It is ordained in the Vedas that this war, which may last for over 18 days, will end no less decisively. Unlike Kurukshetra, this is fought in New Delhi, but the evil forces trail all the way to Ahmedabad. But I couldn’t care less, for my end is destined to come on the day when the sun (or the moon, I forget which) is supposed to align in a special way with my horoscope. The memory’s failing, but I do declare that I leave this Secret Diary for posterity and for Hindutva, which I energised with my rath yatra 23 years back. Now my enemies—new pretenders pretending to be comrades—have felled me with their astras, the deadliest of all being the development astra. Verily, the lowly curs have brought me down. Now I, Hindutva’s pitamaha, have plucked a bloody arrow from my body scarred by a hundred cuts—its tip I use to write this diary. In fact, the back-stabbing Brutuses had conspired to do the dastardly deed on the beaches of Goa, where they sought to appease the gods with secret yagnas. But the lily-livered cabal was undone by the wholesome stink of feni (unpalatable to me too, accustomed as I am only to a cold drink called doodh). However, I escaped such a fate by avoiding Goa; the modern Kauravas underestimated my wile, forgot that I built their army from just two soldiers. Where was ‘Namodhan’ and his evil cohorts back then? Today, in my late prime, the blackguards dare to deliver their unkind cuts! Is this how you treat ‘Bhishma Pitamahas’ these days?