Prime Minister's Office, New Delhi, 15 August 1947, 2:14 AM
The official ceremonies had ended hours ago. The crowds had dispersed into celebrations that would continue through the night. Nehru's midnight speech—delivered as Foreign Minister, his voice carrying the poetry that Anirban could never quite match—and Will echoed in newspapers being printed across the city in morning: "At the stroke of the midnight hour, when the world sleeps, India will awake to life and freedom..."
Beautiful words. True words. But Anirban had learned, in one life or another, that beauty and truth together were insufficient for survival.
Now, in a small conference room deliberately chosen for its distance from the main offices, five men gathered around a table scattered with maps. No stenographers. No aides hovering by the door. Just the architecture of power in its most concentrated form.
Vallabhbhai Patel arrived first, as always—punctual to the point of severity, his white khadi spotless despite the August heat. He nodded at Anirban and took a seat without ceremony, spreading his own annotated maps before him.
General K.M. Cariappa came next, his bearing military-crisp even in civilian clothes. At forty-eight, he was about to become the first Indian Commander-in-Chief of the Indian Army, inheriting a force divided and depleted by partition.
T.G. Sanjeevi Pillai, Director of the Intelligence Bureau, slipped in quietly—a man whose profession was invisibility, whose files contained secrets that could topple governments. He carried only a single leather folder, clasped shut.
The last to enter was V.P. Menon, the administrative genius who'd actually drafted most of the partition plans and princely state integration strategies. He looked exhausted, his eyes red-rimmed from months of impossible negotiations, but his mind remained the sharpest in the room.
Anirban waited until they were seated, then closed the door himself and locked it.
"Gentlemen," he said, returning to the head of the table. "Officially, we are celebrating. Unofficially, we are in crisis management mode. And we will remain in that mode for the foreseeable future."
He pulled the largest map—a detailed survey of the subcontinent—to the center of the table. Three locations were already circled in red ink: Junagadh on the western coast, Hyderabad in the Deccan plateau, and Kashmir in the north.
"These," Anirban said, tapping each circle, "are the three wounds that will fester if we don't treat them immediately. Not next month. Not after we've settled into governance. Now."
Patel grunted approval. "The Nawab of Junagadh has already declared accession to Pakistan. A Muslim ruler with a 80% Hindu population, and he thinks Jinnah will protect him because they share faith."
"It's absurd on its face," Menon added, unfolding his own notes. "Junagadh has no land connection to Pakistan. Its ports face India. Its economy is entirely dependent on our trade routes. But the Nawab is convinced that religious affinity trumps geography."
Anirban leaned forward. "Then we make geography the decisive argument. Sardar, I want a complete economic blockade—no trade in or out except humanitarian supplies. General, I want assurances that our forces can secure the region if the Nawab attempts to use his state army to suppress dissent."
Cariappa studied the map. "Well, The Junagadh State Forces number perhaps 3,000 men, poorly equipped. If it comes to military action, we can secure the major cities within seventy-two hours. But Prime Minister, what about international opinion? Pakistan will claim aggression."
"Pakistan can claim whatever it wishes," Anirban said flatly. "Let me be clear about our doctrine: we will respect the stated principles of partition—that princely states can choose their own accession based on geographical contiguity and popular will. Junagadh fails both tests. If the Nawab persists, we hold a plebiscite. The people will vote for India. Democracy legitimizes what military force secures."
Pillai spoke for the first time, his voice soft but carrying complete certainty. "Prime Minister, my sources in Junagadh indicate the Nawab is already preparing to flee to Pakistan. He knows his position is untenable. The question is whether he tries to provoke a crisis before leaving."
"Then we don't give him time." Anirban looked at each man in turn. "Menon, draft an ultimatum—the Nawab has very short time in his hand to reverse his accession decision or face the consequences. Sardarji, you personally reach out to Congress leaders in Junagadh and tell them to organize peaceful demonstrations demanding accession to India. General, position forces at the border but keep them visible. We want deterrence, not surprise."
Patel smiled thinly. "You're learning quickly how to apply pressure."
"I'm learning," Anirban acknowledged, "that hesitation gets mistaken for weakness. And weakness invites opportunism."
He moved his hand to the second circle: Hyderabad.
The room's atmosphere shifted. Hyderabad was different—larger, wealthier, better armed, and ruled by a Nizam who genuinely believed he could maintain independence. His state was the size of France, with a treasury that rivaled some European nations, and a private army of 40,000 men trained by British officers.
"The Nizam," Menon said carefully, "has not declared for Pakistan. But he's also refused to accede to India. He wants to be recognized as an independent nation—treaties with the UN, separate diplomatic recognition, the whole architecture of sovereignty."
"Which we cannot permit," Patel said bluntly. "Hyderabad sits in the heart of India. Letting it remain independent would be like having a dagger pointed at our belly. Every regional movement, every separatist tendency would see it as proof that Delhi's authority is negotiable."
Anirban nodded. "Agreed. But Hyderabad requires a different approach than Junagadh. The Nizam is not a fool, and his Razakar paramilitary forces are already terrorizing Hindus in the border villages. If we move militarily too soon, we hand Pakistan and Britain a propaganda victory—'India the Hindu aggressor attacking a Muslim ruler.'"
"So what do you propose?" Cariappa asked.
"Strangulation," Anirban said simply. "Hyderabad is landlocked. Every railway line, every road, every trade route passes through Indian territory. We stop nothing officially—but we slow everything unofficially. Permits take longer. Customs inspections become more thorough. The currency exchange becomes... complicated."
Pillai's expression didn't change, but Anirban caught the flicker of approval in his eyes. This was the intelligence chief's natural terrain—pressure applied invisibly, leverage accumulated through a thousand small inconveniences.
"Simultaneously," Anirban continued, "we begin documenting Razakar atrocities. Photographs, testimonies, refugee accounts. We build a case that the Nizam cannot maintain order, that his forces are committing human rights violations, that intervention becomes a moral necessity rather than territorial aggression."
"How long?" Patel asked.
"Six months. Maybe a year. We negotiate in good faith—publicly. We tighten the noose—privately. And when the Nizam's economy begins to collapse, when his advisors start whispering that independence is bankrupting them, when the Razakars have given us enough documentation to justify intervention... then we move."
Menon was making rapid notes. "This will require coordination across multiple ministries. Finance, Railways, Home Affairs. And it will require discipline—no leaks, no unauthorized statements."
"Can we maintain that discipline?" Anirban looked at Patel.
The Sardar's face was granite. "With respect, Prime Minister, this is what I've been doing for the past year with 562 other princely states. I know how to apply pressure without leaving fingerprints."
"Then Hyderabad is your portfolio," Anirban said. "Report directly to me weekly. And Sardarji—" he paused "—if at any point the Razakars cross a line that demands immediate action, if they commit massacres that we cannot ignore for strategic patience, we move regardless of the timeline. Understood?"
Patel inclined his head. "Understood."
Anirban's hand moved to the third circle. Kashmir. The largest, the most complex, the one that in his other-life memories had poisoned everything for seventy years.
The room fell silent.
"Kashmir," Anirban said quietly, "is where we cannot afford any mistakes."
Cariappa shifted in his seat. "Prime Minister, I've studied the terrain. If Pakistan sends forces across those mountain passes—and my intelligence suggests they're already organizing Pashtun tribal militias for exactly that purpose—we have perhaps eight weeks to secure Srinagar before the airlift becomes impossible."
"Eight weeks," Anirban repeated. "And currently, Maharaja Hari Singh is still deciding whether to accede to India, Pakistan, or attempt independence."
"He's a fool," Patel said harshly. "A Hindu ruler over a Muslim-majority population, bordering a Pakistan that will never accept a hostile Kashmir, and he thinks he can play neutral?"
"He thinks," Menon corrected gently, "that acceding to India will provoke Pakistan into immediate invasion. He's not wrong about that. The question is whether he believes we can actually defend Kashmir if he does accede."
Anirban stood and walked to the window. Outside, Delhi was still celebrating—flags everywhere, music drifting up from the streets, a city that had no idea how fragile the map they were celebrating actually was.
"Here's what we're going to do," he said, still facing the window. "General, I want air assets positioned in Punjab—transport planes ready to move troops to Srinagar within hours of receiving orders. I want contingency plans for everything: securing the Vale, holding the passes, establishing supply lines through Jammu."
"That will take weeks to organize properly—"
"Then start today. Pillai, your assets in Kashmir—what's their assessment of Pakistani intentions?"
The intelligence director opened his folder for the first time. "Prime Minister, it's not a question of intentions. It's a question of timing. The tribal militias are being organized in the North-West Frontier Province. Arms are being distributed. Pakistani Army officers are providing 'advisory support.' Conservative estimate: they'll be ready to move within the month. Possibly sooner."
"And if they invade before the Maharaja accedes?"
"Then legally, we cannot intervene. Kashmir would be an independent state being invaded by non-state actors, and India would have no standing to respond militarily."
Anirban turned back to face the room. "Which is why the Maharaja needs to understand—very clearly—that his independence fantasy ends the moment Pakistan moves. Menon, you've built a relationship with him. I want you in Srinagar tomorrow."
"Tomorrow?" Menon blinked. "Prime Minister, I've been awake for three days straight—"
"Then you'll be awake for four. This cannot wait. You tell the Maharaja three things." Anirban counted on his fingers. "One: if he accedes to India immediately, we guarantee military protection and substantial autonomy in internal governance. Two: if he delays and Pakistan invades, we will intervene regardless—but on our terms, not his. Three: if he accedes to Pakistan thinking it will bring peace, he's signing his own death warrant and condemning Kashmir to permanent instability."
"That's... quite direct," Menon said weakly.
"Directness," Anirban replied, "is what this situation requires. We don't have time for diplomatic niceties. Patel, I want a letter drafted to Sheikh Abdullah—he has the popular legitimacy in Kashmir that the Maharaja lacks. We need him to publicly support accession to India."
"Abdullah is in jail," Patel pointed out. "The Maharaja imprisoned him months ago for opposing autocratic rule."
"Then the Maharaja will release him. That's not a request—it's a condition of our support. If Hari Singh wants India to defend his throne, he does it by sharing power with the people who actually have popular support."
Anirban returned to the table and placed both palms flat on the map, leaning forward so his face was level with the others.
"Gentlemen, let me be absolutely clear about what I'm asking you to do. We are going to integrate these three states—Junagadh, Hyderabad, Kashmir—into India. Not through patient negotiation alone. Not through moral appeals to unity. But through the calculated application of economic pressure, military deterrence, and strategic timing. This will be expensive. It will be criticized. Some will call it imperialism or Hindu nationalism or whatever label fits their agenda."
He straightened.
"I don't care. Because the alternative—a fragmented subcontinent with hostile or unstable states embedded in our territory—is the blueprint for permanent conflict. Pakistan will use every opening we leave them. Regional separatists will see every concession as weakness. And fifty years from now, we'll still be fighting wars over borders we failed to secure in 1947."
"How can you be so certain?" Cariappa asked, genuine curiosity in his voice.
Anirban met his eyes. "Because I've studied every partition made by west. Every time borders are drawn badly, every time integration is incomplete, every time nations prioritize sentiment over strategy—people die. For generations.And I will not hand that legacy to our children."
The room absorbed this. Patel was nodding slowly. Pillai's expression remained unreadable but his posture suggested agreement. Menon looked troubled but convinced. Only Cariappa seemed uncertain.
"Prime Minister," the General said carefully, "what you're describing is essentially a military doctrine of preemptive integration. We secure territory not because we've been attacked, but because we anticipate future conflict. That requires a level of... ruthlessness... that may not align with the values this nation was founded on."
Anirban didn't look away. "General, let me ask you something. If Kashmir falls to Pakistan because we hesitated, because we wanted to respect the Maharaja's sovereignty, because we were afraid of international criticism—and then we spend the next fifty years fighting a permanent low-intensity conflict across a border that should never have existed—was that less ruthless? Or just differently ruthless?"
Cariappa considered this. "You're arguing that decisive action now prevents greater violence later."
"I'm arguing that there are no clean choices. Only choices with different costs. And I choose the cost of acting over the cost of regretting."
Silence settled over the room like dust.
Finally, Patel spoke. "You asked us here to give you our assessment. Here's mine: everything you've proposed is operationally feasible. The question isn't capability—it's whether you personally can bear the weight of these decisions. Because Prime Minister, once we start down this path, there's no retreating to comfortable idealism. You'll be called a tyrant. A warmonger. A Hindu nationalist despite being raised by temple priests who taught you to see divinity in everything. Can you accept that?"
Anirban thought of the rain-slicked streets of Calcutta. Of a manuscript scattered across a dashboard. Of truths too expensive to speak aloud. Of systems that closed over dissent like water over stone.
"Sardarji," he said quietly, "I can accept anything except failure."
Patel smiled—a rare expression that softened his severe features. "Then you'll do."
"Orders?" Cariappa asked.
Anirban returned his attention to the map. "Junagadh: economic blockade begins tomorrow, military preparations concurrent, plebiscite within three months. Hyderabad: patient strangulation, documentation of Razakar violence, intervention when economically weakened or morally justified—whichever comes first. Kashmir: Menon leaves for Srinagar tomorrow, military assets positioned, accession secured before Pakistan moves."
He looked up at each of them.
"Gentlemen, we have perhaps six months before the world realizes that independent India is not going to be the pacifist, idealistic experiment they're expecting. We're going to be a nation that secures its interests, that uses power intelligently, that refuses to apologize for surviving. Are there any objections?"
No one spoke.
"Then let's begin."
---
Red Fort Ramparts, New Delhi, 15 August 1947, 6:47 AM
The second speech of the day—the one not covered by international press, delivered in Hindi and Bengali rather than English—drew a different crowd. These weren't diplomats or journalists. They were refugees from Punjab, Congress workers from the provinces, farmers who'd traveled hundreds of miles to see the tricolor fly over the Red Fort.
Anirban stood at the rampart where Mughal emperors once addressed their subjects, where British governors had proclaimed their dominion, and now where a Prime Minister raised in a temple compound would try to explain what freedom actually meant.
He spoke without notes, his voice carrying across the gathering dusk.
"My sisters and brothers," he began, and the crowd quieted. "Today we celebrate independence. But let me tell you what independence is not."
He paused, letting the unexpected opening settle.
"Independence is not safety. The British leave, but the dangers remain—from hostile neighbors, from internal divisions, from poverty that cripples more surely than any colonial law. Independence does not mean our struggles are over. It means we can no longer blame anyone else when we fail."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. This was not the triumphalist rhetoric they'd expected.
"Independence is not peace. We have already paid for our freedom in blood—the blood of Punjab and Bengal, where partition has turned neighbors into murderers, where trainloads of corpses arrive daily as testimony to our collective failure to protect each other. That violence will not end simply because we fly a different flag."
His voice hardened.
"Independence is not guaranteed. There are those—within our borders and beyond them—who believe India cannot survive as a unified nation. They believe we are too diverse, too divided, too damaged by centuries of colonialism to actually govern ourselves. They are waiting for us to prove them right."
He leaned forward, gripping the stone parapet.
"So let me tell you what independence is. It is responsibility. It is the burden of making decisions that will determine whether your children live in a strong nation or a fractured collection of weak states. It is the duty to set aside old grievances—Hindu against Muslim, Brahmin against Dalit, region against region—long enough to build something that can survive."
The crowd was absolutely silent now.
"Our government will make mistakes. I will make mistakes. We are learning to govern a nation that has forget to govern itself. But I promise you this: we will make those mistakes honestly. We will not hide our failures. We will not blame scapegoats. We will not pretend that good intentions alone can substitute for competence."
He straightened, his silhouette sharp against the darkening sky.
"Some of you will disagree with our decisions. Some will say we are too harsh with princely states that refuse integration. Others will say we are too lenient with those who incite communal violence. You have the right to criticize—that is what democracy means. But understand this: every decision we make is aimed at one goal—ensuring that India survives long enough to become the nation we dream of."
His voice softened.
"Mahatma Gandhi taught us to fight without hatred. Netaji taught us that freedom requires sacrifice. The martyrs of our freedom struggle taught us that some truths are worth dying for. Now we must learn one more lesson: that building a nation requires not just idealism, but also practical wisdom. Not just compassion, but also practical wisdom. Not just compassion, but also strength. Not just dreams, but also discipline."
He raised his hand, and the tricolor snapped in the evening wind above him.
"This flag represents all of us—every religion, every language, every region. We will defend it. We will honor it. And we will ensure that it flies over a nation that is united not through force, but through the shared understanding that we survive together or perish apart."
The crowd erupted—not in unanimous approval, but in the complicated roar of people who recognized hard truths being spoken aloud.
Anirban stood at the rampart for a moment longer, watching the sun rising over Delhi, watching the crowds disperse into a day that was already changing. Tomorrow would bring new crises. The princely states would test his resolve. Pakistan would probe his defenses. The international community would judge his decisions.
But today, he'd said what needed saying.
History was not fixed. It was an algorithm waiting for better input.
And Anirban Sen—orphan, historian, accidental architect of a nation's fate—intended to provide it, one decision at a time.
Even if those decisions cost him everything.
Because he'd already died once for documenting power.
This time, he would wield it.