TEMPORAL TEMPTATION

Prime Minister

"Good morning, viewers. Welcome to News24. Coming up shortly, we'll be live at the funeral of Mr. Rajveer Singh, hailed as one of the greatest prime ministers our country has seen." The anchor's voice carried the weight of the somber news, as headlines scrolled across the screen detailing the prime minister's passing due to a cardiac arrest.

I shifted my gaze from the television to my mother, who was dressing in a sharp black dress. "Wow, Mom, you look impressive," I remarked in admiration.

She glanced at me with a serious expression. "It's just my attire, Karan," she replied, adjusting her outfit. "And wipe that smile off your face. This is a time for solemnity, even if we're not truly feeling it. The media might be coming to our doorstep. Only step out of the house when I give you the signal; otherwise, stay indoors."

I nodded and sank into the couch. As expected, the media descended upon our house. The cacophony of cameras clicking, flashes, and a barrage of questions filled the air, almost deafening. I turned my attention to the live coverage on TV, watching as Mom navigated through the crowd outside.

"Madam, any insights on the next prime minister?" a reporter pressed, thrusting a microphone towards Mom.

"It's a time to honor our prime minister's memory," Mom responded firmly, with the chaos of the media around her. "As a close colleague and the finance minister, I'm deeply saddened by this loss. He was an exemplary leader, and his absence will reverberate in every heart across the nation."

Mom had this talent for spinning tales like a pro, probably from her minister days. What's really impressive is how she can hide her thoughts so well. I mean, I get it, these skills can seem a bit shady, but hey, she's a minister, right? Can't be all sunshine and rainbows, especially with the media snooping around. They can be a real headache, you know?

I flipped back to the channel broadcasting Mr. Rajveer's funeral proceedings. There he lay, serene on the white platform, draped in India's tricolor as per tradition. His eyes shut, his body peaceful. It was hard to believe he was gone so soon. He was our country's youngest leader and perhaps the most righteous.

The anchor spoke softly, honoring the prime minister, who took on the immense task of leading a nation with the largest population at just 39. He had been re-elected four times since then, serving until his untimely passing at the age of 58, one year shy of completing his fourth term.

I got up from the couch and walked over to the window, peeking outside to see if the media had left. They were gone, and so was Mom, off to attend the funeral. I grabbed my coat before stepping out; the weather had turned unexpectedly chilly for September.

It seemed like even the clouds over India were mourning the loss of a remarkable man. It might sound dramatic, but it felt like the entire country shared in the sorrow of his passing.

I remember meeting him as a child, back when he first won the elections. Mom took me to the congratulatory gathering, where I was supposed to present him with a small lily as a token of congratulations.

"Sir, meet my kid, Karan," Mom introduced me to him.

"Please, Mrs. Dogra, you've been a guide to me ever since I entered politics. You're my senior in every aspect. Don't embarrass me; just call me by my name," he suggested, before looking at me with a gentle smile, crouching down to my level to admire the flower in my hand. "Is this for me?" he asked softly.

I nodded shyly, handing him the flower before quickly hiding behind Mom.

He chuckled at my shyness and remarked to my mom, "He's such a sweet and polite boy, Mrs. Dogra. I have a feeling he'll accomplish great things as he grows up. He's certainly destined for something extraordinary."