Reborn in 1914: I Will Build India into a Superpower

The early September sun beat down relentlessly upon the vast red sandstone expanses of the Secretariat, baking the broad avenues of Lutyens’ Delhi into a shimmering, dust-choked haze. Inside the Prime Minister’s private study in South Block, however, a heavy, quiet stillness prevailed. High above the polished brass fixtures and dark teak panelling, the slow, rhythmic sweep of broad ceiling fans pushed a lukewarm breeze across the room.

For forty-eight hours, an enforced hush had settled over the executive suites. The dizzying, frenetic weeks that had followed the declaration of independence, a blur of midnight parliamentary sessions, complex administrative reorganisations, endless diplomatic receptions, and exhausting cross-country rail journeys, had taken an undeniable physical toll on the leadership.

Ram Prasad Gupta sat behind his wide mahogany desk, a blue ledger open before him, his face calm, steady, and unreadable. Opposite him sat Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel, leaning back in a deep leather armchair, his white khadi shawl draped over one shoulder, his sharp, dark eyes hooded with quiet fatigue. Across the room, Jawaharlal Nehru paced slowly along the edge of a large, patterned Persian carpet, holding a teacup that had long since gone cold.

”Two days,” Ram said softly, breaking the long silence as his fingers traced the ruled margin of the ledger. ”Two days of quiet to collect our thoughts, and yet I feel as though we have merely stepped off a moving locomotive for a single breath.”

Patel let out a dry, low chuckle, adjusting his shawl. ”If you rest any longer, Ram, the bureaucracy will begin to think we have abdicated. They are already floating petitions about administrative delays in the provincial divisions.”

”Let them petition,” Nehru said, stopping near the high arched window and looking out over the grand expanse toward Rajpath. ”A nation is not built in a state of perpetual frenzy. Though I confess, my mind keeps returning to the international map. The sheer scale of what lies ahead of us in the next six months is staggering.”

”Which is precisely why we are here today,” Ram replied, closing the ledger with a muffled thud. He reached out and pressed a small brass desk chime. ”The rest is over. We have an executive agenda to clear before the sun sets.”

A moment later, the heavy teak door swung open. Bhola Nath Mullick, Director of the Intelligence Bureau, stepped smartly into the study. Dressed in a crisp, dark linen suit despite the heat outside, Mullick carried a slim leather dispatch case under his arm. He offered a concise, disciplined bow to the three men, moved forward at Ram’s gestured invitation, and took his seat, opening his case with quiet efficiency.

”Good afternoon, Prime Minister, Home Minister, Panditji,” Mullick began, his voice level and precise as he arranged a series of typed briefs. ”I shall keep the internal security overview brief, as the major strategic vectors remain largely consistent with our last intelligence cycle.”

”Go ahead, Bhola Nath-ji,” Patel said, leaning forward slightly, his heavy hands clasping over his knee.

”Starting with the princely states,” Mullick reported, pulling a set of typed cards from his dossier. ”Hyderabad remains our primary internal tension point. Mir Osman Ali Khan continues to dither, privately nursing the fantasy that Karachi will provide him direct military or diplomatic cover. Intelligence from within the Nizam’s inner council confirms that weapons stockpiling is accelerating. Surplus European small arms, light machine guns, and mortars are being smuggled across the border and funnelled directly into the hands of Kasim Razvi’s Razakar paramilitaries.”

”And the atmosphere in the districts?” Ram asked.

”Increasingly volatile,” Mullick replied. ”The Razakars are growing bolder, running punitive patrols against Hindu border villages in Madras and Bombay presidencies. Though they have not had much success due to the presence of our embedded agents.

As for Jammu and Kashmir, Hari Singh remains paralysed by indecision. He refuses to sign the Instrument of Accession to India, nor will he entertain Pakistan’s overtures. He is attempting to maintain a ’standstill’ posture, seemingly oblivious to the rising border incursions along his western districts.”

Nehru shook his head, a line of frustration deepening on his brow. ”Hari Singh lives in an eighteenth-century fantasy while the world burns around him. He thinks he can sit on a fence that is already on fire.”

”He will learn soon enough that fences collapse under their own weight, Jawaharlal,” Patel observed grimly. ”What of the covert foreign apparatus, Bhola Nath?”

Mullick shifted his papers. ”The MI6 cell operating within the clergy in South India. Of the thirty key operatives and handlers identified in our original sweep, Special Branch has quietly taken twenty-seven into custody over the past seventy-two hours. They are being held in secure, undisclosed facilities under total operational blackouts.”

”And the remaining three?” Ram inquired, leaning his elbows on the leather desk blotter.

”We have deliberately left three low-level operatives unmolested,” Mullick explained with a faint, cold smile. ”They are under twenty-four-hour counter-intelligence surveillance. They believe their cell has gone dark due to routine communications failure or panic. As they frantically attempt to reconnect with secondary assets, sub-agents, and local political collaborators, our officers are documenting the entire peripheral ring. Dossiers are being updated daily. Legal cases and strategic intelligence profiles are being strengthened.”

”Has there been any reaction from the British High Commission or Whitehall?” Nehru asked, looking intrigued. ”Or from the local clerical networks they were cultivating?”

”Absolute silence,” Mullick said. ”Whitehall is either entirely unaware of the scope of the roll-up, or they are terrified that an official inquiry will force us to publish the espionage evidence publicly. As for the local clerical factions, without their foreign handlers and financial conduits, their activity has temporarily frozen. They are stewing in uncertainty, waiting to see who steps out of the shadows.”

”Let them stew,” Ram remarked calmly. ”Uncertainty breeds caution, but also mistakes. What of the eastern and maritime fronts?”

”Burma remains engulfed in its civil war following the assassination of Aung San and his cabinet,” Mullick reported. ”The central government in Rangoon is effectively isolated, though our Samvardhan trade and security networks along the border zones remain stable and insulated from the fighting.

As for our new ocean territories: the local committees and public representatives in Mauritius and the Seychelles have formally submitted petitions expressing a deep desire for closer integration with New Delhi. They have explicitly requested that Bapu travel to their islands to bless their political unions. The Maldives, being predominantly Islamic, remains cautious; the so-called Sultan is maintaining a strict ’wait-and-see’ posture toward our newly declared republic.”

”Thank you, Bhola Nath,” Ram said, nodding toward the door. ”Ensure the surveillance on those three remaining British assets remains tight. Dismissed.”

Mullick gathered his papers, closed his briefcase with a sharp click, bowed, and departed the room, closing the door softly behind him.

When the latch clicked shut, Ram reached into a side drawer and pulled out a large, hand-drawn strategic map of the Indian subcontinent, unrolling it across his desk.

”Hyderabad and Kashmir are the visible fires,” Ram said, pointing a thumb at the centre and northern crown of the map. ”We know how they must eventually be resolved. But apart from those two, there are two distinct, festering irritants on the physical body of this republic that we cannot afford to ignore any longer.”

Patel tilted his head, his eyes scanning the southern coastline. ”The foreign enclaves.”

”Precisely,” Ram said. ”The French-held territories, Pondicherry, Karikal, Yanam, Mahe, and Chandernagore, and the Portuguese possessions: Goa, Daman, and Diu. We have issued multiple formal diplomatic notes to Paris and Lisbon requesting bilateral discussions regarding the peaceful transfer of these colonial remnants to the Republic of India. We have received no official communication in return. Not a single polite acknowledgement. Both powers are ignoring our letters and telegrams entirely.

The French, the so-called champions of liberty and democracy, have not even bothered to send a congratulatory message to our newly independent nation, which tells me their thoughts.” Ram continued.

”The French are completely consumed by their colonial war in Indochina,” Nehru said, stepping over to the desk, his voice filled with sharp distaste. ”They are pouring vast sums of money and tens of thousands of troops into suppressing the Viet Minh, desperately clinging to imperial prestige in Southeast Asia.”

”And Salazar’s Portugal is wrapped in fascist arrogance,” Patel added, his voice hardening into a low rumble. ”They do not view Goa as a colony, but as an ’overseas province’ of Portugal by divine right. They will not listen to diplomatic notes written on parchment, Ram. Should we respond militarily? A single brigade of our infantry could sweep through Goa, Daman, and Pondicherry in forty-eight hours and erase those borders forever.”

A/N: Let me know your thoughts in the reviews and comments. Stone me?