“Bhabhiji… call the ambulance. And the party office.”
Inside the bungalow, the servants whispered. The ministers sneered. A man named Baijnath Tiwari, Bhim’s own deputy, had already started leaking stories that Rani couldn’t read a budget sheet. He wasn’t wrong. She had passed 10th grade, married at 19, and spent twenty years perfecting fish curry and forgiving her husband’s affairs.
“We need a face, Rani ji,” he said, not unkindly. “Your husband’s chair will be taken by wolves within the week. Unless someone loyal sits on it.”