After Mr. Hazare hammered his country into being honest, it was time for him to take a vacation. By the standards he had set himself, the place of vacation was always going to be the moon. He made his plans public and his country did the needful. They could barely think of doing anything different after he had dented them so bad. Mr. Hazare was better off away from the fasting booth (even if 'away' meant moon), the authorities thoroughly believed. Into a khadi bag Mr. Hazare packed some lungis, a traditional shaving kit, and some souvenirs from his past victories . He boarded the shuttle and before he knew was propelling towards the moon.
Moon time it was then. The shuttle landed eventless. Mr Hazare adjusted his lungi, donned a funky space suit and decided to find out how he was going to spend his vacation. "You can`t breathe out there without the suit," someone yelled, just before he jumped off. After a few moments of spring bob action, Mr. Hazare hit upon something really strange. Life! He had found life on moon.
Before he could contemplate what the discovery meant for him, he realized something more; it was a human he was staring at, remorseful, pacing around, talking to himself. Quickly hopping on, he approached the man. "Good God!" erupted the man, shell shocked. "You almost frightened me to death." Mr. Hazare never thought he could scare someone. It must have been the suit. "Who are you and what are you doing here?" he asked. The man after a while of sorrowful thinking started his story. I am a Kashmiri. I am here on account of the pervasive corruption eating my home. Although most of the country has been cleaned up, our state continues to reel. I wanted to follow Mr. Hazare`s footsteps and start a crusade of my own. However in my state instruments like democracy, freedom of speech, right to dissension are all imaginary bacons. My crusade was crushed as soon as it had started. In an out of the box move, the authorities banished me to this part of the universe almost certain that the lifelessness here would kill me. Seems, they grossly underestimated the grit of a Kashmiri. "Strange. I was under the impression that corruption in my country was history," Mr. Hazare thought. Apparently Kashmir still had it. It was obvious that the man did not know he was talking to his hero. Again, it must have been the suit. Mr. Hazare was so inclined to rip off the mask and show himself off but for the handicap of breathing. But how then was the Kashmiri breathing? He was astounded, yet curious. He decided to ask. A distinct smile erupted on the Kashmiri`s face. "I am a Kashmiri, remember? I am used to living in much less air. Last year I spend a full five month period locked up in my room! If I did not suffocate there, do you think I am going to suffocate here on this pleasant countryside?" Impressive, Mr. Hazare thought and left, with a feverish brain though; five months and a locked room, the idea started to give him goose pumps. Just then, another human surfaced, he too without a mask. "And who are you and what are you doing here?" Mr. Hazare demanded. "I am a Kashmiri. And I am here on account of the corruption that is pravalent in my state!" he replied very submissively, and started his own story. I was a successful employee. I dug drains in Kashmir when I did not need to. I made roads; the same one a hundred times over. I made flyovers, the same one for decades. I stalled the progress of work in my office to earn bucks. I sucked helpless people to fill my trunks. This until one day my conscience woke up and found all my 'successes' catching up on it. I could not rest, I could not sleep; all peace from my life went missing. A search for the same landed me here. Mr. Hazare, now convinced of the fact that corruption was still rampant in Kashmir decided to cut his vacation short and do something about it. He ordered his retreat and soon found his shuttle landing on a special berth amidst the once beautiful Dal lake. Nobody knew who he was. He had chosen to keep his suit on. As such, he met the same treatment as everyone common man does. He carried a poster saying peaceful protest; it was sliced into two halves. Peace went somewhere, protests somewhere else. He decided to fast but had an epiphany that nobody cared. He ordered a Redbull and some Gatorade, devoured them in public. Still nobody cared. He realized that his suit was making all the fuss. He immediately took it off. Suprisingly, even then nobody cared. He was learning things that he could never imagine. Not the government, not the people, not even the pervasive dog breed. Nobody cared. Mr. Hazare had taken too much. He took the first flight out but not before his epiphany completed itself – in Kashmir most people just care about big houses and a lot of bakery. The ones who dare to think beyond that, end up on moon. And right now they were exactly two in number!
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