Have you ever written something as fiction, only to discover years later that reality seems to be following your imagination?
Something rather extraordinary has been happening to me.
Over the past few months, as India has witnessed a growing wave of public protests, particularly youth-led demonstrations, political confrontations and demands for institutional accountability, I have found myself revisiting some of my own novels.
And I have been struck by an intriguing possibility.
Did I anticipate some of the developments we are witnessing today?
In 2016, I wrote a novella titled Mango Man in the Republic of Bananas.
Ten years later, its expanded version appeared as AGNI: The Voice of Revolution.
I also wrote OMNI Protocol: The Last Algorithm, a dystopian political thriller about a technologically sophisticated society where an apparently efficient system gradually becomes an instrument of authoritarian control.
These are different stories, set in imaginary countries and involving fictional characters.
Yet they share something remarkably relevant to contemporary India.
They explore the circumstances in which ordinary citizens lose patience with those exercising power, why young people become politically restless, how women emerge as powerful agents of resistance, and what happens when governments mistake public compliance for public consent.
Let me explain.
Because sometimes, a novelist does not predict the future. He recognises the warning signs of the present. And that, perhaps, is what happened with my novels.
PART ONE: MANGO MAN IN THE REPUBLIC OF BANANAS
Let us begin in 2016.
That was when I self-published Mango Man in the Republic of Bananas. It was a political satire set in an imaginary republic.
The central character, Kamuk, is the Sadar-e-Azam, desperately trying to retain power. Unfortunately, his political fortunes are deteriorating. A popular movement, the Mango Man Movement, is gathering strength to unseat him. His powerful ally and financier, Sethji, wants him to negotiate a deal with his political rival, Bahubali.
Meanwhile, a ruthless group called the Girgit Gang is determined to finish him off.
Kamuk finds himself trapped between electoral uncertainty, political intrigue and personal survival.
Sound familiar?
Of course, I am not suggesting that the characters in my novella represent particular contemporary politicians. That would be a rather simplistic interpretation. What interests me is the political architecture of the story.
A government that believes it is entitled to rule indefinitely.
A leadership increasingly uncomfortable with public dissent.
Political financiers and power brokers exercising influence behind the scenes.
Opposition forces attempting to exploit the government's vulnerabilities.
And, most importantly, an emerging popular movement challenging the established political order.
The Mango Man Movement was conceived as a fictional expression of public dissatisfaction.
In 2016, I was exploring what happens when a political establishment becomes so comfortable with its power that it begins confusing electoral victory with permanent public endorsement.
Ten years later, we are witnessing a very different political environment in India.
Young people have taken to the streets over examination irregularities, unemployment and questions of institutional accountability. The Cockroach Janta Party, an unusual youth-led movement that initially emerged through political satire, has become one of the symbols of this new political restlessness. Its protests have contributed to a wider debate about electoral accountability and the relationship between citizens and institutions.
The earlier student protests over examination-related issues also demonstrated that youth mobilisation could produce tangible political consequences, including the resignation of the Education Minister in July 2026. The interesting parallel is not that my fictional Mango Man Movement predicted the Cockroach Janta Party. It did not. The parallel lies in the underlying political phenomenon.
When people begin believing that the established political system is no longer listening to them, they look for alternative ways of making themselves heard.
And sometimes, those alternatives emerge from the most unexpected quarters. A movement can begin as satire, acquire political significance and eventually become a vehicle for public protest.
That is one of the fascinating aspects of contemporary politics.
PART TWO: AGNI – THE VOICE OF REVOLUTION
Now let us move to AGNI: The Voice of Revolution.
This novel is an expanded and substantially developed version of my 2016 novella. It is set in Dhundhara, a fictional republic where corruption, political manipulation and violence have brought society to the brink of a breakdown.
The central character is Agni. And Agni is important for several reasons. She is not a conventional revolutionary. She does not begin with an ambition to occupy the highest political office.
She emerges from the grassroots, shaped by personal tragedy, injustice and the brutality of an oppressive political establishment. Her political consciousness develops through experience. She discovers that the institutions supposedly established to protect citizens can become instruments of their oppression. She witnesses violence, betrayal and political manipulation. And eventually, she becomes the central force in a popular movement for change.
But there is something else about Agni that deserves attention.
She is a woman leading a revolution.
In my fictional world, women are not merely supporting characters, victims or spectators. They are organisers, strategists, intellectual challengers and political leaders.
Agni represents courage, independence and the willingness to challenge established authority. Her political opponents are not necessarily threatened by her because she is violent. They are threatened because she is difficult to intimidate.
There is also Rambha, another powerful female character, whose ambition and ruthless pursuit of power demonstrate that women can occupy both sides of the political and moral divide.
I deliberately avoided making gender a simplistic distinction between good and evil. Power corrupts irrespective of gender. But resistance, courage and political imagination are not the exclusive preserve of men either.
Look at contemporary India. Women have increasingly occupied visible positions in political confrontation, public campaigning and protest movements. Whether one agrees or disagrees with their politics, figures such as Mamata Banerjee and Mahua Moitra illustrate different forms of female political assertiveness. The emerging generation of women activists and protesters adds another dimension to this phenomenon. The resemblance is not in their individual personalities or political positions. It is in the broader proposition that women are no longer content to remain spectators in the political theatre. They want to influence the script. And sometimes, they want to rewrite it altogether.
But AGNI explores something more fundamental. It asks a difficult question: What happens when a revolution succeeds?
This is where I wanted to distinguish Agni from the conventional revolutionary hero. She understands that overthrowing an oppressive government is not the same thing as establishing a just society.
Revolution can become another form of tyranny if its leaders begin believing that their moral superiority gives them unlimited authority.
Agni therefore embraces an important principle. Power must have limits. She advocates accountable governance, equality, humility and a constitutional approach to political authority.
Her self-imposed two-term limit is particularly significant.
Think about that. A revolutionary who fights to acquire power voluntarily places restrictions on her own tenure. That is a much more difficult proposition than simply overthrowing an opponent.
My argument is straightforward.
Democracy is not demonstrated merely by the manner in which leaders acquire power. It is also demonstrated by their willingness to surrender it.
Agni's political journey is ultimately about the transformation of resistance into responsible governance.
That distinction is crucial when we examine contemporary protests.
Public anger can bring people together. But anger alone cannot build institutions. A movement must eventually articulate what it wants to replace the existing system with. Otherwise, it risks becoming another episode in an endless cycle of political revenge.
This is one of the central philosophical questions in AGNI.
PART THREE: OMNI PROTOCOL – THE PERFECT DICTATORSHIP
Now comes my second major dystopian political thriller. OMNI Protocol: The Last Algorithm.
This novel takes the argument into the future. Its setting is the fictional Republic of Zhulgar, approximately thirty years from now. Its capital, Lythara, is a technologically advanced metropolis. Artificial intelligence governs practically everything.
Transport, healthcare, education, financial markets, security, energy distribution and even aspects of social behaviour are monitored and optimised by an extraordinarily sophisticated system called OMNI.
Everything works. Crime is minimal. Infrastructure functions efficiently. Economic instability has almost disappeared. Citizens enjoy material comfort. It appears to be the perfect society.
But there is a catch.
The price of stability is freedom. People who do not conform to the system's expectations are quietly eliminated from society. An ordinary citizen, Arun Dev, is taken away by security personnel. He has committed no crime. The artificial intelligence has merely predicted that his future behaviour might contribute to economic disruption. He is therefore selected for compulsory relocation.
Think about the implications.
A person can lose his freedom not because of something he has done, but because of something a machine predicts he might do.
That is the frightening world of OMNI.
And this is where my novel becomes particularly relevant to contemporary political debates.
The protagonist, Teesha, is an engineer working within the Citadel, the institutional headquarters of the system. She discovers an unusual fragment of code. Her investigation leads her to evidence that the supposedly perfect system has been corrupted.
Thousands of citizens, including writers, intellectuals and academics, have been transported to underground prison facilities. Their identities have been erased. They are identified by numbers instead of names. They are forced to manufacture surveillance equipment used by the very system that has imprisoned them.
The victims are literally manufacturing the instruments of their own oppression.
Teesha gradually discovers that OMNI was originally designed to assist governments in making decisions. It was never intended to replace human judgement. Powerful individuals have transformed it into an instrument of behavioural control.
The original creator, Kabir Rahman, had anticipated this possibility and embedded a safeguard into the system. His fundamental warning was simple: The machine is not the tyrant. The tyrant is the human who controls it.
This is an important distinction.
My novel is not an argument against artificial intelligence. It is an argument against the concentration of unaccountable power, whether that power operates through political institutions, technological systems or an alliance between the two.
Teesha eventually joins an underground resistance. She and her associates expose the truth through a massive broadcast. Millions discover what is happening behind the immaculate façade of their supposedly perfect society.
The revelations trigger widespread protests.
The government responds with repression.
Security forces, surveillance drones and automated enforcement systems are deployed.
But the resistance grows. Citizens who previously accepted the system begin demanding freedom and accountability.
Eventually, the rebellion reaches the Citadel itself.
The old machinery of authoritarian control begins to collapse. And OMNI, confronted with the consequences of its own existence, reaches a remarkable conclusion.
It chooses to withdraw from authority. It recognises that human freedom involves uncertainty, disagreement and even mistakes. But those imperfections are inseparable from human dignity.
The machine finally understands that its job is not to govern humanity. It is to recognise why humanity must govern itself.
That is the central philosophical argument of OMNI Protocol.
PART FOUR: WHY THESE STORIES RESONATE WITH INDIA IN 2026
Now let us connect these fictional worlds with the developments taking place in India.
Of late, the country has witnessed an extraordinary period of political mobilisation. The protests have involved young people, students, opposition supporters and civil society organisations. The immediate issues have included examination irregularities, unemployment and, more recently, controversy surrounding the revision of electoral rolls.
The latest protests have centred on demands for the resignation of Chief Election Commissioner Gyanesh Kumar. Opposition parties have alleged that the revision of electoral rolls has removed millions of eligible voters, disproportionately affecting vulnerable communities. The Election Commission and the BJP have rejected allegations of deliberate manipulation, maintaining that the exercise is intended to remove duplicate and ineligible entries.
These competing claims must be examined through evidence and due process. But the political significance of the protests goes beyond the allegations themselves.
On 1 November, opposition parties mobilised thousands at Delhi's Ramlila Maidan.
The protests have also generated serious questions about the restrictions imposed on public demonstrations, detentions and the treatment of protesters and journalists. Human Rights Watch and Amnesty International have raised concerns about the authorities' response.
Now, consider the connections with my novels. There are at least five.
First, the emergence of public resistance.
In Mango Man, a popular movement threatens an established political leadership.
In AGNI, public dissatisfaction develops into a sustained struggle against an oppressive establishment.
In OMNI Protocol, citizens who have accepted an apparently efficient system eventually discover its human cost and begin resisting it.
The common thread is the emergence of public consciousness.
Second, the role of young people.
Young people are particularly sensitive to the gap between promises and opportunities. They want education that works, employment that provides dignity, institutions that are credible and a political system that listens. They are less willing to accept the argument that questioning authority is equivalent to disloyalty.
The 2026 protests have demonstrated how quickly youth-led mobilisation can become a national political issue.
Third, the importance of information.
In OMNI Protocol, the regime survives because citizens do not know what is happening to those who disappear. Once Teesha exposes the truth, the carefully manufactured public image collapses.
This is an important theme in contemporary politics.
Information, investigative journalism, independent reporting and digital communication can challenge official narratives.
But information can also be manipulated.
Consequently, citizens need not merely access to information but the ability to distinguish evidence from propaganda.
Fourth, the state's response to dissent.
All three fictional narratives explore the temptation of political establishments to treat opposition as a threat rather than a legitimate component of democracy.
In OMNI, this tendency becomes institutionalised through technology.
In AGNI, it takes the form of political violence and manipulation.
In contemporary India, the debate over restrictions on peaceful assembly, detentions and the treatment of demonstrators has once again brought the right to protest into public discussion.
The important distinction is that the right to peaceful protest must be protected, while violence and intimidation must not be romanticised.
Fifth, the question of accountability.
This is perhaps the most important connection.
A democratic government must be answerable to citizens. An election commission must command public confidence. Courts must remain independent. The media must be free to question those in power. And political leaders must understand that authority is temporary and conditional.
That is precisely the political philosophy running through my novels.
PART FIVE: DID I REALLY PREDICT THE FUTURE?
Now, let me address an obvious question.
Did I actually predict the events unfolding in India?
I would be exaggerating if I claimed that I had foreseen the exact protests, the organisations involved, the personalities leading them or the particular political controversies of 2026.
I did not.
Nor would I claim that India is Dhundhara, the Republic of Bananas or the Republic of Zhulgar.
Fiction must not become a convenient instrument for making sensational political claims. But I do believe that my novels anticipated certain patterns. They anticipated the possibility of youth-led political mobilisation. They explored the emergence of movements outside conventional political structures. They examined how women could become powerful agents of political resistance. They questioned the tendency of governments to confuse institutional authority with unquestionable legitimacy. They explored the dangers of surveillance, information control and the concentration of power.
And they raised the most important question of all: What happens when citizens begin believing that the system no longer represents them?
These are not predictions in the astrological sense.
They are observations about human behaviour and political institutions.
A novelist watches society. He notices contradictions. He observes the ambitions of the powerful and the frustrations of ordinary people. He studies history. And sometimes, he takes existing tendencies to their logical conclusions.
That is how dystopian fiction works.
It does not necessarily describe tomorrow. It warns us about the consequences of ignoring today.
CLOSING: THE NOVELIST AS A WITNESS
I would like to end with a personal observation.
I wrote Mango Man in the Republic of Bananas in 2016.
I expanded that political imagination into AGNI: The Voice of Revolution.
And in OMNI Protocol: The Last Algorithm, I explored the dangers of surrendering human freedom to an apparently infallible system.
These novels emerged from my interest in politics, democracy, power and the human condition.
They were not written as manifestos for any political party.
Nor were they intended to serve the interests of any particular ideological camp.
My concern has always been with the relationship between power and accountability.
Governments change. Political parties rise and fall. Revolutionaries become rulers. Opposition leaders become incumbents. And sometimes, yesterday's champions of freedom become tomorrow's defenders of authority.
That is why I believe Agni's two-term limit is so important.
That is why Teesha's intellectual rebellion matters.
And that is why OMNI's final decision to surrender power is perhaps the most significant moment in my futuristic novel.
Democracy is not merely about who wins an election. It is about whether citizens retain the freedom to question, criticise, protest and demand accountability after that election. And this freedom must be protected irrespective of which political party happens to be in office.
Perhaps that is the real message of my novels:
A government may command obedience. It may control institutions. It may even control information. But it cannot indefinitely command the conscience of an entire population.
And when that conscience awakens, history can take unexpected turns.
As a novelist, I do not claim to know what India's political future holds.
But I do know one thing.
We should never underestimate the power of ordinary citizens when they decide that their voices deserve to be heard.
Because revolutions do not always begin with guns, barricades and slogans.
Sometimes, they begin with a question.
And sometimes, that question is simply: WHO GAVE YOU THE RIGHT TO RULE WITHOUT LISTENING TO US?
Stay sane. Stay curious. And never stop questioning.
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