J
Juan1234
Guest
Prime Minister Patel’s libel suit backfired on him. For weeks the media gushed with uncritical relaying of testimony against him, and against Anjali, too. She was popularly believed to be his close accomplice, and even rumored to be his mistress. Tabloids published blurry pictures allegedly showing them meeting in secret a month before Anjali’s “crime” in Lameshri. Then one supposedly of her in a micro bikini on Patel’s yacht. Anjali was disgusted. She could handle being vilified - she knew it was part of the job she had taken upon herself. But being made out to be Patel’s slut was difficult to swallow. Her anger fought to master her despair.
Apparently Patel was no happier. After almost three weeks of a trial that did more damage to his reputation with each passing day, he announced that he would begin working with parliament, with the judiciary, and with the chiefs of the provinces to come to an agreement on how Anjali could be punished for shooting the woman in Lameshri. He thus distanced himself from the young activist while displaying confidence that Anjali had, in fact, killed the woman, and there was no hoax. “I’ll remind you that not only does Ms Batra admit to the crime, but the Province of Lameshri is seeking her extradition!” he said at a press conference. “The judiciary has yet to rule on whether she can be extradited, but we all know what she did. I’ll be working with all the relevant parties to see that she faces justice. Maybe we can extradite her. Maybe she can face charges here, but she’s not going to get off scot free if I have anything to say about it!”
Two days later, Anjali was walking home from a trip to the library with Sanjeev (she no longer felt safe going out alone, but didn’t like being shut in all day) when she saw nearly a dozen police cars clogging the street leading to Sanjeev’s house. “This doesn’t look good...” said Sanjeev, taking Anjali’s hand. They turned to walk swiftly down the first street they could to get out of site, then weaved through another couple of streets until they came to a fire escape stairwell in a dim alley and pulled out their phones.
“Prime Minister Shot” - the headline was everywhere.
“What is this!?” Sanjeev scrolled furiously. Anjali hardly needed to read anymore. She knew. Her face grew blank and dour, and she only half saw what she was reading. She already knew, and she was in her head, fighting the despair, fighting and channeling the rage, trying to think of the next step.
“Prime Minister Patel is at the hospital...” Sanjeev mumbled as he read. “Police suspect activist Anjali Batra!” He looked at her in horror. She almost smirked, but had to wipe a tear. “They think...!”
“Of course they do, Sanjeev!” she finally burst. “Somebody broke into our house and shot Patel from my window with my gun.”
“But we weren’t even home! They won’t be able to convict you.”
“I’m not counting on that.” There was silence for several moments.
“Ok...” said Sanjeev. “So...”
“I have to go.”
“I’m coming too.”
Later that evening, Mr Varesh talked with reporters. “You know, that is what you call a bad break-up. That’s a really bad break-up, when your girl decides to shoot you.” He laughed. “Fortunately, she’s not exactly a crack shot - what did she do, like, graze his shoulder? Yeah, when it’s real life, it’s not as easy as when you’re staging a scene in the woods, Honey.” More laughter. “Yeah - and he’s in the hospital, right? What - like he doesn’t keep band-aids at home? When I was in the 5th Chakrabeshi Regiment during the war, we had guys get fingers blown off, and we just had to keep going, you know. I think Patel was at law school at the time. No, seriously, I wish him the best, hope he recovers quickly, and I hope he loses this election in a landslide. This country deserves better than this circus.”
Of course Anjali and Sanjeev didn’t see the interview. They were outside Chakrabesh, this time heading west, toward Munghal Province, where Anjali had spent her childhood.
Apparently Patel was no happier. After almost three weeks of a trial that did more damage to his reputation with each passing day, he announced that he would begin working with parliament, with the judiciary, and with the chiefs of the provinces to come to an agreement on how Anjali could be punished for shooting the woman in Lameshri. He thus distanced himself from the young activist while displaying confidence that Anjali had, in fact, killed the woman, and there was no hoax. “I’ll remind you that not only does Ms Batra admit to the crime, but the Province of Lameshri is seeking her extradition!” he said at a press conference. “The judiciary has yet to rule on whether she can be extradited, but we all know what she did. I’ll be working with all the relevant parties to see that she faces justice. Maybe we can extradite her. Maybe she can face charges here, but she’s not going to get off scot free if I have anything to say about it!”
Two days later, Anjali was walking home from a trip to the library with Sanjeev (she no longer felt safe going out alone, but didn’t like being shut in all day) when she saw nearly a dozen police cars clogging the street leading to Sanjeev’s house. “This doesn’t look good...” said Sanjeev, taking Anjali’s hand. They turned to walk swiftly down the first street they could to get out of site, then weaved through another couple of streets until they came to a fire escape stairwell in a dim alley and pulled out their phones.
“Prime Minister Shot” - the headline was everywhere.
“What is this!?” Sanjeev scrolled furiously. Anjali hardly needed to read anymore. She knew. Her face grew blank and dour, and she only half saw what she was reading. She already knew, and she was in her head, fighting the despair, fighting and channeling the rage, trying to think of the next step.
“Prime Minister Patel is at the hospital...” Sanjeev mumbled as he read. “Police suspect activist Anjali Batra!” He looked at her in horror. She almost smirked, but had to wipe a tear. “They think...!”
“Of course they do, Sanjeev!” she finally burst. “Somebody broke into our house and shot Patel from my window with my gun.”
“But we weren’t even home! They won’t be able to convict you.”
“I’m not counting on that.” There was silence for several moments.
“Ok...” said Sanjeev. “So...”
“I have to go.”
“I’m coming too.”
Later that evening, Mr Varesh talked with reporters. “You know, that is what you call a bad break-up. That’s a really bad break-up, when your girl decides to shoot you.” He laughed. “Fortunately, she’s not exactly a crack shot - what did she do, like, graze his shoulder? Yeah, when it’s real life, it’s not as easy as when you’re staging a scene in the woods, Honey.” More laughter. “Yeah - and he’s in the hospital, right? What - like he doesn’t keep band-aids at home? When I was in the 5th Chakrabeshi Regiment during the war, we had guys get fingers blown off, and we just had to keep going, you know. I think Patel was at law school at the time. No, seriously, I wish him the best, hope he recovers quickly, and I hope he loses this election in a landslide. This country deserves better than this circus.”
Of course Anjali and Sanjeev didn’t see the interview. They were outside Chakrabesh, this time heading west, toward Munghal Province, where Anjali had spent her childhood.
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