Kill The System: A Dream Vignette

Part I: The Parade of Nations

The cold morning air carried the scent of marigolds and jasmine through the three-storey hollow of the school. On National Day, we weren't just students, we were living stereotypes meant to be broken. Our class had become Punjab itself, wrapped in the vibrant chaos of Phulkari embroidery and the weight of tradition.

I adjusted my turban, feeling the stiff fabric press against my forehead, and looked down at my Patiala salwar, voluminous, pleated, alive with colours that seemed to shout rather than speak. Around me, my classmates moved in their kurta-pyjamas and salwar-kameez, their juttis clicking against the floor in perfect rhythm. Through the windows, I could see other classes: Kerala in their white-and-gold kasavu, Haryana in their robust pagris, Bihar in their simple elegance, each standard a different India, each classroom a different truth.

The drums began. Ta-Na-Ta-Na. Ta-Na-Ta-Na. That relentless Quick March, 120 beats per minute of mechanical discipline, the heartbeat of every school assembly that ever was. It pounded like Michael Jackson's "They Don't Really Care About Us", defiant, steady, impossible to ignore.

The parade began to move, a river of colour flowing through the corridors.

Part II: The Ghost in the Classroom

I should have followed them. But there he was, sitting at the teacher's desk in our Punjab-themed classroom, behind the decorative dhol, beneath posters of the Golden Temple and Bhangra dancers frozen mid-leap. Gandhi. Not the marble statue version, not the poster on the wall, but him, frail, smiling with those deep creases around his eyes, his round metal-rimmed spectacles catching the light, his dhoti impossibly white against the red Phulkari curtains.

The parade drums faded into the distance as I stayed behind.

He looked at me with that warm, impossible smile. His chest was bare under the thin shawl, his pocket watch visible near his waist, and he seemed so small sitting there among our miniature tractors and dried wheat stalks on the window ledges, our Durries covering the institutional floor.

"Why are you alive," I asked, "and not Bhagat Singh?"

The smile didn't fade, but something ancient moved behind his eyes. "Destiny chooses its martyrs and its witnesses," he said, adjusting his spectacles. "Which do you think I am?"

The answer felt like a question pretending to be an answer. I pressed on.

"Why did you create the division of India?"

He leaned forward, and his voice dropped to something almost playful. "Do you know what happens when you tell a secret to ten people? To a hundred? To millions?" He didn't wait for my response. "Secrets become prophecies. Prophecies become truths. Or perhaps..." his eyes glinted behind the round lenses, "perhaps they were always truths, and I was just the one fool enough to speak them aloud."

The weight of that non-answer hung in the air, heavy as the sweet smell of flowers drifting through the windows.

"And the caste system?" My voice was harder now. "Do you understand it?"

"I understand," he said slowly, "that some systems survive because we understand them. And others survive because we don't." The smile returned, sad now. "Which one do you think it is?"

"Then help me kill it," I said, refusing to play his game of riddles. "Kill the system."

Part III: The Chant

The words left my mouth like a match to kindling.

"Kill the system."

I repeated it, louder. The parade drums were still beating outside, Ta-Na-Ta-Na, and somehow my words found their rhythm. Someone else picked it up. Then another. Then the whole class, returning from the parade, poured back in, their voices rising:

"KILL THE SYSTEM!" Ta-Na-Ta-Na "KILL THE SYSTEM!" Ta-Na-Ta-Na

The drums synced perfectly with the chant, that marching beat transforming into something revolutionary, something dangerous. The sound filled our Punjab classroom, spilt out into the three-storey hollow, and echoed off every wall until the entire school was vibrating with it.

But revolution breeds chaos.

Different thinking people started fighting, Kerala arguing with Haryana, Bihar pushing Maharashtra, everyone suddenly remembering old grievances wrapped in new costumes. The stereotypes we were meant to break were breaking us instead.

I had to take control. I had to find the real troublemakers.

"Jatt khara kalla aajo jihne loha laina!" I shouted in Punjabi, my voice cutting through the chaos. Come forth, whoever wants to pick up the iron, whoever wants to fight.

Four figures pushed through the crowd.

From Kerala, white kasavu dhoti gleaming, his movements fluid like the backwaters he represented. From Jharkhand, tribal jewellery catches the light, his stance grounded and dangerous. From Haryana, a massive pagri, broad shoulders, bored eyes, looking for any excuse to prove his strength. And from Delhi, dressed in modern fusion, cocky, there because fighting looked fun.

Part IV: Honey and Steel

The cold air seemed to freeze as we faced each other. The sweet smell of flowers intensified.

But as I looked at them, Kerala in his white kasavu, Jharkhand with his tribal jewellery, Haryana with his massive pagri, Delhi in his fusion wear, I saw it. Four fragments of the same fractured country, each carrying stereotypes they'd been forced to wear like costumes.

Still, the fight was coming. Dreams don't pause for philosophy.

I ran toward the Arunachal Pradesh classroom and grabbed their container of traditional honey. In one swift motion, I threw it across the floor between us.

The honey spread like liquid gold, sticky, slippery, catching the light like a trap and a treasure at once.

Kerala went down first, grace betrayed by the slick surface. Jharkhand followed, jewellery clattering. Haryana, big, bored Haryana, fell hardest, and all three crashed into the water cooler with a tremendous splash, cold water mixing with sweet honey.

But Delhi hung back, watched, and learned. Now he came at me, and in his eyes I saw something familiar: the cleverness that survives by adapting.

I pivoted into the Maharashtra classroom, through Shivaji's forts and warrior traditions. There on the wall: that Maratha dagger with its dark, curved hilt and crescent guard, brass-wrapped grip gleaming. Behind it, a painted tiger loomed.

The blade sang as I drew it, Damascus patterns catching the light.

Delhi stopped, reconsidered. In that moment, we both knew: we weren't fighting each other. We were fighting the roles we'd been assigned.

But he'd committed. He came anyway. Because sometimes you have to act out the symbol before you can understand it.

What happened next wasn't technique. It was pure spirit, pure Shivaji, courage and cunning against the empire. I moved like I'd seen in movies, probably watched before sleeping, my body remembering what my mind had never learned. Each party has a rejection. Each movement is a question.

Delhi went down, not hurt but defeated, sprawling among the Maharashtra decorations. He was laughing, I realised. We both were.

Part V: The Hollow

I walked back to the centre of the school, to the ground floor beneath that three-story hollow. Water dripped from the broken cooler. Honey stuck to the shoes and spread in golden patches. The drums had stopped.

Everyone was looking at me.

They lined the railings on all three floors, Punjab, Kerala, Maharashtra, Haryana, Bihar, Jharkhand, Delhi, Arunachal Pradesh, every state, every union territory, every stereotype we'd worn today. The hollow amplified everything. One voice here could reach everyone.

I raised the Maratha dagger, still in my hand, still catching the light.

"We're killing the system," I said, and my voice carried upward, multiplied by the architecture. "Not the identity. Never the identity."

I could feel them listening, really listening, in that way that only happens in dreams, where words carry the weight of absolute truth.

"The system is the rules and regulations that divide us. The system is the walls they built between states, between castes, between us. The system is every lie they told us about each other, every stereotype they made us believe."

I gestured at our costumes, our decorations, our beautiful, ridiculous displays.

"But this? This is who we are. Kerala's grace, Jharkhand's strength, Haryana's courage, Delhi's cleverness, Punjab's joy, Maharashtra's valour, these aren't the system. These are our identities. These are real."

It was Caesar speaking to Rome, Mark Antony at the funeral, every great orator who ever made a crowd forget their anger and remember their purpose. I wasn't criticising anyone. I wasn't blaming anything. I was just speaking truth, and in dreams, truth has power.

Heads nodded on all three floors. Kerala helped Jharkhand to its feet. Haryana clapped Delhi on the shoulder. The honey was still stuck to the floor, sweet and slippery, but no one was fighting anymore.

"Kill the system," I said one more time, softer now. "But keep everything that makes us us."

The agreement was unanimous. The understanding was complete.

And then, like all perfect dream moments, I was awake.

---

The cold lingered. The sweet smell of flowers and honey stayed with me for minutes after waking. And somewhere in my mind, that drum beat continued: Ta-Na-Ta-Na, Ta-Na-Ta-Na, the rhythm of a parade that never ended, of a speech that would echo in that three-storey hollow forever.

But here's what I didn't say in the dream, what I couldn't say until I woke up: I was terrified the entire time. Terrified that Gandhi's riddles had no answers. Terrified that the honey-slick floor was just a trick that worked once. Terrified that my words in that hollow were just noise, that they'd forget everything the moment the dream ended.

Maybe that's why dreams give us these moments. Not because we're brave enough to live them.

But because we need to know what it feels like. (Author's Note: A dream is just a dream—symbols, not statements. Any resemblance to historical figures or political positions is purely the strange logic of sleep.)

Graves & Beginnings Part III

Scene 1: Eliza’s Reflections at the Grave

ELIZA

How silent you lie, beneath the ground so still,

Yet once your love was fierce, a forceful will.

Henry, if only you could see it clear,

I left, not from hate, but from mounting fear.

ELIZA

I loved you, yes—but love to me was light,

A gentle, soothing, morning’s soft delight.

Yet you… you loved as if the world would end,

A tempest wild, a flame that would not bend.

---

AGNES

Eliza, tell me, was it all you could do?

Did you love him truly, and still bid adieu?

For though he’s gone, his love seems bound to stay,

Caught in your silence, though you walked away.

---

ELIZA

I did, Agnes, I loved him true and deep,

But love should be as gentle as one’s sleep.

With him, love was a storm I couldn’t bear,

A weight too heavy, a breath of scarce air.

ELIZA

When we first met, his love was like the spring,

A budding flower, a bird’s gentle wing.

But soon it grew—a forest overgrown,

Suffocating all that I had known.

---

Scene 2: Eliza’s Memories

ELIZA

He held me close, and whispered of forever,

Promised to love as no one could ever.

But in those words, a fear began to grow,

For love, I thought, should let two spirits flow.

ELIZA

I wanted freedom, space to simply be,

A love that lifted—not a cage for me.

Yet his eyes held me, bound by every vow,

A promise of love that knew no “how.”

---

AGNES

Perhaps he loved you, Eliza, far too much,

A love so fierce, none could bear its touch.

But did he know your heart needed the air?

That love could stifle what it meant to share?

---

Scene 3: Eliza’s Decision

ELIZA

It broke my heart to walk away that day,

T o leave the love that would not let me stay.

But I could see it—myself fading fast,

Drowned in a love that was too vast.

ELIZA

Henry, dear, I know you meant no harm,

Your love was sweet, your voice a soothing charm.

But I was losing myself bit by bit,

A flickering flame that couldn’t fit.

---

Scene 4: Agnes’s Reassurance and Eliza’s Final Words

AGNES

Eliza, none would fault your gentle heart,

For love sometimes demands we grow apart.

He loved you true, but so did you in turn,

Yet love should heal, not let two spirits burn.

ELIZA

Thank you, Agnes, for seeing what’s within,

For knowing love can both hurt and win.

Henry, my love, my sorrow, my friend,

I did not leave you, it was love’s end.

ELIZA

Farewell, my dear, may you rest in peace,

And find in love your long release.

For though I left, my heart was ever true,

I loved you deeply, just not as you.

---

Final Scene: Eliza’s Acceptance and Resolution

AGNES

Come now, Eliza, life awaits your heart,

Love’s end is merely a brand new start.

Though Henry’s gone, his love shall still remain

A memory, a whisper, not a chain.

ELIZA

Yes, let it be—a memory soft and kind,

A love that lives, though no longer binds.

Thank you, Henry, for all we were,

And for setting me free, without hate’s blur.

---

Summary of Part III:

Eliza reveals her side of the love story. Her feelings for Henry were true, but his intensity grew to the point where she felt trapped rather than cherished. Her choice to leave was painful but necessary for her own well-being. The audience now understands that Eliza did not leave out of cruelty but out of self-preservation. Agnes’s presence allows Eliza to vocalize these emotions, affirming that sometimes love must also be about letting go. Through this, the audience feels empathy for both Henry’s pain and Eliza’s struggle. In the end, Eliza’s farewell to Henry and her decision to move forward brings a sense of closure, revealing love’s complexity, the sorrow in its end, and the grace in its release.

Graves & Beginnings Part II

Scene 1: Henry’s Solitude

HENRY

How silent this life, in love's absence bound,

Her voice, her touch, no longer here, no sound.

Oh, Eliza, you've taken all I knew,

Left me to linger, love-torn and askew.

HENRY

If I could but hold her once more, in truth,

T o feel her warmth, to drink of her sweet youth.

Yet I am nothing—a shadow, a shade,

Lost in this love that destiny betrayed.

---

AGNES

Henry, friend, your grief—won’t you let it go?

Life still awaits, with beauty you don’t know.

Why cling to love that brings naught but pain?

Find peace, dear Henry—come live again.

---

HENRY

Peace, you say? How cold a word it seems,

When love, the only peace I sought, lies in dreams.

She was my light, my breath, my will to be,

Now I wander lost, for she is not with me.

AGNES

I have known love, Henry, and loss as well,

But life yet calls us, from sorrow's dark cell.

Would Eliza want you to waste away,

Withering here, fading day by day?

---

HENRY

What would she care? She left me all the same,

With promises turned empty, love’s cruel game.

I gave my soul, my heart, my every breath,

Yet here I am, alone, bound close to death.

---

Scene 2: Henry’s Memories

HENRY

How sweet her words, the way she used to say,

"Together, always, come night or day."

But words fade thin, as morning’s mist departs,

Leaving nothing but ache within these hollowed hearts.

HENRY

Eliza, did you never feel the same?

Was I but a page in love’s fleeting game?

You left with ease, as though we were but chance,

While I am here, lost in love’s deep trance.

---

HENRY

Oh, to feel thy touch, just one last time,

T o share once more our lives' soft rhyme.

Yet I am cursed, to linger all alone,

A love like mine, never fully known.

---

Scene 3: Agnes’s Last Attempt and Henry’s Resignation

AGNES

I cannot bear to watch you break this way,

Bound to a love that led you to decay.

Please, Henry, come back to life, break free,

For love that true should give, not leave you be.

---

HENRY

This love is all I am, though it has slain,

For it left a wound, yet I cannot feign.

Eliza, my heart beats but in your name,

For without you, love is hollow, cold, and lame.

---

Final Scene: A Silent Resolution

AGNES

Some loves are curses, a bond too strong to sever,

Yet who am I to say it should last forever?

He loved her deeply, that much is plain,

And if love be death—then let him not remain.

---

Summary of Act 2:

Henry’s slow descent into heartbreak and despair, with Agnes as a symbol of the outside world trying to save him. Through his memories, Henry’s love is revealed as an all-consuming force that left him unable to live without Eliza. His end is tragic, yet he finally finds a sense of peace in his resignation. Agnes understands that Eliza never intended this pain; she simply didn’t love him with the same intensity, making both characters sympathetic in their own ways.