A New India
Chapter 284 - 284: The Resistance - II

The morning was crisp and clear in London as the first marchers began to gather outside the British Parliament.

Quiet but resolute, they carried banners reading, "Stop the Hate," "We Are Builders, Not Burdens," and "Justice for Indians Abroad."

What began as a trickle soon swelled into a crowd of thousands, their chants echoing through the heart of the city.

Professor Ajay standing at the front of the protest, adjusted his spectacles and addressed the gathered crowd with a loudspeaker in hand.

"We are here not as agitators, but as contributors to this society," he declared. "We helped build the roads you walk on, the hospitals you visit, and the businesses that sustain this economy. And yet, we are attacked, vilified, and treated as outsiders. Today, we say, 'No more!'"

The crowd erupted into cheers, their voices reverberating across Westminster.

Passersby stopped to watch, some nodding in agreement, others whispering among themselves.

A British woman in her 50s paused to speak to a reporter. "I've lived in this country my whole life, and I've seen how hard the Indian community works," she said. "They don't deserve the hate they're getting."

Across the Atlantic, a similar scene unfolded in Manhattan.

Vidhi Patel led a group of protesters down Fifth Avenue, their banners fluttering in the breeze.

The march was organized, disciplined, and impossible to ignore.

Vidhi took the microphone as the march paused in front of a major media outlet. "To the journalists watching from behind those windows," she said, pointing at the building, "we ask you to tell the truth. Report on the families being targeted, the businesses being burned, and the lives being destroyed. Silence is complicity."

A young journalist, watching from inside, turned to his editor. "Shouldn't we cover this? It's gaining momentum."

The editor shook his head. "Not yet. We don't want to antagonize the higher-ups."

Outside, a group of American bystanders watched the protest.

One of them, a young man in a Yankees cap, muttered, "They've got a point. Indians do a lot for this country. My dad's surgeon was Indian, and he saved his life."

Another woman frowned. "But why now? Why all this fuss?"

The man shrugged. "Maybe because they're tired of being ignored."

In Sydney, Raj Malhotra stood at the forefront of a march that wound its way through the city's bustling streets.

The crowd was a mix of Indian-Australians and their allies, united in their call for justice.

"We are not here to divide," Raj told the crowd. "We are here to remind this country of its promise fairness, equality, and respect for all. We are Australians too."

A local politician, watching from the sidelines, turned to his aide. "This could get out of hand if we don't address it soon," he muttered.

The aide nodded. "The Indian government's protest letter was one thing, but now their diaspora is rallying the public. If this keeps up, it'll be impossible to ignore."

Meanwhile, in government offices across the Western world, letters of protest from the Indian government landed like bombs.

Meetings were held in hushed tones, and the anger of political leaders began to simmer.

In London, the Prime Minister paced his office, the Indian protest letter clutched in his hand. "This is unacceptable," he fumed. "They're undermining us on our own soil. First the letter, now these protests. It's a coordinated attack."

His aide hesitated before speaking. "Prime Minister, ignoring this isn't working. If the protests escalate, they could lead to riots. We need to respond."

The Prime Minister slammed the letter on his desk. "And say what? That we've failed to protect them? The optics are terrible."

In Washington, the President convened an emergency meeting with his advisors. "India's hitting us on two fronts," he said, his tone sharp. "Their government's protest letter was bad enough, but now their diaspora is stirring up trouble. If we don't handle this carefully, it'll blow up in our faces."

An advisor spoke cautiously. "Sir, some of these marches are gaining support from locals. If we clamp down too hard, it'll look like we're suppressing a legitimate movement."

The President rubbed his temples. "Find a way to de-escalate without making us look weak."

As reports of the protests flooded in, Rohan convened a meeting with Rao, KP Singh, and Neeraj.

The mood in the room was electric.

KP spoke first. "The protests are exceeding expectations. The diaspora is energized, and even some native citizens in those countries are joining in. But the pressure on their governments is mounting."

Rao leaned forward, his voice calm but firm. "This is the tipping point, sir. The smaller media outlets are picking up on the protests, and the narrative is shifting. If the larger outlets remain silent much longer, they'll lose credibility."

Neeraj smirked. "Let them stew. The longer they stay silent, the more obvious their bias becomes."

Rohan nodded, his expression resolute. "This is just the beginning. The protests are a statement, but the real change comes when the world sees that India won't tolerate injustice. Keep pushing."

By nightfall, the protests had spread to over a dozen cities across the globe.

In Paris, students marched through the streets, chanting slogans in both French and Hindi.

In Toronto, a peaceful sit-in outside a major news station drew attention from passersby, many of whom stopped to join the cause.

A newpaper report from London, showing a young Indian boy holding a sign that read, "Am I Not British Too?" became famous, drawing both support and sympathy.

In small-town America, an elderly Indian couple received a standing ovation at their local community center after their neighbors learned about the protests. "We had no idea what you were going through," one neighbor said, shaking their hands. "You have our support."

The protests were peaceful, but their impact was anything but quiet.

Across the world, the Indian diaspora had risen as one, their voices merging into a single, undeniable roar.

The message was clear: India would no longer be ignored, and its people would no longer be mistreated.

As the night deepened, Rohan stood by the window in his office, watching the lights of Delhi twinkle like stars.

Behind him, Neeraj entered with a tray of tea.

"Sir, the reports are in," Neeraj said, setting the tray down. "The protests are a success. And the backlash... there's none so far."

Rohan nodded, his gaze distant. "Good."