Akhilesh Tambe surged with vitality as he looked down at the gathering of over one lakh people from the helicopter. As the thud of the rotors overcame the noise of the crowd, all heads turned skyward. To the horde of devout followers gathered there, he was a messiah descending from the heavens to end their suffering.

In the two years since his discussion with Behram, everything had fallen into place. The party and the samaj, the group of workers that supported the party, had aligned to nominate him as their prime ministerial candidate. The money promised by Behram had flown into the party’s coffers, most of it in cash sourced by the businessman, to enable the party to get around the Election Commission’s rules on expenditure. Behram continued to work hard behind the scenes, smoothing over any differences between the party, represented by Akhilesh, and the samaj, represented by Kushagra – his skills, influence and money coming to the fore.

Akhilesh had no doubt that victory was imminent. He could feel it in the electric energy radiating from the crowds at each rally. He was running over two hours late for his fourth rally of the day, and yet, not a single soul had left. His faithful followers waited patiently to hear him deliver the promises they fervently believed he would keep. He was the Janata Sangathan Party’s (JSP) most popular face, his presence in demand everywhere, every candidate pleading for his presence to swing enough votes in their favour, as the country geared up for its general election.

The helicopter had been made available from the fleet owned by Behram’s mining company. It touched down, whipping up a cloud of dust that forced the welcoming party to turn away. Akhilesh hopped out even before the rotors had stopped spinning, the agility belying his age, ducked beneath the blades and strode towards the group. He embraced the JSP’s local candidate effusively, engulfing him in a bear hug that signalled his comfort with and belief in the man. He was introduced to the rest of the group, key leaders and workers of the party in that region, his near eidetic memory quickly cataloguing each name and face for future reference.

Surrounded by Z+ security, the group made its way towards the stage. Even from a distance, he could feel the atmosphere was electric with anticipation, as the gathering awaited the man who promised much-needed change. As soon as he appeared at the top of the stairs leading up to the stage and in sight of the crowd, the bright spotlights focused on him, making him a beacon for all to see. One hundred thousand people began to chant his name, the noise shaking the very stage with its intensity.

He stepped to the front of the stage, the cameras making sure he was visible to everyone on the ground, the giant screens on either side of the stage broadcasting his image to even those who were furthest away. He raised his hands above his head in a namaste. The greeting drove the crowd into a frenzy and they roared as their messiah acknowledged their presence. He stood there for a full five minutes, waving to the crowd, allowing them to worship his presence, to convey their adulation, even as his eyes scanned the gathering, assessing its demographic distribution. He was thrilled to see, as had been the case almost everywhere else, that every age group, dressed in the colours of the party, was represented in nearly equal proportions. More importantly, for a party trying to upend the rule of a well-entrenched, if embattled incumbent, he was delighted to see that women, seated in separate sections carved out for them, comprised nearly 40 per cent of the audience.

Tens of thousands of JSP’s flags, each bearing the party’s trident symbol, fluttered proudly in the hands of its supporters. Massive hoardings carried his image alongside campaign slogans of the JSP. Money well spent, he thought, recollecting the hours spent with the country’s leading advertising agency to develop the entire public relations campaign.

When he sensed a slight lull in energy, he raised both hands again, commanding attention. The chanting stopped almost instantly and the drums and trumpets descended into silence as the audience leaned forward to hear the great man speak. He walked to the podium with measured steps, building the anticipation.

“Namaskar,” he said confidently into the microphone, his familiar voice emerging from speakers installed around the ground. The crowd roared again, forcing him to wait several minutes before continuing.

When he spoke next, a hush fell over the crowd. His oratorical skills and charisma, honed over forty years in politics, were unmatched, and when he felt this energised, as he did at every rally close to the elections, his abilities seemed to grow, allowing him to captivate his audiences. Cheers interspersed his passionate discourse, as he tore into the opposition, highlighting their corrupt misdeeds, explaining how they robbed the people of India, and all of the people sitting there, of even the most basic necessities in life. He repeated his party’s promises, referencing his own humble beginnings to connect emotionally with the crowd, making them understand and believe that he too had experienced the deprivations that they were living. He laid out a vision for the country’s development and with it, their economic prosperity, not boring them with details but instead focusing on the big picture points he knew would stick with them.

At the end of a fiery 20-minute speech, he introduced the candidate for the constituency, requesting him to say a few words. He stood by the candidate’s side, nodding his head appreciatively at the words from the younger man’s mouth. The earnestness of Akhilesh’s reaction ensured that everyone assembled there, and everyone watching on television, was convinced that the candidate was personally endorsed by Akhilesh. Briefed to keep his speech short, the young man wound up within three minutes, deferentially handing the podium back to Akhilesh. As he bent to touch the leader’s feet, Akhilesh grabbed him by his shoulders and enveloped him in a hug instead – a choreographed moment designed by the JSP’s advertising agency to address concerns raised in their market research.

Akhilesh grabbed the microphone again, exhorting the crowd to vote for the JSP and its agenda of economic development, promising to put an end to the ruthless attacks on civilians from the various terrorist organizations that were, one way or another, linked to the troublesome neighbours to the north. He finished his speech to raucous applause, the crowd going wild in delirious happiness as Akhilesh ended with chants of “Bharat Mata ki Jai”.

It was time for him to leave. But, for some reason, he felt drawn to the group of women sitting right in front of the stage, their ragged clothing and baleful eyes calling out to him. Ignoring the pleas of his security team, he exited the stage and moved towards the women, intending to spend a few minutes interacting with them.

The security team rapidly assembled around him, their weapons ready, hurried instructions whispered into their earpieces, as they worked urgently to protect the future prime minister against any threat that may await him in the crowd. Finally, they made it to the group of women, thoughts of the assassination of a former prime minister in similar circumstances playing through each of their heads. They waited on tenterhooks while Akhilesh earned additional political mileage for his party, heaving a sigh of relief when he finally finished his interaction, closing in even tighter around him as he made his way towards the helicopter.

As they crossed the stage, the local candidate beamed with pride. “Thank you for coming, sir. The people will never forget –”

A sharp crack cut through the air. The man’s words transformed into a scream as he clutched his shoulder, blood seeping between his fingers.

“Sniper!” barked the lead security officer into his wrist mic. “Package is exposed! Move, move!”

Bodyguards immediately drew closer around Akhilesh, forming a human shield.

“What’s happening?” Akhilesh demanded, trying to look back at the fallen man. “He is hurt.”

“Down, sir! Keep your head down!” A burly guard forced Akhilesh into a crouch, dragging him towards safety.

“Location of shooter?”

“Unknown! Move to the secondary extraction point!”

“Clear the path!” shouted another, muscling through panicked party workers. Akhilesh struggled against their grip.

“The people – we need to calm them down before –”

“With respect, sir,” hissed the team leader, “our only priority is keeping you alive.”

“Run! Everyone run!” shouted someone, as they spotted the fallen local leader in a pool of blood. The stampede began instantly, a human avalanche of terror.

“Stop!” Akhilesh shouted to the crowd. “Please, remain calm!” His words vanished into the chaos. Through a momentary gap between shoulders, Akhilesh glimpsed a child separated from her mother, terror on her face as the crowd surged.

“We have to help them!” he pleaded. “People are being trampled!”

“Car’s ready, move now!” The command overrode his protest as they hustled him towards the vehicle. The armoured vehicle waited with engine running, door already open.

“Where’s the local police?” asked the team leader.

“They’re gone, sir,” came the terse reply. “Abandoned their positions.”

They bundled Akhilesh into the car, his security chief practically diving in after him.

Excerpted with permission from Spectres of Vengeance: When Justice is Elusive, Vengeance Becomes the Law, Tarun Mehrishi, Penguin India.

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