In the heart of Delhi-a city of ancient ghosts and neon-dusted ambition, a modern-day Hastinapura of steel and glass-power and privilege collided in the crucible of a 24-hour news cycle. Here, Mita Sharma reigned supreme. She was the queen of Hastinapur News International, a television channel that hummed with the steady, reassuring drone of loyalty to the ruling elite. Her voice, a carefully modulated instrument of authority, echoed in millions of homes, a nightly lullaby of sanctioned truths.
She was known in hushed whispers and furious online screeds as a "Godi media" journalist, a term that tasted of bitter compromise and cloying sycophancy. Mita, however, wore the title like a diadem. Her armor, her identity, her very essence was woven into 108 metaphorical sarees, each a masterpiece of narrative craftsmanship. They shimmered with the iridescence of half-truths, their silken threads spun from buried scandals and manufactured outrage.
The pallu of one, a vibrant saffron, was embroidered with the gold thread of jingoistic pride; the body of another, a somber grey, was block-printed with the subtle patterns of economic misdirection. From the blood-red of communal flare-ups she had fanned to the pristine white of corporate cover-ups she had laundered, each saree concealed a truth she had methodically, artfully, and ruthlessly strangled in its infancy.
In the heart of Delhi-a city of ancient ghosts and neon-dusted ambition, a modern-day Hastinapura of steel and glass-power and privilege collided in the crucible of a 24-hour news cycle. Here, Mita Sharma reigned supreme. She was the queen of Hastinapur News International, a television channel that hummed with the steady, reassuring drone of loyalty to the ruling elite. Her voice, a carefully modulated instrument of authority, echoed in millions of homes, a nightly lullaby of sanctioned truths.
She was known in hushed whispers and furious online screeds as a "Godi media" journalist, a term that tasted of bitter compromise and cloying sycophancy. Mita, however, wore the title like a diadem. Her armor, her identity, her very essence was woven into 108 metaphorical sarees, each a masterpiece of narrative craftsmanship. They shimmered with the iridescence of half-truths, their silken threads spun from buried scandals and manufactured outrage.
The pallu of one, a vibrant saffron, was embroidered with the gold thread of jingoistic pride; the body of another, a somber grey, was block-printed with the subtle patterns of economic misdirection. From the blood-red of communal flare-ups she had fanned to the pristine white of corporate cover-ups she had laundered, each saree concealed a truth she had methodically, artfully, and ruthlessly strangled in its infancy.