once, he wanted to keep politics, news channels, and election projections at bay.
The moment he saw the spread, his face lit up.
“Wow! You’ve outdone yourself today!” he exclaimed, eagerly reaching for the dishes.
He relished every bite, his face reflecting the sheer pleasure of enjoying a home-cooked meal after days of eating on the road. Vaishali watched him with a satisfied smile, happy to see him eating to his heart’s content.
As he finished, she brought out the container Shourav had left behind.
“Have some sweets too!” she said casually.
“Sweet? Wow!” Dibendu’s face brightened again.
He took a piece and tasted it. For a moment, he seemed transported to another time.
“This is delicious!” he exclaimed. “It reminds me of the sweets Aunty used to make and send with Shourav. Exactly the same taste! It’s always been my favourite.”
He looked at Vaishali with genuine delight.
“Thank you so much! You know how much I love these.”
Vaishali smiled but said nothing, carefully concealing the secret behind the familiar taste.
Dibendu leaned back in his chair, finally relaxed after ten exhausting days.
“Now, I think it’s time to hit the bed,” he said, looking at her with a playful smile. Then he winked.
“Are you coming?”
A Call at Midnight
Just as Dibendu was about to get into bed, Vaishali gently held him by the back and asked him to sit up.
He turned around, visibly exhausted. “What happened now? Please, let me sleep. I’m dog-tired!”
Without releasing her hold on him, she slipped the small piece of paper Shourav had given her into his hand.
Dibendu glanced at it. “Whose number is this?”
“Call,” she said softly.
“Call whom? Who is it in the first place? And why should I call?”
“Please, Dibendu. Call for my sake.”
He glanced at the clock. “It’s five minutes to twelve! It’s too late to call anyone now. All right, I promise I’ll call tomorrow morning.”
“Please,” she insisted, looking straight into his eyes. “Call now.”
He sighed, unable to understand her insistence. “This is not done, Vaishali!”
Nevertheless, he took his mobile from her and dialled the number.
The phone rang a few times before someone answered.
“Hello, Dibendu!”
He froze. He knew that voice.
“Shourav has saved only your number in my mobile,” Aunty continued warmly. “I knew you would call. Did you like the sweets?”
Dibendu slowly turned towards Vaishali. His eyes filled with tears. She stood beside him, gently urging him on, silently mouthing, Talk… talk to her.
“Aunty…” His voice choked. He tried again. “I had it. Thank you so much. How are you?”
There was a brief silence at the other end.
“How can I be well, Dibendu?” Aunty asked, her voice trembling. “I heard you got married to Vaishali, though I haven’t even seen her. I have heard so much about both of you during your college days from Shourav. Can you bring her to me? I want to see her.”
Dibendu could not speak. He pressed his lips together, trying to control his emotions, but the tears kept flowing.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then, from the other end, came the familiar sound of the wall clock at Aunty’s house.
Dong… Dong… Dong…
Dibendu listened as the clock chimed twelve times, each chime marking the arrival of a new day. He knew that clock well. He had heard it countless times during the years when he and Shourav had spent hours at Aunty’s house, talking, laughing, and arguing about everything under the sun.
But tonight, each chime seemed to carry the weight of all the days they had spent apart.
As the final chime faded, Aunty spoke again.
“Dibendu, today is Shourav’s birthday. Will you wish him for me?”
Dibendu shut his eyes. His tears flowed freely now.
“Yes, Aunty,” he managed to whisper. “Of course.”
Aunty called out, her voice suddenly rising with emotion.
“Shourav! Dibendu is on the line. Come, he wants to wish you a happy birthday!”
Dibendu heard the phone being passed from one hand to another. Even without seeing him, he could sense Shourav’s hesitation, the effort to compose himself before speaking. They had known each other too well for silence to conceal what words could not express.
A few moments passed.
Then Dibendu, his voice completely choked, managed to say,
“Happy birthday, Shourav!”
At that very moment, Vaishali realised that it was Shourav’s birthday. Her eyes filled with tears, and she leaned towards the phone.
“Happy birthday, Shourav! Have a wonderful year ahead!”
There was a pause before Shourav responded.
“Yeah… yeah, Vaishali. Thank you. It means a lot.”
His voice was so choked that he could barely get the words out.
Dibendu held the phone tightly, fighting to speak through his tears.
“Shourav…” He paused, drawing a shaky breath. “It’s been so many days since I heard your voice.”
Neither spoke for a moment.
Then Shourav continued, his voice heavy with emotion.
“I tried calling you many times. Gone are the days when we used to talk every day, every hour, about everything under the sun. Who would have thought we’d reach a point where we’d go so long without even speaking to each other?”
Dibendu shut his eyes. The words hurt because they were true.
Shourav took a breath and continued.
“Anyway, Dibendu, I pray you win. I genuinely want you to win.”
Dibendu was taken aback. Even now, after all that had happened, Shourav was wishing him well.
Shourav’s voice softened further.
“As for me, I want to get out of politics. I don’t know how much longer I can carry on like this.”
Dibendu tried to respond, but his throat had tightened. He wanted to ask so many questions, explain so many things, and tell his friend how much he had missed him. Yet, at that moment, all he could manage was a broken whisper.
“Shourav…”
He stopped, unable to continue.
“Take care of yourself, Dibendu,” Shourav said quietly. “And take good care of Vaishali.”
The call fell silent once more.
Neither seemed willing to be the first to disconnect. It was as though both were desperately trying to hold on to those few seconds of connection, afraid that once the call ended, the distance between them would return.
Finally, the line went dead.
Dibendu remained standing with the phone pressed against his ear. Tears streamed down his face. Vaishali moved closer and held his hand, her own cheeks wet.
Neither spoke.
The sweets Shourav’s mother had lovingly prepared had done what neither politics nor pride had allowed the two friends to do for months. They had brought their voices together again, if only for a few precious minutes.
But the pain of everything left unsaid remained.
And somewhere, in another house, on his birthday, Shourav was probably standing just as still, holding back the same tears.
The Final Warning
The election campaign had reached its final day, and every projection and prediction seemed to favour Dibendu’s party. The enthusiasm within the party was palpable. The overwhelming public response had given the organisation what felt like a new lease of life. A party that had once struggled to attract attention was now drawing enormous crowds, and much of the credit went to Dibendu, whose speeches had captured the public imagination.
Dibendu was on his way to the final venue of his campaign, where a crowd running into the lakhs had gathered, eagerly awaiting the arrival of their favourite leader. The atmosphere was electric, with people cheering, raising slogans, and stretching their necks for a glimpse of the man who had come to symbolise their hopes for change.
His phone rang. The voice at the other end was stern and threatening.
“We have warned you several times to stop holding your rallies, but you have chosen to ignore us. This is your final rally. We are warning you once again—turn back now or be prepared to face the consequences.”
Dibendu listened in silence, just as he had during the earlier calls. Before he could respond, the caller disconnected.
A man of strong convictions and unwavering courage, Dibendu had never allowed such threats to intimidate him. Nor had he ever shared them with anyone, not even Vaishali. He believed that standing up for one’s principles came at a price, and he had long accepted that threats and intimidation were part and parcel of life in politics. For him, backing down was never an option.
As his car arrived, the crowd erupted. Dibendu stepped out and made his way straight to the stage, acknowledging the people with folded hands as he walked.
An accomplished orator, he had a style uniquely his own. He rarely relied on prepared speeches, preferring to speak extempore, allowing his thoughts to flow naturally and his words to connect directly with the audience. His arguments were clear, his viewpoints well-defined, and his delivery confident. As he spoke, he would move across the stage, turning towards different sections of the crowd, ensuring that people from every direction felt included in his address.
His final campaign speech was no different. There were no personal attacks, no expressions of hatred, and no attempts to discredit political opponents. Instead, Dibendu spoke about development, practical solutions, and the methods needed to translate promises into tangible results. He outlined a way forward that focused on opportunity, competence, accountability, and national progress.
It was a message that resonated deeply with the crowd. They listened with enthusiasm, applauding his proposals and responding warmly to his call for a politics that placed development above division.
As Dibendu continued, the roar of the crowd rose repeatedly, making it clear that his message had struck a chord with the people who had gathered in such extraordinary numbers.
As Dibendu was nearing the end of his speech, two gunmen suddenly appeared from nowhere. Before anyone could comprehend what was happening, three gunshots rang out, shattering the electrifying atmosphere. The bullets were aimed at Dibendu. He staggered and collapsed on the stage.
For a moment, the crowd stood frozen in disbelief. Then panic erupted. People screamed, pushed against one another, and ran in every direction, desperate to escape the chaos. Amid the confusion, one cry rose above the rest.
“Dibendu has been shot! Dibendu has been shot!”
Television journalists, who had been covering what was expected to be the defining moment of Dibendu’s political journey, immediately flashed the breaking news across their channels.
DIBENDU SHOT AT DURING FINAL CAMPAIGN SPEECH!
Within minutes, the news spread like wildfire. An ambulance rushed Dibendu to the nearest hospital, its siren cutting through the traffic. Doctors and medical staff hurried to receive him. He was wheeled into the ICU, where a team of doctors began their desperate efforts to save his life.
A Race Against Time
Meanwhile, Shourav received the news and stood stunned for a few seconds. Then he took a motorcycle from his security detail and raced towards the hospital, refusing to accept that Dibendu could be lying at death’s door.
Vaishali heard the news almost simultaneously.
Their home was barely ten minutes from the hospital, but the distance seemed unbearable. Without stopping to put on her footwear, she rushed into the street and began running, tears streaming down her face.
“Dibendu! Dibendu!”
She called out his name repeatedly, her voice breaking with every cry. People tried to stop her, to offer help. She heard none of them. She ran as though every passing second was stealing away the man she loved.
By the time she reached the hospital, she was breathless, dishevelled, and trembling uncontrollably. Outside the ICU, doctors and nurses moved frantically between rooms, their faces tense with concentration. Through the glass, she caught glimpses of the medical team working around Dibendu.
“Let me see him! Please, let me be with him!” she pleaded, struggling against those trying to hold her back.
“Madam, please wait. The doctors are doing everything they can,” someone told her.
But Vaishali could neither wait nor listen. She fought to reach the ICU door, as though her presence alone might bring Dibendu back to her.
Just then, Shourav arrived. He rushed through the hospital corridor, ignoring everyone around him, and headed straight towards the ICU. The moment Vaishali saw him, she seized the collar of his shirt.
“What has Dibendu done, Shourav? What has he done to deserve this? Why did they shoot him? Tell me! Will he be alive? Tell me he will be alive!”
Her questions came in a torrent, each one punctuated by sobs. Shourav tried to hold her by the shoulders and calm her down, but she was beyond consolation.
“Vaishali, please… please don’t lose hope. Nothing will happen to Dibendu. He will be all right. Keep praying,” he repeated, desperately trying to convince her, even as fear tightened its grip on his own heart.
Vaishali looked at him with eyes swollen with tears.
“Pray?” she cried. “What should I pray for, Shourav? All the Gods have betrayed me!”
Her words fell heavily upon him. He had no answer. He could only stand beside her, watching the ICU doors, silently begging fate to spare the one person whose absence would leave an irreparable void in both their lives.
The Cost of a Friendship
The minutes dragged on. Every time the ICU doors opened, Vaishali rushed forward, hoping for a miracle. Shourav stood motionless, his eyes fixed on the doctors moving inside. He had faced political battles, public hostility, and the uncertainties of a turbulent campaign, but nothing had prepared him for this helpless wait.
Finally, the ICU doors opened.
A doctor stepped out, his expression grave. The activity behind him seemed to slow as the staff turned towards him. Vaishali rushed forward, clutching her hands together.
The doctor lowered his eyes before speaking.
“I am sorry. We tried our best, but we couldn’t save him.”
For a moment, the words seemed to have no meaning. Vaishali stared at the doctor, unable to comprehend what she had just heard.
Shourav, however, reacted instantly.
“No, Doctor! No, that’s not possible!” he screamed. “He is a good man! We need people like him! Please… please check again. Do something. You have to save him!”
He fell to his knees before the doctors, pleading with them as though they possessed the power to reverse what had happened.
“Please, Doctor. I beg you. Don’t let him die!”
The doctors tried to lift him, their own expressions reflecting the helplessness of those who had exhausted every possibility. But Shourav continued to plead, refusing to accept the finality of their words.
Vaishali, meanwhile, seemed to have turned to stone. The strength drained from her body. Slowly, she sank to the floor, staring blankly ahead. Her lips moved, but no sound emerged. The man who had been her companion, her love, and her future had vanished from her world in a matter of minutes.
Shourav struggled to his feet. His face was drained of colour, his eyes fixed on the ICU doors behind which Dibendu lay lifeless. The friend with whom he had shared his youth, his arguments, his laughter, and countless dreams was gone. Politics had separated them, pride had kept them apart, and now death had arrived before either could repair what had been broken.
In a sudden, devastating act, Shourav turned towards his security personnel, seized a revolver, and raised it to his forehead.
Before anyone could react, a gunshot rang through the hospital corridor.
Shourav collapsed.
His security personnel rushed towards him. Doctors and nurses who had moments earlier been trying to save Dibendu now scrambled to reach Shourav. Vaishali, still seated on the floor, lifted her head at the sound, her face registering a fresh horror she could scarcely comprehend.
At that very moment, Shourav’s mother arrived at the hospital. She had hurried there after hearing about Dibendu’s shooting, carrying in her heart the same desperate hope that had brought Vaishali and Shourav to the hospital. But as she entered, she saw her son lying on the floor, blood staining the space around him. She stopped at the doorway, gripping it with both hands as though the ground beneath her had disappeared.
“Shourav!” she screamed.
Her cry echoed down the corridor, a mother’s anguish breaking through the stunned silence.
Within the space of a few terrible minutes, the hospital corridor had become the scene of three shattered lives. Dibendu, who had offered the people a vision of politics founded on development, competence, and hope, had been silenced by a bullet. Shourav, his lifelong friend who had wished him victory even when politics had driven them apart, had been unable to bear the loss. And Vaishali, who had dared to believe that love could survive the divisions created by power, was left staring into a future she had never imagined.
Outside, the nation watched the breaking news unfold, demanding answers about the assassination of a leader who had risen against all expectations. But inside the hospital, there were no political victories or defeats, only a grieving wife, a devastated mother, and the unbearable cost of a friendship that had run out of time.
