It is all serene here in the early hours of the big day when a super hero will be born. The scent of desi ghee wafts on the breeze as the first offering to the newborn God promises to leave the fortunate few thousand to be blessed with a taste to forever desire no other food.
As stinking, smelly commoners sleep their ignorant sleep, unaware of the history striding toward them, the world itself aligns better with its axis, the Ganga smelling sweet once more in the hope of her son finding her worthy before he ascends to the throne of Delhi.
Unnoticed are the winds of change that will soon transform this small city into the realm of legend, the sins of the past washed clean without the holy river.
As the special correspondent, I carry with me a humble responsibility to journal the rise of the king, unfurling from the lotus bud with the touch of the morning light, the lotus itself discovering its destiny.I shall write it all, chronicling the rise of the fourth reich. A power like no other. A mere tea vendor born of a humble past that still lives in a room too small to set up an interview in. I will keep looking toward the east for the first blush of the promise of dawn to strike the lotus, and the true messiah to appear before me as a hologram to push all doubts from my skeptical heart. I will pinch myself and know that it is real. It will really be the prophesied one standing before me, gracing my worthless life with his august benevolence, making it precious beyond measure.
Once more, I will forget the crimes of the past, and like the Ganga, be ready to wash away any filth needed with the dazzling achievements I am informed of. He will lead the nation to untold riches. The humblest of Indians will be able to travel by chartered planes and come home to sleep each night. Rotis will have his name on them, cows will moo his praises.
My pen will herald the revolution. I will be the greatest scribe of the greatest ruler to ever grace the earth.
Accha din is here and people are sleeping. This early bird has got the WORM.