Chapter 4: The People’s Blessings

I left a portion of the troops to defend against the invaders, then led two lakh men—claiming a million—southward in grand formation.

Our columns snaked across the fields, boots pounding the dry earth, banners snapping in the breeze. The villagers lined the roads, some tossing marigold petals, others making silent prayers with folded hands.

Since I honestly didn’t know how to command troops, I left all military affairs to the deputy general and several other commanders.

I let them have their way with the maps and strategies, feigning confidence while secretly clutching the little notebook where I jotted reminders and desi jugaads picked up from my previous life.

Ten years ago, when invaders crossed the border, the entire northern defence collapsed. The current border defence system was rebuilt by the original commander. In other words, from Lucknow to Delhi, all the regional commanders had been promoted by the original commander himself.

In this vast, ancient land, loyalties were forged not by decree, but by shared suffering. Every officer remembered the night their city was saved, the day their children returned safe. That was the glue that held the North together.

Female-oriented novels have a flaw: they insist on making both male and female leads paragons of virtue. This makes some plotlines feel awkward. But for now, it works in my favour.

Perhaps only in fiction could one love so selflessly and lead so flawlessly. But here, it meant my path was strewn with unexpected allies.

My reputation is too good—or rather, Ananya’s reputation is too good…

In every teashop, every crowded platform, her name was spoken with affection, almost reverence. It made my job easier, but the burden heavier.

All the regional commanders had received Ananya’s kindness. When they heard I was marching south to rescue her, they joined without hesitation.

It was almost embarrassing—their faith in me owed as much to her as to any battle I’d fought. I bowed my head in silent gratitude for the woman whose shadow protected us all.

As for the common people, there’s even less to say…

From the old women in faded saris to the youngest boys still learning to write their names, every heart beat with the same purpose. The village gossip, the chaiwala, even the postman on his rickety cycle—all wished for Ananya’s safe return.

Saying they "brought food and drink to welcome the army" would be an understatement—they were practically "emptying their kitchens to aid the cause."

Our mess halls overflowed with home-cooked meals—parathas wrapped in old newspapers, pickle jars, laddus carefully tied in cloth. Even the strictest quartermaster was moved to tears.

A woman pressed a tiffin of aloo paratha into my hands, insisting, “Beta, eat. For Ananya didi.”

The father’s eyes glistened, but his pride was stronger. He pressed a trembling hand to my arm, voice thick with emotion. “Our whole family survived because of Miss Ananya. Now is the time to repay her.”

I watched as the old man tried to push his son forward, determination and love wrestling in his eyes. The son, torn between duty to his family and to his saviour, finally stepped back at my insistence. My heart ached, knowing how rare such selflessness was.

After much persuasion, we finally accepted just a basket of eggs from the old man and convinced the family to go home.

A peace offering, heavy with meaning. The eggs rattled softly in their basket, a promise of better times to come. I pressed the old man’s hand, feeling the calluses—proof of a life spent struggling, never bowing.

How many times has this happened?

I’ve lost count. Since setting out, people who’d received Ananya’s kindness have popped up from every gali and mohalla, offering all sorts of help to the army.

From Chhattisgarh to Haryana, every stretch of road was lined with faces I half-remembered, each with a story of how Ananya once brought them hope. The women waved, the children chased our horses, and old men raised battered radios to play songs of victory.

And there were some oddities as well:

India is a land of miracles and madness. In our march, I was gifted a one-eyed stone idol with vermilion smeared on its head, a jackal howled by moonlight near our camp, its cry said to portend my rise as the Northern Emperor. Someone found a silk scroll inside a fish’s belly, inscribed with Sanskrit blessings. Even the gods seemed to have opinions on our campaign.

To win the hearts of the people, I personally received many of them. But there were so many—even picking just a few left me exhausted.

By sunset, my tent was crammed with tokens of hope and superstition—a glass bangle from a widow, a lock of hair for good fortune, a battered copy of the Gita. I accepted each with folded hands, smiling till my cheeks ached.

It wasn’t obvious during the day, but at night, from a high vantage point, the commoners’ diyas formed a dazzling sea of stars. My two lakh troops looked like a thin, insignificant ribbon amid that ocean.

From the hilltop, I watched the villagers light their lamps, the flames flickering against the night. Even the stars seemed to bow before the people’s devotion. My soldiers, for all their numbers, seemed dwarfed by this outpouring of love.

For a moment, I couldn’t tell: was it because Ananya loved me that I became the Commander of the Northern Frontier, or because I was the Commander that Ananya was so beloved by the people?

I stared into the dark, the question burning in my mind. Perhaps, in India, love and duty are just two sides of the same coin.

I really couldn’t say.

The answer slipped through my fingers, as elusive as morning mist in the mountains. Still, I let the doubt settle, knowing it was a good doubt, a necessary one.

Within a few days, I led the vanguard to the outskirts of Delhi.

The great city shimmered on the horizon, domes and minarets gilded by the setting sun. The smell of dust and spice carried on the wind, mingling with the nervous energy of my men.

The deputy general dispatched scouts to destroy the courier stations along the way, cutting off all news.

It was a ruthless move, but necessary. Our enemies would not have the chance to prepare. I watched as our fastest riders vanished into the dusk, determined to outpace even the gossip-mongers.

So only now did the people in Delhi realise I had arrived—with my army.

In the bazaars, shopkeepers left their shutters half-open, whispering of invasion. Women hurried home, clutching their children. The city, for once, was truly afraid.

Would the city welcome us as liberators—or curse us as conquerors?