Chapter 68 #2
Illegal transactions passed through them because no one monitored them.
Enemies of the country used them because no one questioned them.
What began as financial exploitation quietly became a national security threat.
The villagers were no longer just living their inherited lives. They were being used—economically, politically, and strategically. Without violence. Without open resistance. Just domination disguised as help.
That was when Shaurya decided to act.
Not publicly.
Not dramatically.
When he became Chief Minister, he did not announce a mission. Instead, he initiated Operation C Minus.
The name was deliberate.
"C" stood for corruption.
"Minus" stood for systematic reduction.
The goal was not to raid villages or arrest villagers.
The goal was to cut off the powerful hands controlling them.
Operation C Minus was a joint, silent effort. Officers from RAW, the Indian Army, NSG, intelligence units, and select IAS officers were involved.
Every officer inducted into it knew exactly who else was part of it—from district-level field operatives to senior IAS officers, intelligence handlers, and military liaisons.
There were no anonymous faces within the circle.
Trust inside the operation was absolute, verified, and earned through years of service.
Outside that circle, however, no one knew it existed.
Not families.
Not personal staff.
Not political allies.
Not even officers working in adjacent departments.
Each member lived a double life with surgical precision. Their official postings, transfers, and assignments were designed to look ordinary—routine governance, administrative surveys, and development drives. Every movement had a paper trail that made sense to the system but revealed nothing to it.
The secrecy wasn't paranoia.
It was a necessity.
The offenders linked to these forbidden villages were not just local power brokers or corrupt industrialists.
Their networks extended across borders—money laundering routes, human trafficking corridors, and intelligence leaks that foreign agencies quietly exploited.
These villages had become soft entry points into the country, hidden behind social isolation and administrative neglect.
Any leak—any whisper outside the circle—could compromise not just the operation, but national security.
That was why even spouses were kept in the dark.
That was why conversations never happened over phones.
That was why names were never written, only remembered.
Operation C Minus functioned like a closed fist.
Inside it, every finger knew the other.
Outside it, the world saw only an open hand offering welfare, development, and reform.
And by the time the enemies realised what was happening, their power was already shrinking—quietly, legally, irreversibly.
Akash Dikshit, one of the few officers who directly reported to Shaurya, became a crucial link—not because he was family, but because he was clean and precise.
The operation worked in layers.
First, intelligence was collected quietly—money trails, land ownership patterns, shell companies, and unaccounted wealth linked to these villages.
Second, financial pressure was applied—not arrests, but restrictions. Accounts frozen. Licenses revoked. Assets scrutinized. The powerful began losing control without understanding how.
Third, the state slowly entered the villages—not with police boots, but with governance.
Education.
Healthcare.
Employment schemes.
Legal awareness.
The villagers were not punished. They were given choices.
As dependency on corrupt benefactors reduced, the grip loosened. One village at a time, the system began collapsing—not loudly, but irreversibly.
Shaurya knew this would take years. Possibly decades.
But every village reclaimed meant one less 'safe haven' for corruption, one less silent threat to the country.
That was why people wanted him dead.
Not because he exposed corruption publicly.
But because he was quietly destroying a system that protected the powerful for generations.
Operation C Minus was never about politics.
It was about subtraction.
And subtraction terrified those who had built their lives on excess.
"One more village is about to be liberated soon—or, in Operation C Minus terms, it's about to be absorbed," Akash said at the end of their discussion. A wave of peace washed over Shaurya; every time a village was reclaimed, he felt a quiet joy.
"And as you requested, I have the report from one of our officers, Officer Raghav. I'll hand over both the report and his personal letter to you tomorrow," Akash added. Shaurya nodded in acknowledgment.
Once their discussion concluded, Shaurya told Akash to go and rest while he returned to his work.
Shaurya resolved to make amends with his wife, knowing he had angered her the previous night. Little did he know that his midnight pastry adventure was about to be exposed to her the very next morning.
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"CM Shaurya Shekhawat's Midnight Gesture for His Wife Goes Viral Across the State" — the headline ran on every news portal and social media feed.
Clips of him picking up a red velvet pastry at a crowded bakery circulated widely, reels and threads praising him as "the leader who never forgets his wife despite the storm around him" flooded timelines.
Political analysts noted that in a state where women's organizations had expressed concern over past narratives about him neglecting his pregnant wife, this candid moment might subtly reshape public perception — even if only slightly.
Ironically, what years of welfare policies and reforms — including the widely celebrated SHE Park and other initiatives that created thousands of jobs and earned national recognition — hadn't fully achieved emotionally, a thirty-second candid video might begin to influence perception.
Shaurya realized this only when Dev called him, half-amused and half-impressed.
But before he could fully process the political implications, he walked into something far more immediate — Akansha.
She was already awake when he entered their room, phone placed on the table with the video paused mid-frame. Her arms were folded, her expression sharp and controlled — furious.
"You went to a crowded bakery at 1 a.m., in public, without telling anyone... and let this happen?!" she demanded, her voice steady but edged with fire.
Shaurya opened his mouth to explain, but she cut him off. He wanted to tell her he had gone while returning from his office, and the security team was with him, but she wasn't even close to calming down, so he let her scold him.
"Do you even realize what could have happened?
Just last night someone tried to... Shaurya, do you have any idea how reckless this was?
" Her eyes burned with frustration. "After the assassination attempt in Prayagraj, after everything that happened, and you're walking into a crowd like nothing's wrong? "
"And now you're trending on social media for this little stunt! Do you know what you've done? People are sharing this clip, commenting on it endlessly... you've turned a simple act into a spectacle!" Her tone sharpened further.
He sighed, knowing there was no softening her. "I didn't expect crowd at that time of the night... I just wanted to do something normal for you..."
"That's not the point!" she snapped, fierce and unyielding. "You're the Chief Minister, not an ordinary citizen. Every move you make in public now is a risk — a risk to yourself, to everyone around you. And now you've made it into a story, a statewide headline! Do you even think before acting?"
Her anger wasn't about attention or perception — it was raw, protective, unrelenting — the kind that comes from seeing someone you love put themselves in danger unnecessarily.
"I don't want you doing this alone ever again," she added, her voice still sharp. "Not for dessert. Not for anything. Send Suraj, or ask me if I actually want it, Do you understand me?"
Shaurya nodded, silently accepting the scolding. He knew she was right — he hadn't just been impulsive; he had been reckless, and now it had gone public.
"And if anything happened to you... I won't forgive you," she said, her tone softer but still edged with warning. "Not ever."
Despite the tension, a faint smile tugged at his lips. Only Akansha could make a Chief Minister feel like a child in danger, scold him with fire, and still sound completely rational.
As he watched her walk away to get ready for the day, one thought stayed with him — while the public was slowly building a new image of him, the person whose opinion mattered the most remained the hardest to impress.
And strangely, he preferred it that way.
He decided to talk to her about the show they were supposed to put on after she freshened up, but she was still angry and didn't let him speak a word. She left him to freshen up and headed out for breakfast.
He silently texted his brother-in-law, hoping Akash could convince her, as his sister hadn't given him a single chance to talk.
Akash, who had praised his brother-in-law's extraordinary convincing skills the other night, was now cursing him for being unable to even open his mouth in front of his sister — though that wasn't entirely his fault. Even he got nervous around her.
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Akansha sat at the breakfast table. Slowly, her father, mother, Harsh, and Siya joined her. Akansha served breakfast to the kids while Mrs. Sudha served the elders.
"How's Suman feeling, Papa?" Akansha asked. "Is she awake? Should I send breakfast to her?"
"She just woke up. She says she's feeling better now, but she's still weak," Akansha's mother Jaya answered instead. "She said she'll have breakfast later."
Akansha nodded and sat down. Just then, Akash walked in, and Siya and Harsh jumped from their seats shouting, "Mamu!"