New Delhi, May 1993. The PM's house felt less like a home and more like a hospice for a dying administration.
Narasimha Rao sat slumped in his study, the weight of a collapsing economy, coalition squabbles, and the still-smoldering ashes of Ayodhya pressing down on him like monsoon clouds that refused to break. The air was thick with the smell of failed policies and defeat. Outside, the protesters' chants were a distant, rhythmic thrum: "Rao hai-hai!"
On the other side of Lutyens' Delhi, in a soundproofed editing suite at the newly launched Zee TV headquarters, Rajendra watched the live feed. He sipped chai from a clay kulhad. "Drama achha hai," he muttered to the empty room. "But climax bekaar hai. Hero change karna padega."
His mobile buzzed. It was Suryananda. The Swami's voice was tight, not with fear, but with the electric crackle of a man about to step onto a high wire. "It is time. The signal… it's a roar in my head. Like the lion of Durga is shaking its mane."
"Channel 2 pe aa raha hoon," Rajendra said calmly. "Prime time. Nine minutes. Don't wear the white robes. Wear the saffron ones with the black border. Kali wale. Look like you mean business, not peace."
"And the message?"
"You'll know it when you see it. Just look into the camera and translate the noise in your head."
9:02 PM. Doordarshan National Broadcast.
The familiar Mile Sur Mera Tumhara melody ended. Instead of the news anchor, the screen showed the serene, ash-smeared face of Swami Suryananda. The nation paused. Arrey, yeh kya? Bhajan time nahi hai.
"Mere pyare deshvashiyon…" Suryananda began, his voice a low, resonant drum. "Tonight, I do not come with a sermon. I come as a conduit. The Mother is restless. She speaks not in whispers, but in thunder."
In his Pune home, a young engineer named Vikram choked on his pakoda. "Maa, TV dekho! Swamiji direct bol rahe hain!"
In the Zee control room, Rajendra watched the ratings spike in real-time on a monitor. The graph looked like a rocket taking off. Aha. TRP ki baarish.
On screen, Suryananda's eyes seemed to lose focus. He stared into the middle distance, past the camera, into something only he could see. "She shows me… a temple of numbers," he whispered, then his voice rose. "A mountain of books! Not of prayers, but of… accounts! Balance sheets!"
The camera zoomed in. A trickle of sweat, real or glycerin, Rajendra couldn't be sure, traced a path through the ash on his temple.
"I see a man!" Suryananda's body jolted as if struck by a current. His hands clenched the armrests of his chair. "A silent saint! His weapons are not swords, but… ideas! His armor is not steel, but… integrity!"
The nation leaned in. Konsa hero hai is baar?
"He sits amidst chaos, but his mind is a quiet lake!" Suryananda was shouting now, his voice cracking with prophetic fervor. "He wears glasses that reflect not his eyes, but the future of Bharat!"
In the PM's study, Rao looked up, confused. One of his aides muttered, "Yeh kiska description hai?"
Suryananda's head snapped back. He began to shudder, a full-bodied convulsion that was terrifyingly convincing. The cameraman, under strict instructions, held the shot. Drama queen hai, lekin committed hai, Rajendra thought, admiring the performance.
Then, with a final, gasping exhale, the Swami went still. He opened his eyes. They were clear, certain, and locked onto the lens with terrifying intensity.
"Manmohan Singh."
He said the name not as a statement, but as a decree. A divine footnote.
"The stars have aligned. The planets have voted. The Mother has chosen her charioteer for this dark hour. The man of silence will lead the nation's roar. Manmohan Singh."
Silence. For three full seconds of dead air, the most expensive and powerful silence in Indian broadcasting history.
Then the screen cut to a bewildered news anchor. "Um… thank you, Swamiji for that, ah, spiritual bulletin. We now return to our scheduled programming…"
The country exploded.
In living rooms, chai shops, taxi stands: "Manmohan Singh?" "Kaun? Woh economist?" "Arey, PM Rao ke advisor wale?" "Swamiji ne naam le diya! Jyotish bhi bola hai!"
Rajendra's phone started ringing like a fire alarm. He ignored it, watching the second screen where his media team was already flooding news wires, arranging 'expert panels,' and commissioning op-eds with titles like "The Saintly Scholar: Is Destiny Calling Manmohan?"
The most important call came an hour later.
"Rajendra." Priya Singh's voice was a mixture of shock, awe, and accusation. "What have you done? Papa is… he's having tea. He doesn't know what to do. The phone hasn't stopped. Journalists are outside the house."
"Is he there? Put him on."
A pause. Rustling. Then, the calm, scholarly voice of Dr. Manmohan Singh, edged with unprecedented tension. "Mr. Shakuniya. This is… highly irregular. I am an academic, a civil servant. Not a… a messiah."
"Sir, with respect, the people are calling you," Rajendra said, his tone respectful but firm. "Even the gods, apparently. You don't seek power. That's precisely why it must seek you. Think of it not as politics. Think of it as a very large, very complicated economic problem. The variable is 900 million lives. The solution is your mind."
"And the politics? The factions? The…"
"Consider me your parliamentary assistant," Rajendra cut in smoothly. "I'll handle the… wildlife management. You focus on the policy. You build the new India. I'll make sure the old one doesn't bite you."
A long silence on the other end. Rajendra could almost hear the man's brilliant, cautious mind weighing the absurdity against the terrifying possibility.
"Why?" Manmohan Singh finally asked, the quintessential scholar's question.
"Because this country needs a hero who speaks in numbers, not in shouts," Rajendra said. "And because I have a vested interest in a stable, prosperous India. My business, you see, is growth."
Another pause. "I will need to speak to my wife. To my conscience."
"Of course. Take the night. But sir, the train is leaving the station. The question is not if you will board. It's which compartment you choose."
The next evening. A discreet meeting at the India International Centre.
Manmohan Singh arrived alone, a simple file folder in hand. Rajendra was waiting in a private room.
No chai was served. Just two glasses of water.
"I have conditions," Manmohan said, bypassing all pleasantries. "No corruption. No compromise on liberalization. No interference in my economic team."
"Agreed."
"And you… you remain in the background. No ministries. No official position."
"The background is my favorite office," Rajendra smiled.
Manmohan Singh studied him for a long moment. "You are a very dangerous man, Mr. Shakuniya. You trade in destinies."
"I trade in potentials, sir. You have it. The country needs it. I'm merely facilitating the transaction."
He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a long, slender box of polished rosewood. He placed it on the table and slid it over.
Manmohan opened it. Inside, nestled on velvet, was a Parker Duofold Centennial fountain pen, its deep maroon finish gleaming under the lights.
"A pen?" Manmohan asked, puzzled.
"The most powerful weapon in the world," Rajendra said. "For signing India's new destiny. Every time you use it, sir, remember—you're not just writing on paper. You're editing the future."
Manmohan Singh picked up the pen. It was perfectly balanced. He didn't sign anything. He simply held it, as if testing its weight, the weight of the offer itself.
He looked at Rajendra, then at the pen, then out the window at the Delhi night. He gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod.
The deal was struck. Not with a handshake, but with the silent acceptance of a tool.
As Manmohan left, Rajendra's phone buzzed. A text from Suryananda: "They're calling it 'The Divine Draft.' My ashram is flooded. What next?"
Rajendra typed back: "Rest. You've delivered the prophecy. Now let the priests of politics do their puja."
He leaned back. Phase one was complete. The quiet scholar was on the board. The next moves would require less prophecy and more cold, hard, mercenary logistics.
But for now, he allowed himself a small, satisfied smile. He had just helped write the first line of a new chapter in history. And he'd done it with a prime-time television show and a pen.
Bas, he thought, ab asli game shuru hota hai. Now the real game begins.