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Bipin Chatterjee was sitting in his staff room when he received a call that he had a visitor. It was afternoon around 3.30 PM and he was planning to go out for some tea and cigarettes and it seemed now that plan would be off. As Chatterjee arranged the class notes on his desk and rose up to receive his visitor he glanced at a portrait hanging to the left wall of the room, portrait of a revolutionary thinker. He paused before the portrait that many of his comrades had argued to be taken down. But this is the ideology that he had studied since his school days. He would trust in it till his death. Glancing once again at the portrait of Karl Marx, Prof. Chatterjee made his way to the lobby.
The slowly revolving fan did nothing much to cool the heat of the afternoon sun and the visitor was sitting stiff in the partially ruined sofa seat in the college lobby. As he walked down the winding stairs, Bannerjee heard the metallic rusted creaking of ancient springs as the visitor stood up. How courteous. Wish more of the students at the University were like this young man.
The young man was quite sharply dressed in an executive suit and in his eyes were an intensity that did not fit the cloisters of an academic campus. Those were eyes of a warrior and subtly camouflaged by the man's suits was a well toned body developed for one thing - combat. This is a soldier, Bipin thought. This must be a soldier of the Kingdom. I wonder what binds a man as formidable as this to such an obscene ruling system.
Despite his 60 odd years and an acceptance of a nearing death in a Cochin pogrom, Bannerjee could not suppress a slight chill emanating from his bones as he wondered whether he would meet with death in these corridors of knowledge.
"Good afternoon, young man. How may I be of service to you?" If this was the face of death I would boldly face it.
"Sir, Are you Prof. Bipin Bannerjee?" A low, deep yet intelligent and moderately respectful voice asked him.
"Yes. I am he." Bannerjee reeled for the bullet that may enter his brain at any moment now that he had complied with the identification of the sacrificial lamb.
"Sir, My name is Maj. Ganesh Nair. I have this message for you." As the soldier reached into his left pocket of his jacket, Bannerjee recoiled for a moment expecting a pistol in the stretched hand, but instead was surprised to see an envelope, manifestly of very high quality paper. He noted a small motif on the soldier's lapel, emblazoned with the letters "KG-C" along with a motif of two swords and a shield. Noticing the examination of the embroidery the young man cracked a faint smile and said, "I am the Commander of the Chaver Guards." Chaver, the elite cream of the King's Guards. The Praetorian Guards of the King. The elite of the elite of the elite.
With trembling hands the professor of political sciences opened the envelope and read a letter.
Quote
To: Prof. Bipin Bannerjee,
Politburo Chief,
Communist Party of India
Greetings,
I invite you to have a face to face meeting with me at the Gudalur Palace. My intent is purely peaceful and upon honor of my family I promise that you shall return safely. I urge you not to reveal the contents or existence of this letter to any of your colleagues, comrades, friends or family. If you so choose the officer delivering this letter would have all the travel arrangements for you.
Hoping I can trust you with this confidence and praying that you would consent to the meeting,
Yours Sincerely,
Rama Varma,
The King of Cochin.
Politburo Chief,
Communist Party of India
Greetings,
I invite you to have a face to face meeting with me at the Gudalur Palace. My intent is purely peaceful and upon honor of my family I promise that you shall return safely. I urge you not to reveal the contents or existence of this letter to any of your colleagues, comrades, friends or family. If you so choose the officer delivering this letter would have all the travel arrangements for you.
Hoping I can trust you with this confidence and praying that you would consent to the meeting,
Yours Sincerely,
Rama Varma,
The King of Cochin.
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