July 15, 2001 Deviram Sweets, Agra 09:15 AM
The memory of my death faded, replaced by the sharp, sugary crunch of the Jalebi in my mouth. I was back in the present. I was back in the body of the General.
I sat on a wobbly plastic stool, surrounded by the smell of frying ghee and the deafening shutter sounds of three hundred cameras. Beside me, Prime Minister Vajpayee was dipping a piece of Bedai into the spicy potato curry, looking as calm as a monk in meditation.
But outside our little bubble of peace, the world was supposedly burning.
I looked at the small, greasy television set perched on a shelf above the frying kadhai. The volume was turned up.
BREAKING NEWS (Star News): Visual: Mobs burning tires in Lahore and stone-pelting in Delhi. Anchor: "Massive protests have erupted! The hardliners in both nations are calling this 'Breakfast Diplomacy' a betrayal! The cities are on edge! The talks are rumored to have collapsed!"
I wiped a drop of syrup from my mustache, hiding a smirk. The mob in Lahore? That was arranged by my Intelligence Chief, paid for with "Secret Service Funds." The mob in Delhi? Vajpayee's party cadres, instructed to create "controlled smoke."
We needed the world to think we were under pressure. We needed the "Hawks" to think they were winning, right until we pulled the rug out from under them.
"It is time, General," Vajpayee murmured, not looking up from his plate. "The audience is ready."
On cue, a commotion erupted at the security perimeter.
"Let me through! The public has a right to know!"
A young female reporter—Anjali—pushed past the formidable Black Cat commandos. The guards, following the secret script we had approved this morning, pretended to struggle but "accidentally" let her slip through.
She burst into the open space of the shop, breathless, her hair disheveled, holding a microphone like a weapon. She looked furious. She was a brilliant actress.
"Mr. Prime Minister! General!" she shouted, her voice shaking with fake rage.
The entire press corps turned their cameras toward her. This was the drama they craved.
"Cities are burning!" Anjali yelled, pointing a trembling finger at the TV screen. "Your own people are calling you traitors! There is unrest in the streets, soldiers are dying on the border, and you two are sitting here... enjoying Jalebis?"
She took a step closer, the cameras zooming in on her face. "Is this a joke? Is the blood of our soldiers worth less than a breakfast photo-op?"
The shop went dead silent. The shopkeeper, Deviram, froze with a ladle of hot oil in mid-air. The foreign diplomats looked horrified.
Vajpayee slowly wiped his hands on a paper napkin. He looked at Anjali, then he turned his head slowly to look at me. His eyes were serious, grave. But deep down, I saw the twinkle.
"Mr. Musharraf," Vajpayee said, his voice heavy with the weight of the moment. "She asks a valid question. The doctor says this sugar will kill me. The people say this meeting will kill my government."
He picked up a fresh, hot Jalebi. The syrup dripped like liquid gold.
"Give me a reason, General," Vajpayee challenged me, his voice soft but carrying to every microphone. "Give me a reason to eat this Jalebi that is so strong, even my doctor cannot stop me. Give me a reason that will silence the fire outside."
The tension was suffocating. The world held its breath. I stood up. I straightened my uniform. I didn't look at the reporter. I looked directly into the lens of the CNN camera.
I was no longer just Aditya "the Clerk". I was the bridge between two warring histories.
"General," Vajpayee whispered. "Please... give us the honor of the announcement."
I took a deep breath.
"We are not eating sweets to ignore the fire," I said, my voice booming in the silence. "We are eating sweets because the fire is out."
I paused, letting the words sink in.
"You ask about the soldiers on the border?" I stepped toward the camera. "As of 09:00 Hours this morning, per the agreement with Prime Minister Vajpayee, the Pakistan Army has initiated 'Operation Dawat' (The Feast)."
"Operation... Dawat?" The reporter lowered her mic, genuinely confused now. This wasn't in the script she knew.
"Yes," I smiled, a sharp, dangerous smile. "Right now, helicopters from both Air Forces are crossing the Line of Control. But they are not carrying bombs."
I pointed to the sky.
"The Pakistan Army is currently air-dropping five tons of hot Lahori Choley Bhaturey onto Indian positions in Dras and Kargil."
Gasps ripple through the crowd.
"And in return," I nodded at Vajpayee, "The Indian Air Force is dropping thermal containers of Hyderabadi Nihari onto our bunkers in Skardu."
"What?" The CNN correspondent dropped his notepad.
"You heard me," I said, my voice filled with the authority of a man who had seen the future and decided to rewrite it. "We are not fighting today. Today, the soldiers of India and Pakistan are eating lunch together. The guns are silent. The border is open."
I turned back to the female reporter.
"You asked why we are eating Jalebis? Because, madam... today is the last day we will ever need to fight for them."
I sat back down and picked up my own Jalebi. "Now, if you will excuse me... the Prime Minister tells me this shop has excellent Lassi."
For three seconds, there was absolute silence. Then, the shop—and the world—erupted.