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Meera’s message pulled Arjun back into the present. The election commission portal glowed on his screen. There was a login, a captcha, then a file area with one link labeled exactly as Meera had typed. He hovered over it, the cursor a tiny, patient finger.
That evening, when the streets cooled and lamps flicked on, the party held an impromptu meeting. They stood in a circle under a single bare bulb, faces softened by the yellow light. Someone read the registration number aloud like a promise. Someone else raised practical questions about outreach and funding. Words that had felt theoretical during their founding now had a framework. The certificate wasn’t magic. It didn’t guarantee votes or even attention. But it made them visible in the places that counted. Meera’s message pulled Arjun back into the present
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