In the serene village of Bhairavpur, nestled amid the sun-kissed plains of Madhya Pradesh, lived two brothers who couldn’t have been more different yet were bound by the same blood.
Raghunath, the elder, was a government school teacher—disciplined, soft-spoken, and loved by children who called him “Masterji”. He rode an old bicycle to a nearby village every day to teach kids how to read and count. His home was filled with chalk dust and newspaper clippings.
Shivnath, the younger, was a farmer with calloused palms and a laugh that could silence a market. While Raghunath dealt in books, Shivnath dealt in soil. But more than just a farmer, Shivnath was the unofficial fixer of the village—helping with marriages, funeral arrangements, and stray cow rescues. Everyone from elders to naughty schoolboys adored him.
It was a simple life until democracy walked into Bhairavpur with dusty boots and a thunderous voice.
🗳️ A Spark of Change
For 25 years, the Sarpanch seat belonged to Ramlal Thakur, a landlord known more for his intimidation than inspiration. His dhoti was always pressed, his voice always loud, and his name always feared.
But times were changing.
The youth of Bhairavpur, tired of Ramlal’s iron grip, whispered one name—Shivnath.
“We don’t want a ruler. We want a doer.”
At first, Shivnath laughed. “Me? Politics? I can’t even wear a kurta without a stain!”
But when a farmer’s son spoke up, “You helped us get a borewell when the government didn’t. You fixed the school roof. You gave my sister’s wedding food. If not you, then who?”
He couldn’t argue with that.
And so, with trembling resolve and community cheers, Shivnath filed his nomination for Sarpanch.
But while the village celebrated, one man sulked in silence.
Ramlal Thakur had never lost. And he didn’t plan to start now.
👣 The Conspiracy Begins
“Chhota aadmi ko bada banne ka bhoot chadh gaya hai,” Ramlal grunted, chewing his betel nut as his cronies nodded.
He didn’t need voters. He had fear. Or so he thought.
Ramlal’s first move was indirect—have Raghunath assigned on election duty, 40 km away, to break the brothers’ bond during the campaign.
Coincidentally (or maybe not), Raghunath received a government order two days before the election. He was to report at a polling station far from his village and stay overnight at a school in Raigarh village.
Shivnath told him, “Go. Do your duty. I’ll handle the rest.”
Raghunath packed lightly, took his bicycle, and pedaled off—completely unaware that he was stepping into a trap.
🌩️ The Night of Fear
The school building in Raigarh was abandoned and eerie. Rain tapped on the tin roof like ghostly fingernails. As Raghunath arranged polling kits under a flickering lantern, he heard voices from behind a curtain.
Two men. Not locals.
“…Once he sleeps, we’ll pack him in the sack and throw him near the nullah.”
Raghunath’s breath froze. His heart raced faster than his mind.
He quietly grabbed his torch, slipped on his sandals, and ran into the stormy night.
🌧️ A Run for Life
The rain whipped his face, and the muddy trail offered little grip. Each gust of wind sounded like footsteps. He was 40 kilometers from home, with no clear direction, and panic as his only map.
After what felt like hours, breathless and soaked, he paused near a banyan tree—only to see two silhouettes in front of him.
It was them.
“You made us run in the rain, Masterji,” one sneered.
The other said, “Bring the cycle. We’ll take him ourselves.”
But even they were too spooked to go alone. “You stay here,” one ordered, “don’t even blink.”
They walked away into the shadows to find a bicycle.
That was Raghunath’s second chance.
And he took it.
🏚️ A Corner Called Hope
Somehow, miraculously, he reached a lone hut on the village’s edge. He collapsed behind it, hoping it would hide him from killers and fate alike.
Inside, a rustling sound alerted the family.
“Thief!” someone shouted. Sticks were raised.
Before they attacked, a voice interrupted, “Wait! That’s Mama ji!”
It was Savita, his distant niece. She rushed forward, pulled him in, and hugged his shaking frame.
“What happened?” she asked.
But Raghunath could only cry.
The family offered him dry clothes, warm rotis, turmeric milk, and safety. He hadn’t spoken a word, but they understood. Some bonds don’t need explanations.
🌅 The Morning That Changed Bhairavpur
At dawn, Savita’s husband drove to Bhairavpur to inform Shivnath.
The news exploded in the village like fire in a dry field. Everyone was shocked.
A Sarpanch candidate’s brother almost killed before election day? By goons with no reason to be there?
Even the elder women who avoided politics raised their voices.
“This is not just dirty politics. It’s a crime.”
The youth held rallies. The farmers formed human chains. The potters, the tailors, even the sweet shop boy—everyone demanded justice.
Ramlal’s stronghold was cracking.
🗳️ The Day of Decision
Election day arrived with clouds in the sky and fire in the hearts.
Raghunath, still sore and traumatized, arrived at the booth with a bandage and a smile. He cast his vote and folded his hands before the village.
Shivnath stood silently, overwhelmed—not by fear, but by the sheer love around him.
When the results came in by evening, it was unanimous:
Shivnath received 99% of the votes.
Ramlal got 14 votes. Three of them were from his own family. One was a stray cow print.
🕊️ The Aftermath
The new Sarpanch didn’t celebrate with fireworks.
He announced a free health camp, rebuilt the broken hand pump, and offered scholarships for girls.
His first official act? Naming the village school “Raghunath Vidya Mandir.”
And Ramlal?
He now sits quietly on his porch, watching as Shivnath walks by with a warm smile—and a thousand footsteps behind him.
💡 Moral of the Story:
“Power earned through love outlives power demanded through fear.”
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