Devansh Joshi
"I still don't understand why you dragged me here, Ma," I muttered, adjusting the collar of my olive-green linen shirt for what felt like the twentieth time.
Vigyan Bhawan was overflowing with students, entrepreneurs, and young professionals. Giant digital screens displayed:
National Youth Conclave 2026: Shaping Tomorrow with the Prime Minister
Security was intense.
Metal detectors.
Sniffer dogs.
SPG commandos.
Men in black suits with earpieces stood at every entrance.
"Because you've been moping around the house ever since you quit your job," Mom replied, straightening my collar. "You need inspiration, Devansh. Our Prime Minister is only thirty-two. He's young, brilliant, and maybe hearing him speak will help you figure out your next step."
I rolled my eyes.
"He's a politician, Ma. They all read the same speech."
The auditorium lights dimmed.
A spotlight illuminated the stage.
The announcer's voice echoed across the hall.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the Hon'ble Prime Minister of India... Shri Kabir Mehra."
The audience erupted into applause.
I leaned forward.
A tall man walked onto the stage wearing an ivory kurta-pyjama beneath a navy Nehru jacket.
He was...
Ridiculously handsome.
Sharp jaw.
High cheekbones.
Dark, unreadable eyes.
Authority seemed to follow him like a shadow.
Instead of standing behind the podium, he picked up a wireless microphone and walked straight to the edge of the stage.
"Good morning."
His deep voice filled the auditorium.
"Let's skip the formal speeches."
A few people laughed.
"I didn't come here to lecture you."
"I came here to listen."
He slowly looked around the audience.
"This is an open floor."
"Tell me what's breaking your spirit..."
"...and let's figure out how to fix it."
Okay.
Maybe politicians weren't all boring.
---
Kabir Mehra
"Sir, three more questions from Sector Four," Anand quietly reminded me through my earpiece.
I gave a small nod.
After answering a question about startup taxation, I looked across the audience.
Thousands of young faces.
Hope.
Frustration.
Ambition.
This...
This was the only part of politics that still felt real.
Then my eyes stopped.
Fifth row.
Olive-green shirt.
Curly hair falling over his forehead.
Dark, expressive eyes.
Young.
Confident.
Defiant.
He didn't look away when our eyes met.
Neither did I.
Something unfamiliar stirred inside my chest.
Interesting.
I lifted my microphone.
"The young man in the olive shirt."
A volunteer hurried over with another microphone.
He stood.
His shoulders were tense.
His hands weren't.
"Thank you, Mr. Prime Minister."
His voice was calm.
"My name is Devansh Joshi."
"I recently resigned from a leading technology company."
"Not because of the workload."
"Not because of the salary."
"But because my workplace failed to protect my dignity."
The auditorium fell silent.
Anand shifted beside the stage.
I subtly raised a hand.
Let him speak.
"Go on, Devansh."
He met my eyes again.
"I'm openly gay, Sir."
Whispers spread through the audience.
He ignored every single one.
"Two days ago my colleagues targeted me with homophobic slurs disguised as jokes."
"I reported it."
"HR told me to develop thicker skin because the people responsible were too valuable to discipline."
He took a breath.
"My question is simple."
"We talk about becoming a global economy."
"We talk about innovation."
"But what is this government doing to make workplaces genuinely safe for everyone?"
"Because bullying isn't just an HR issue."
"It destroys mental health."
"It pushes people toward anxiety..."
"...depression..."
"...and sometimes suicide."
His voice never shook.
His courage took my breath away.
For several seconds...
I simply looked at him.
The cameras disappeared.
The audience disappeared.
Even politics disappeared.
There was only him.
"Devansh."
My voice came out quieter than intended.
"I'm deeply sorry you experienced that."
"No citizen of this country should ever feel unsafe because of who they are."
"Diversity isn't a slogan."
"It is part of this nation's identity."
I stepped closer to the edge of the stage.
"We are currently drafting stronger workplace protections that explicitly address identity-based discrimination."
"Mental health support is also being expanded through public healthcare initiatives."
I paused.
Then smiled faintly.
"But beyond policy..."
"It takes extraordinary courage to stand before thousands of people and speak your truth."
"Don't let anyone extinguish that courage."
His ears turned pink.
"So..."
He smiled.
A small one.
"Thank you, Sir."
As he sat down, I handed the microphone back to the moderator.
My pulse hadn't settled.
Not even a little.
---
Devansh Joshi
Oh. My. God.
I practically collapsed back into my chair.
Mom grabbed my arm.
"You spoke beautifully."
Then she leaned closer.
"But beta..."
"The Prime Minister was looking at you like he wanted to memorize your face."
I groaned.
"Ma."
"Please don't start."
But...
She wasn't entirely wrong.
It hadn't felt like a politician answering a citizen.
His eyes never left mine.
Not once.
His voice had softened.
Almost...
Protectively.
Get a grip, Devansh.
He's the Prime Minister.
He's thirty-two.
He's a single father.
And he's almost certainly straight.
Stop being delusional.
Unfortunately...
My heart refused to cooperate.
---
Kiara Mehra
"Look at his face!"
I bounced excitedly on the sofa while the Youth Conclave replayed on television.
Papa had already come home, but the news channels wouldn't stop replaying the event.
I was happily eating the apple slices Papa had cut for me before leaving that morning.
Grandmother sat stiffly beside me.
Uncle Devendra paced across the room.
On television...
Papa wasn't looking at the audience.
He was looking at the pretty boy in the olive shirt.
His eyes looked...
Different.
Soft.
Alive.
"He totally likes him!"
I pointed at the television.
"Look!"
"Papa never looks at people like that!"
"He looks at Uncle Devendra like he wants to throw him out the window."
"But this boy..."
I giggled.
"He looks at him like chocolate cake."
"Kiara!"
Grandmother snapped.
"Enough."
"This is a political disaster."
"Kabir should have ended the discussion the moment that boy announced his lifestyle on national television."
I frowned.
"Why?"
"He was brave."
"And he's pretty."
"I like him."
"I think Papa needs a boyfriend."
"He's too grumpy."
"Enough!"
Uncle Devendra thundered.
"Kabir has completely lost his political instincts."
"He'll alienate conservative voters."
"He should never have entertained that question."
I ignored both of them.
If the pretty olive-shirt boy could make Papa smile...
Then I already liked him.
A lot.
---
Kabir Mehra
The heavy doors of my private study closed behind me.
Click.
Silence.
I leaned against the wood and shut my eyes.
What was wrong with me?
I sat at my desk.
Opened a policy file.
Read the same paragraph four times.
Nothing registered.
Every thought drifted back to him.
Devansh Joshi.
His voice.
His courage.
The unwavering confidence in his eyes.
His curls.
His smile.
No.
Stop.
He's twenty-three.
You're thirty-two.
You're the Prime Minister.
You don't have the luxury of wanting anything.
The connecting door opened.
Kiara walked in wearing oversized pajamas.
One look at her face told me she was planning something.
She climbed onto the chair opposite my desk and folded her tiny arms.
"So..."
I already knew where this was going.
"Mr. Prime Minister."
I sighed.
"What?"
She grinned.
"Who's the olive-shirt boy?"
My expression immediately hardened.
"Kiara."
"Go back to your room."
"I'm working."
She pointed at the same page I'd been staring at.
"You haven't turned that page in ten minutes."
I looked down.
She was right.
"I watched the whole thing on TV."
She dramatically widened her eyes, copying my expression from the broadcast.
"You were looking at him like this."
Despite myself...
My ears felt warm.
"Grandmother and Uncle Devendra hated him."
"But I think he's nice."
She tilted her head.
"Are you going to marry him?"
"Kiara."
My voice became sharp.
"That is an entirely inappropriate question."
"He was a citizen asking a policy question."
"Nothing more."
"Now go to bed before I suspend your screen time for a week."
She hopped off the chair.
Halfway to the door she turned around.
A teasing smile spread across her face.
"You're blushing, Papa."
Before I could answer, she laughed.
"I don't care if it's a boy."
"I just want you to smile again."
"Goodnight."
The door shut.
Silence returned.
I covered my face with both hands.
A quiet laugh escaped me.
Somehow...
My six-year-old understood me better than anyone else.
My fingers drifted toward my secure government tablet.
I shouldn't.
It was unethical.
Completely inappropriate.
I knew that.
Yet...
Before logic could stop me, I typed:
Devansh Joshi
The secure database opened.
His graduation photograph appeared on the screen.
University records.
Employment history.
Residential address.
I stared at the photograph far longer than I should have.
For the first time in my life...
The crown on my head felt impossibly heavy.
Write a comment ...