Raja Gidh Junior

 

From a very young age, Raja Gidh Junior had a peculiar hobby: he loved to shoot down sparrows with a slingshot. He had downed countless birds in his childhood, but as he grew older and mobile towers began to mushroom across the city, the little sparrows began to vanish. With no prey left to hunt, he gave up the sport and began to think of grander pursuits.

He had always been fascinated by tales of kings—especially those old stories in which, upon the death of a monarch, the ministers and courtiers were bound by royal decree to crown the first man they saw outside the palace gates. Such tales had planted the dream of kingship in his heart. But by the time he came of age, the era of kings and emperors had ended; democracy had taken their place.

Still, he was shrewd. He understood that while one could no longer be made a king, one could certainly climb the corridors of power in elected halls. So he mastered the art of political maneuvering. Through clever strategy—and a talent for switching allegiances at just the right time—he rose, step by step, up the ladder.

And then the day came: Raja Gidh Junior finally broke through. He gained access to the very forces that pulled the strings of the nation. With their blessings, he was appointed Governor of a province.

As soon as he took office, he began studying the profiles of former governors. He envisioned a role for himself that would keep him constantly in the spotlight—active, engaged, beloved by the people. And with that, the old dream of kingship stirred once more within him.

He remembered the film Shehenshah, in which Amitabh Bachchan’s character, disguised as a commoner, roams the streets at night, punishing evildoers and dispensing justice. But he was no film hero; nor could a governor wander the streets or hand out punishments. So Raja Gidh Junior devised another plan.

Outside the Governor's House, he had a large bell installed—just like those that once hung outside the palaces of ancient kings. The idea was simple: the people could ring the bell to bring their grievances directly to their ruler, who would sit in judgment and provide relief.

Of course, there was one catch. In the olden days, kings were always accessible—ready to hold court the moment the bell rang. Raja Gidh Junior, however, preferred a more structured routine. So he announced that the bell would be answered only during special night hours, from midnight to 8 a.m. This ensured that his sleep wasn’t disturbed, his official duties remained unaffected, and yet the fantasy of kingship was fulfilled.

Soon, people began gathering nightly outside the gates of the Governor's House—women, elderly citizens, children, laborers—all exhausted from their daily struggles but still hopeful enough to ring the bell. At times, the crowd grew so large that even the nearby road had to be closed.

In the beginning, Raja Gidh Junior took a genuine interest in their complaints. But gradually, he grew weary. The flood of problems was endless. Eventually, he delegated the night court to his officers. For a while, things ran smoothly. But the issues were relentless, and no matter how many notes the officers took, the complaints persisted. Every night, the same people returned with the same stories.

The officers, too, grew frustrated. Instead of resolving the problems, they began to mock the complainants. Disheartened and humiliated, the people slowly stopped coming. The crowds thinned. Eventually, days would pass without the bell being rung even once.

Perplexed by the silence, Raja Gidh Junior summoned his officers:

"Why hasn't the bell rung for so long? What’s going on?"

"Sir," they replied, "you’ve solved all the people’s problems. That’s why there’s no more crowd. Long live your glory. May your reign never end."

Hearing this, Raja Gidh Junior smiled and returned to his harem, fully content.