Reborn in 1914: I Will Build India into a Superpower

16 August, 1947

South Block, Delhi

By four o’clock, the setting sun was casting long, copper shadows across the Secretariat courtyards. In the main Cabinet briefing room, a very different group of men had assembled.

Seated around the long teak table were the titans of Indian industry and private enterprise: Ghanshyam Das Birla, J.R.D. Tata, Ramkrishna Dalmia, Walchand Hirachand, and Kasturbhai Lalbhai. These were the men who controlled the country’s steel foundries, textile mills, shipping lines, and banking networks.

Ram entered the room without an entourage, taking his place at the head of the table.

”Gentlemen,” Ram said without preamble. ”Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

J.R.D. Tata adjusted his spectacles, looking at Ram with quiet, analytical focus. ”Prime Minister, the industrial community is eager to understand the government’s true economic trajectory. There are lingering fears of wholesale nationalisation and bureaucratic strangulation.”

”The state will command the strategic heights, Jamshed-ji, but private enterprise will build the industrial muscle,” Ram replied directly. ”I have not called you here to strip your assets. I have called you here to expand them tenfold, provided you act as ruthless instruments of the republic.”

G.D. Birla leaned forward, his hands folded. ”What does the government require of us, Ram Prasad-ji?”

”Speed and discretion,” Ram said, leaning over the table. ”Within the week, a group of approximately one hundred and fifty Japanese industrial researchers, metallurgists, and precision engineers will arrive at the port of Calcutta.”

A low murmur passed through the industrialists. Dalmia looked startled. ”Japanese technical personnel? Prime Minister, Allied occupation forces and British intelligence are still actively tracking Japanese wartime personnel across Asia.”

”Which is precisely why they are coming to India,” Ram said dryly. ”They are technical experts who have no desire to sit in Allied internment camps or return to a ruined Tokyo under American occupation. Shaktidas Sharma is personally coordinating their clandestine transfer from Calcutta to facilities in Bangalore. Your task, gentlemen, is to absorb them into your industrial research divisions, provide them with housing, security, and total operational cover, and set them to work on precision manufacturing, optics, and heavy metallurgy.”

”And the European technical assets?” Tata asked, his sharp mind picking up the thread. ”You mentioned in previous communications that European specialists were also being recruited.”

”The European operation requires absolute cover,” Ram explained. ”We have approximately five hundred and fifty German, Austrian, and Swiss engineers currently stationed in neutral facilities in Switzerland and Sweden. Both Washington and Moscow are watching European transport corridors like hawks. Any official movement of technical personnel to South Asia will trigger immediate diplomatic intervention.”

Ram looked directly at Birla and Tata. ”This is where the private sector comes in. I need Indian industrialists to take immediate, high-profile corporate vacations to the Swiss Alps.”

Birla let out a soft, dry laugh. ”Vacations, Prime Minister?”

”Yes,” Ram said, a sharp, cold smile touching his lips. ”Take your executive suites, charter four long-range passenger aircraft under the cover of corporate expansion retreats, and spend a week enjoying the mountain air. When your chartered planes return to Bombay and Delhi, those five hundred and fifty European scientists and engineers will be on board, carrying valid commercial visas issued by our consulates as private technical consultants for your factories.”

Tata nodded slowly, a look of profound appreciation in his eyes. ”A brilliant private-sector cover. Neither the British Foreign Office nor the American State Department can easily block private corporate hires made by independent Indian firms.”

”And what will they work on when they arrive?” Walchand Hirachand asked.

”Research, reverse-engineering, material analysis and comparison, teaching”, Ram declared coldly. ”Within a month, we will have acquired enough operational samples of American, Soviet, British, German, and Japanese machine tools, diesel engines, jet turbine blueprints, weapons, machine equipment, and small arms used in the war. To ensure this public-private partnership functions smoothly, the government will issue an immediate five-million-dollar research grant directly from our strategic reserve funds.”

Ram stood up, looking at each industrialist in turn. ”The government will construct the power grids, roads, and primary steel plants. You will take this technology, build secondary manufacturing, and flood the market. We must make this subcontinent industrially self-sufficient before the next decade ends. Are we agreed?”

J.R.D. Tata stood up first, extending his hand across the table. ”The industrial houses are at your disposal, Prime Minister.”

As the industrialists filed out, Shaktidas Sharma entered through a side door, holding a fresh batch of decoded intelligence cables. His face was grim, his demeanour strained.

”The intelligence reports from the eastern border and the southern maritime sectors have arrived,” Shaktidas said, handing a typed dossier to Ram. ”The movement of Muslim populations toward East Pakistan is accelerating beyond Punjab.”

Ram scanned the document, his expression hardening. ”The exodus from the southern coastal districts and eastern Bengal is continuing at a steady pace. Total population transfer, that was what we agreed on; it will happen.”

”It is triggering severe panic among the Christian missionary networks and church authorities in Malabar, Travancore, and Madras,” Shaktidas reported. ”They fear that as the communal balance shifts, the religious minorities will face targeted hostility. Several missionary organisations have already bypassed our local administration and sent formal petitions to London and Washington, claiming that the rapid population transfer will leave non-Hindu populations exposed and demanding international protections.”

Ram’s eyes flashed with a sudden, icy dangerousness. He tossed the report onto the desk.

”Bypass our administration? They run to foreign powers at the first sign of friction,” Ram said, his voice laced with deep suspicion and contempt. ”I have no soft spot for these foreign proselytisers, Shaktidas. These missionary networks have functioned for a century as the psychological vanguard of European imperialism, eroding the native cultural fabric from within.”

”How do you wish to handle their petitions?” Shaktidas asked.

”We issue no protections and offer no reassurances,” Ram stated coldly. ”Direct the Imperial Security Bureau to put every major foreign missionary board, bishopric, and church compound under 24-hour intelligence surveillance. Monitor their telegrams, their financial channels, and their communications with British and American intelligence agencies.”

Ram leaned over his desk, his tone dropping into a lethal register. ”If these missionaries want to cry to London and Washington, we will use their foreign appeals against them. We will frame their actions as subversion, covert coordination with foreign imperial powers against the sovereignty of the Indian republic. Issue a stern, private warning to their leadership: if they continue to undermine state authority or stir up minority panic, the government will cancel their land leases, freeze their foreign funding, and quietly squeeze them across the border into Pakistan along with the rest of the departing population. Let Pakistan deal with Abrahamic rivalries.”

Shaktidas nodded briskly, making a swift note. ”Understood. We use their foreign contacts as the exact pretext to pressure them out.”

”Precisely,” Ram said. ”Now, what is the update from Burma?”

Shaktidas pulled a second red-bordered dossier from the bottom of the stack. ”This came in two hours ago from our embedded Samvardhan intelligence network in Arakan.”

Ram’s eyes narrowed instantly. ”What are the Rohingyas doing?”

”The Muslim political leadership among the Rohingyas in northern Arakan has formally drafted a memorandum demanding immediate annexation into East Pakistan,” Shaktidas detailed. ”They have established operational contact with Muslim League cadres in Chittagong and are actively arming local insurgent militias along the Mayu peninsula.”

Ram walked over to the large wall map of South Asia, his fingers tracing the rugged, jungle-covered border between eastern Bengal and Burma’s Arakan province. A cold, calculating expression settled over his face.

”The Burmese administration under Aung San’s political successors in Rangoon is weak, fragmented, and utterly incapable of securing its peripheral borders,” Ram murmured, his eyes locking onto Arakan. ”They think we will cooperate with them to stabilise their frontier. They are mistaken.”

Shaktidas looked up, surprised. ”You do not intend to assist Rangoon?”

”Assist them when they do not even control their own territory? Absolutely not,” Ram said, a ruthless glint in his eyes. ”As you know, the tribes are ours in heart. A stable, unified Burma under Rangoon’s control does not serve our long-term regional strategy. We will not lift a finger to preserve Burmese territorial integrity in Arakan.”

”Then how do we handle the Rohingya insurgency?”

”We play the tribal dynamics,” Ram instructed, tapping his finger against the map. ”Our Samvardhan network must quietly fuel the tribal animosities in the Arakan hills. There has always been conflict between the tribes and the Rohingyas; we use this pretext. Supply covert intelligence and light arms to the local Rakhine Buddhist tribes and hill factions. Stir up a localised, relentless tribal conflict against the Rohingya militias. Make northern Arakan completely uninhabitable for them.”

Shaktidas’ eyes widened slightly as he grasped the full strategic manoeuvre. ”If the Rakhine tribes press them from the south and east, the entire Rohingya population will have no choice but to flee westward.”

”Directly into East Pakistan,” Ram completed the thought with absolute, chilling satisfaction. ”We will force a massive, irreversible demographic explosion into East Pakistan’s border districts. It will destabilise Jinnah’s eastern province, tie down Pakistan’s military resources in endless border policing, strip East Pakistan of economic stability, and push the Rohingya problem entirely outside our sphere of concern. The Rohingyas want Pakistan; we will help them get to Pakistan.”

”It shall be executed through covert channels immediately,” Shaktidas bowed.

Ram turned back to the map, his eyes moving north toward the mountainous mass of Jammu and Kashmir.

”And what of Hari Singh?” Ram asked.

”The Maharaja remains completely indecisive,” Shaktidas reported. ”He refuses to sign the Instrument of Accession with India, while Pakistan is tightening an economic blockade on fuel and grain along the Rawalpindi Road. He still entertains delusions of maintaining an independent mountain kingdom.”

”An indecisive autocrat ruling a strategic mountain buffer state between nuclear-capable empires of the future is not a dream, Shaktidas; it is an invitation for invasion,” Ram said bluntly. ”Keep our intelligence networks focused on the mountain passes from Muzaffarabad and Abbottabad. The moment Pakistan’s irregulars step across the border, Hari Singh’s delusion will shatter, and he will come begging for Indian bayonets. Make sure Cariappa’s airlift contingency plans are ready for that exact hour.”

”I will notify the military watch desk,” Shaktidas replied.

”One more diplomatic task before the evening closes,” Ram said, adjusting his sleeves and putting on his light jacket. ”We must visit the American and Soviet embassies personally.”

Shaktidas raised an eyebrow. ”You are making personal visits?”

”Protocol is for peacetime; realpolitik requires personal control,” Ram said, stepping toward the door. ”We will inform the American Ambassador that Jawaharlal Nehru lands in Washington tomorrow morning, and ensure that Truman’s Treasury Department fulfils every single tranche of the five-hundred-million-dollar liquidity agreement without inserting hidden political clauses.”

”And the Soviets?”

”We will visit the Soviet Embassy immediately after,” Ram said, a sharp, calculating glint in his eyes. ”We will inform them that Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel will land in Moscow on Thursday. We will reassure them of our commitment to non-alignment, while subtly dropping the hint that if Molotov hesitates to supply heavy blast furnace designs, industrial plant blueprints, and captured German machine tools, American capital and technology will comfortably fill the void in Indian industrialisation.”

Shaktidas let out a low, admiring laugh. ”Playing the two emerging superpowers against each other before the ink on our independence document is even dry.”

”When two giants prepare for war, Shaktidas,” Ram said quietly as they walked down the wide corridor, ”a smart neighbour makes sure both giants bring gifts to his doorstep.”

By seven o’clock in the evening, torrential rain had returned to New Delhi, casting a shimmering, reflective sheen over the brick courtyard of the Ministry of Health in North Block.

Ram stepped into the office of Rajkumari Amrit Kaur. The Health Minister was sitting behind a desk piled high with regional medical bulletins, a brass desk lamp casting a soft amber glow over her composed face.

She immediately stood up, offering a respectful Namaste. ”Prime Minister. I did not expect you to visit the Health Ministry in person at this hour.”

”The Health Ministry is the frontline of our national survival today, Rajkumari-ji,” Ram said warmly, taking a seat opposite her. ”Please, sit.”

Kaur sat down, gathering a sheaf of handwritten district reports. ”I have been reviewing the medical supply figures for the refugee transit camps across Punjab and West Bengal. The situation is critical, Ram Prasad-ji. We are facing desperate shortages of basic disinfectants, clean bandages, sulpha drugs, and trained nursing staff.”

”Which is precisely why I am here,” Ram said, leaning forward. ”We cannot manage a national health crisis with guesswork and fragmented provincial reports. I am issuing an executive directive: your ministry must launch an urgent, nationwide survey of our total medical infrastructure.”

Kaur picked up her pen, her expression intensely focused. ”What specific metrics do you require?”

”Everything,” Ram demanded firmly. ”Within two weeks, I want a complete, unvarnished inventory resting on my desk containing:

First: The exact head count and geographical distribution of all active doctors, nurses, orderlies, cleaners, and sanitation staff in every district of this country.

Second: The absolute physical stock of medical supplies, specifically antibiotics, sulpha drugs, disinfectants, chlorine, surgical instruments, and clean bandages, held in both public hospitals and private warehouses.

Third: A complete mapping of regional voids. I want to know precisely which rural districts have zero medical presence and are entirely exposed to epidemics.”

Rajkumari Amrit Kaur noted the points rapidly, her pen flying across the notepad. ”Two weeks is an exceptionally tight deadline for a nation of three hundred and fifty million people, Prime Minister.”

”Use the railway telegraph network, use the regional postmasters, use every schoolteacher in the rural districts,” Ram urged. ”If a district collector fails to submit his medical inventory within fourteen days, he will be suspended for dereliction of duty. We are deploying field hospital trains to Punjab by the end of the week, but we must know where the next epidemic will strike before the bodies start piling up.”

Kaur looked into Ram’s eyes, deeply struck by the absolute urgency in his voice. ”The survey will be completed in fourteen days, Prime Minister. I will personally supervise the collation of data from the southern and eastern provinces.”

”Thank you, Rajkumari-ji,” Ram said, standing up. He paused at the doorway, looking back at her. ”Bapu begins his daily radio broadcasts tomorrow evening at six. His first topic will be personal hygiene, handwashing with soap, boiling water, and sweeping streets. Ensure your regional health officers coordinate with local community leaders to distribute soap and water-boiling instructions alongside his broadcasts.”

A gentle, inspired smile lit up Kaur’s face. ”Bapu on the radio talking about sanitation... It is a masterstroke, Ram Prasad-ji.”

”It is not a masterstroke, Rajkumari-ji,” Ram said quietly, stepping out into the cool, rain-washed evening air. ”It is simply governance.”

Night had fallen completely over the capital. The lamps along Rajpath flickered through the heavy mist, their yellow light reflecting off the wet pavement like molten ribbons.

Ram walked back to his personal study in South Block alone. The building was quiet now, the frantic administrative bustle of the day replaced by the soft, rhythmic ticking of the tall grandfather clock standing in the corridor corner.

He sat down at his mahogany desk, pulling out his leather-bound journal. He uncapped his fountain pen and began writing in clear, precise script:

August 1947.

The first days of administrative authority are concluded. The British officers have relinquished operational military command; Cariappa, Katari, and Mukherjee hold the armed forces. Bapu has accepted the mandate of public health education. Radhakrishnan has been charged with cultural reformation and athletic pride. The industrialists have taken their assignment for technical assimilation.

The missionary network is under strict intelligence surveillance; any foreign interference will be met with immediate expulsion toward Pakistan. Arakan will be destabilised through local tribal pressure, driving the Rohingya surge straight into East Pakistan’s flank. Nehru departs for Washington; Patel departs for Moscow.

The foundations are being laid in concrete, steel, and ruthless power. The wind is rising on the northern frontiers. The partition wounds are bleeding. We have survived the night of foreign rule. Now we must master the morning of our own responsibility.

Ram set the pen down, leaving the ink to dry under the soft amber light of the brass desk lamp. Outside, across the vast expanse of the darkened capital, a single train whistle blown from the railyards cut through the humid night, a lonely, resolute sound signalling the movement of a nation bound for an unwritten future.

A/N: Let me know your thoughts in the reviews and comments. Power stones are always welcome. Add the story to the library to receive update notifications.