He heard footsteps, yawned, and reluctantly got up. He had been having a beautiful dream. In his dream, Narendra Modi acknowledged him personally and even called him his “favourite acolyte.” What could be more beautiful than that? He was angry. He did not like waking up from beautiful dreams. He opened the door with a sharp yank… and stopped.
“Who are you?” he hesitatingly asked the abominable stranger standing on the door, and chided himself for asking it, dreading the answer. The man, if you could call him one, was a total mess, with unrecognisable features. His head was more skull than flesh. His eyes was dark holes, and the rest of him had only a thin layer of flesh. Only one thing stood out clearly: a desiccated, grey rose pinned to his chest.
“I was called Jawahar Lal Nehru once, I believe, though these days hardly anyone refers to me by name. They call me womaniser, playboy sickular, HIV positive, and all sorts of nasty things,” the stranger said. His voice sounded as though two stones were being rubbed together.
He stared. The stranger smiled, showing rotten teeth of motley colours.
“Oh yes. I have come again.”
He collapsed, the expression on his face suggesting he had seen the devil. He had. In his dying moments, he heard another pair of footsteps, and saw with bleary eyes Ramachandra Guha manifesting himself from behind the stranger.
“Poor sod,” he muttered looking down at him. Then to the creature: “Come, master. We have many targets to bump off. The list is long.”