Prime Minister's Council Chamber, South Block, New Delhi
15 August 1947, 2:00 PM
The clock struck two in the afternoon as rain lashed against the tall windows of South Block. Most of Delhi slept under a canopy of exhaustion—the midnight celebrations had drained the city, leaving streets littered with discarded flags and the ghosts of fireworks. But inside the Prime Minister's Council Chamber, the real work of independence was only beginning.
Anirban Sen stood near the great teak table, arms folded, his expression carrying the weight of decisions that would reshape a subcontinent. Files marked *Confidential* were scattered before him: Junagadh, Hyderabad, Kashmir, Defense Reorganization, Economic Transition, Administrative Reform. The detritus of an empire hastily abandoned.
Aides hurried in with fresh typewritten copies of the provisional Cabinet list, whispering nervously among themselves. The atmosphere was thick with uncertainty—the machinery of government still bore British fingerprints, and no one quite knew how an Indian administration would function.
Anirban looked up from a file on princely state integration.
"Where is Nehruji?"
The silence that followed was uncomfortable. Several aides exchanged glances. Finally, a junior secretary stammered, "Sir... the Deputy Prime Minister is attending the celebration with his circle at the Imperial Club. He sent word that he would join the evening session."
Anirban's jaw tightened imperceptibly. His mind flashed to memories from another life—of governments that prioritized optics over operations, of leaders who confused visibility with effectiveness. He'd died once documenting the consequences of such choices. He would not enable them now.
"Celebrating," he said quietly, "while the nation hasn't even begun to breathe." He set down the file with deliberate care. "Good. Then we will begin without him."
The aides froze, uncertain whether this was insubordination or simply practical efficiency. But Patel, seated at the far end of the table, allowed himself a thin smile.
---
Inside the chamber sat the core of what would become India's first Cabinet: Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel, already managing the herculean task of integrating 562 princely states; C. Rajagopalachari, the austere intellectual from Madras; Rajendra Prasad, soon to be President; and several provisional ministers from the interim government. Cups of untouched tea steamed under the laboring ceiling fan.
Anirban moved to the head of the table, not sitting but standing—a subtle assertion of urgency.
"Gentlemen," he began, his voice cutting through the humid air, "today we have inherited a body without bones. Our administrative departments are unaligned, answering to procedures designed to extract resources, not develop them. Our education system is medieval in substance, colonial in structure. Our scientific institutions are relics designed to serve British industry, not Indian innovation."
He leaned forward, palms flat on the table.
"If we do not build a mind for this nation now—if we do not create institutions that can think, adapt, and execute—the next century will be a repeat of subservience. Only with different masters."
Rajagopalachari shifted uncomfortably. "Prime Minister, surely today of all days we should focus on unity and celebration—"
"Unity," Anirban interrupted, his tone sharper than intended, "is not created by speeches. It's built through institutions that work, through governance that delivers, through policies that prove democracy isn't just chaos with voting."
He straightened, moderating his voice.
"I will not have rhetoric substitute for reason. Not in this chamber. Not in this government."
Patel's lips twitched into a faint smile. "You mean Nehru's poetry."
Anirban did not answer directly, but the silence said enough. Several ministers looked uncomfortable—Nehru was popular, charismatic, the face India presented to the world. But Anirban had lived through decades of consequences that flowed from confusing eloquence with execution.
He turned to a specific folder marked Education & National Science
"Proposed minister for Education," he read aloud, "Maulana Abul Kalam Azad."
He looked around the table, gauging reactions.
"A brilliant scholar. A voice of communal harmony. But gentlemen, our children need engineers and physicists more than philosophers right now. We have speeches. What we lack is steel,Machinary and Power."
The room stirred. Rajaji frowned deeply. "Prime Minister, the Maulana has been promised this portfolio. He represents Muslim participation in government. Removing him sends a dangerous message about—"
"About what?" Anirban challenged. "About whether we're building a nation or managing symbols? I'm not removing the Maulana from government—he'll serve where his talents best contribute. But education cannot be treated as a ceremonial appointment."
Patel leaned back, studying the young Prime Minister with calculating interest. "If not Maulana, then who? Who do you propose can transform our education system?"
Anirban met his eyes. "Someone who understands both machine and mind. Someone who can teach the daughters of India to build, not merely to recite."
A pause. Then Patel spoke, his voice carefully neutral.
"There is one such person. But her name will raise eyebrows everywhere—from the old guard of Congress to the princely states to every orthodox household in this nation."
"Name her."
Patel glanced at the door, then back at Anirban. "Are you certain you want to do this on your first day?"
"Sardar, I have perhaps six months before the system calcifies around old assumptions. Just Name her."
---
The heavy teak doors opened.
A woman entered—tall, perhaps five-foot-seven, dressed in a simple white sari with a blue border that suggested neither mourning nor celebration, just purpose. Her hair was pinned neatly in a bun, her posture carrying the unconscious confidence of someone accustomed to rooms full of men who underestimated her. She wore no jewelry except a small silver watch on her left wrist—precise, functional.
Her gaze swept the room once, cataloging faces and reactions, before settling on Anirban with an expression of polite curiosity.
Patel rose from his chair.
"Gentlemen, this is Dr. Saraswati Sinha, founder and chancellor of Indraprastha University and the Saraswati Vidyapeeth for Girls."
Murmurs spread through the chamber. The name was familiar in Delhi's academic circles—her institutions had gained a reputation for rigor that made British universities uncomfortable. But the woman before them carried an air that transcended academic credentials.
Patel continued, his tone deliberately measured.
"M.Sc. in Mechanical Engineering from MIT. M.Sc. in Electrical Engineering, also MIT. PhD in Applied Physics and another in Industrial Systems Engineering. Additional degrees in International Law and Finance from Stanford. She speaks six languages fluently, eight conversationally. She is twenty-six years old."
He paused, letting that sink in—her age alone would scandalize half the country.
"And," Patel added, his voice dropping slightly, "she was born in Hyderabad. To the royal family."
The room exploded into whispers. Rajaji half-rose from his seat. "Patel, you cannot possibly be suggesting—"
"I am not suggesting," Patel said firmly. "I am stating facts. Dr. Sinha is the eldest daughter of the current Nizam of Hyderabad. But she renounced her titles, her inheritance, and her family's faith when she walked out of the palace seven years ago to study abroad. The city calls her the Renegade Princess. I call her the future."
Anirban regarded her in silence for a long moment, his expression unreadable. In his mind, fragments of another life stirred—lectures about how nations failed when they confused loyalty to the past with service to the future. He'd taught students about the brain drain, about how India's best minds fled because the system couldn't accommodate excellence that didn't follow proper channels.
Finally, he spoke.
"Dr. Sinha, do you understand the risk you invite by standing here? Both your family and their allies in Pakistan will consider you a traitor. Orthodox Muslims will condemn you for apostasy. Orthodox Hindus will question your loyalty. And half of Congress will see you as a political liability."
She met his gaze calmly, her voice carrying the precise diction of someone who'd learned English as a third language but mastered it completely.
"Prime Minister, I walked away from a palace to study thermodynamics. I spent three years being the only woman in engineering courses at MIT, and another two being the only Indian woman in Stanford's law program. If I feared condemnation, I would have stayed in Hyderabad wearing jewelry and learning to manage servants."
A faint smile touched the corners of her mouth.
"As for loyalty—let me be clear. I am loyal to the idea that India should produce scientists, not merely consume British science. That our daughters should build bridges, not just cross them. If that makes me a traitor to tradition, then let them write that on my tombstone."
A profound silence settled over the room.
Anirban felt something shift—the same sensation he'd experienced in his other life when a particularly brilliant student grasped a concept that would change their entire worldview. This woman wasn't just qualified. She was dangerous in the best possible way—dangerous to complacency, to low expectations, to the assumption that India's place was always to follow rather than lead.
He turned to the assembled ministers.
"Gentlemen, history is watching. Let this government begin as a government of merit, not of compromise or symbolism. From this moment forward, Dr. Saraswati Sinha is appointed Minister for Education, Science, and Technology."
Rajaji found his voice. "Prime Minister, there is no such combined ministry—"
"There is now," Anirban said flatly. "I'm creating it. Education without scientific application is decoration. Science without educational infrastructure is sterile. Technology without both is impossible. We're done treating them as separate concerns."
Patel nodded slowly, approval evident in his eyes. "A new ministry. And a new kind of India."
Several ministers looked ready to object, but Anirban pressed forward before dissent could organize.
"Dr. Sinha, you'll have full authority over curriculum reform, technical education expansion, and the establishment of a national research framework. I want a proposal on my desk within two weeks for how we build scientific institutions that can compete globally within a decade."
She inclined her head. "You'll have it in ten days."
"Budget constraints—"
"Are constraints, not excuses," she finished. "I've built two universities on donations and determination. I can work with constraint. What I cannot work with is interference from bureaucrats who think education means memorizing British poetry."
Anirban's smile was genuine now. "You'll have minimal interference. But maximum accountability. If this experiment fails, we both own that failure."
"Understood."
As junior ministers scrambled to prepare the necessary paperwork—emergency appointments required specific protocols—Saraswati leaned closer to Anirban, her voice pitched for his ears only.
"You dismissed the Maulana and offended the poet in the same afternoon. You've appointed a woman from an enemy state to your Cabinet. You will make many enemies before sunrise, Prime Minister."
Anirban's smile didn't falter. "Enemies are proof we've started doing something right, Dr. Sinha. I learned that from professors who spoke inconvenient truths."
Something flickered in her eyes—curiosity, perhaps recognition of a kindred spirit. "Then we should get along well."
---
The Empty Hall - 3:30 PM
It was nearing half-past three when the last of the ministers departed from the Council Chamber, their expressions ranging from excitement to barely concealed horror at the day's decisions. The corridors of South Block had fallen silent; the echoes of typewriters and urgent voices had dissolved into the steady drum of rain against windows.
Only three people remained: Prime Minister Anirban Sen, Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel, and Dr. Saraswati Sinha.
The ceiling fan spun lazily overhead, its rhythm hypnotic. The map of India still pinned on the wall glowed under a desk lamp—its jagged borders like wounds still fresh, hundreds of princely states scattered across it like islands refusing to acknowledge the mainland.
Anirban shut the chamber door himself and locked it—a gesture that made Patel raise an eyebrow.
"Now that the well-wishers are gone," Anirban said, returning to the table, "let's talk about what really matters."
Patel's voice was dry. "You mean Hyderabad."
"Among other things."
---
Anirban walked to the map and tapped the Deccan plateau with his pen, the area marked in yellow—territory neither formally Indian nor Pakistani, just... complicated.
"We have to bring the princely states into the Union before December. Ideally before November. We cannot afford feudal fiefdoms embedded in a democracy—it's the blueprint for permanent instability."
He looked directly at Saraswati.
"You know what your father intends."
Her expression remained controlled, but Anirban caught the slight tension in her jaw. Whatever family ties had once existed, they'd been severed with surgical precision.
"Yes," she said evenly. "He's preparing to sign a standstill agreement with Pakistan while maintaining de facto independence. He believes he can buy sovereignty with pearls, political maneuvering, and the threat of his private army. He's wrong, but he's convinced of his own cleverness."
Patel leaned forward, his voice gravelly. "The Nizam's private militia is no child's toy. The Razakars are well-armed, ideologically motivated, and increasingly violent. If we move on Hyderabad militarily, we'll have casualties—and international condemnation."
Saraswati's eyes hardened in a way that made both men pay closer attention.
"Then we don't move militarily. Not first. The Nizam's legitimacy rests on two pillars: religious authority and aristocratic prestige. Both crumble under public defiance and strategic humiliation."
Anirban leaned against the table. "Explain."
She moved to the map, her finger tracing the borders of Hyderabad.
"First, we exploit economics. Hyderabad is landlocked and dependent on Indian trade routes for everything—food, fuel, manufactured goods. We don't blockade—blockades can be condemned as aggression. Instead, we slow everything through bureaucratic friction. Permits take longer. Inspections become thorough. Currency exchange becomes... complicated."
Patel nodded. "Economic strangulation. I've been proposing exactly that."
"Second," Saraswati continued, "we document Razakar atrocities with precision. Photographs, testimonies, refugee accounts. We build an international case that the Nizam cannot maintain order, that his forces commit human rights violations, that intervention becomes humanitarian necessity rather than territorial aggression."
Anirban was impressed despite himself. "You've thought about this."
"I've thought about little else since I left Hyderabad," she said quietly. "My younger sister still lives in that palace. When this comes to a head—and it will—I want her to survive it. That requires precision, not crude force."
She turned to face them both.
"Third, and most important—we undermine the Nizam's religious legitimacy. I can help with that. I was raised in that court. I know which religious scholars he depends on for fatwas, which ones are genuinely principled versus which are political opportunists. We can create a counter-narrative: that a Muslim ruler who arms extremists to terrorize Hindu and Muslim citizens alike has abandoned Islamic principles of justice."
Patel looked skeptical. "That's delicate territory. We risk inflaming communal tensions we're trying to calm."
"It's delicate," Saraswati agreed. "But it's necessary. The Nizam presents himself as protecting Muslim interests. We need respected Muslim voices—inside and outside Hyderabad—to say publicly that his actions betray those interests."
Anirban studied her carefully. "You're proposing a psychological operation wrapped in economic pressure, leading eventually to military intervention that appears inevitable rather than aggressive."
"Yes."
"How long?"
"Six months minimum. A year is more realistic. The Nizam is stubborn, and his advisors are skilled at political theater. But economic pressure works if we're patient."
Patel grunted. "And if the Razakars force our hand? If they commit massacres that demand immediate response?"
Saraswati's voice went cold. "Then we move immediately, and we ensure the operation is so swift and decisive that it becomes a historical footnote rather than a controversy. But I'd prefer strategic patience to rushed reaction."
Anirban made a decision.
"Dr. Sinha, you'll work directly with Sardar Patel on Hyderabad. Full authority, but report weekly to both of us. Create your drama—but make sure history applauds it, not condemns it."
She nodded. "Understood."
Patel chuckled, a sound like grinding stone. "You're building quite the Cabinet, Prime Minister. A renegade princess handling her father's downfall. The party elders will have conniptions."
"The party elders," Anirban said, his tone hardening, "are part of the problem we need to solve."
---
He began pacing, hands clasped behind his back—a habit from his professorial life that occasionally surfaced.
"Sardar, be honest with me. How many Congress leaders are actually capable of governing versus simply capable of resisting British rule? How many understand that building a nation requires different skills than dismantling an empire?"
Patel's expression grew guarded. "That's dangerous territory, Anirban."
"Is it? Or is it just honest?" He stopped pacing. "We have men in Congress who spent thirty years perfecting the art of symbolic resistance—fasts, marches, speeches. Valuable skills for a freedom movement. Useless skills for running ministries."
"You're describing half the party," Patel said quietly.
"I know." Anirban met his eyes. "Which is why we need to clean house. Not immediately—that would cause revolt. But systematically. We promote based on competence, not seniority or loyalty to particular leaders. We create new institutions that bypass the old networks. And yes, we quietly sideline people who can't adapt from being freedom fighters to being administrators."
Rajagopalachari would have been horrified to hear this. Nehru would have called it betrayal of the movement's ideals. But Patel—Patel was nodding slowly.
"You'll face revolt anyway," the Sardar said. "The party built this freedom. They won't take kindly to being told they're obsolete."
"I'm not calling them obsolete," Anirban clarified. "I'm saying their role must evolve. Congress should become a political party that competes in elections, not a government-in-waiting that treats administrative positions as rewards for past service."
Saraswati had been listening quietly. Now she spoke.
"Prime Minister, may I suggest you're approaching this backward?"
Both men looked at her.
"You're thinking about removing obstacles—purging ineffective leaders, sidelining sentiment. But that creates vacuums and resentment. Instead, build so visibly and successfully around them that they become irrelevant by comparison."
Anirban tilted his head. "Explain."
"You wanted drama? Then make the nation gasp—not with political purges, but with achievements so undeniable that the old guard looks like fossils standing in the way of progress."
She walked to the blackboard that dominated one wall—a remnant of when this room had served as a briefing chamber—and picked up chalk.
"Announce a Right to Education. Every child—regardles of caste, creed, gender, or economic status—must attend school until age fifteen. Make it constitutional."
Patel frowned. "You'll ignite fury from industrialists who need child labor, from orthodox communities who oppose girls' education, from families who need their children's wages to survive—"
"Yes," Saraswati said simply. "And you'll also create a generation that can read, reason, and participate meaningfully in democracy. The fury will be loud but temporary. The benefits compound forever."
She wrote on the board: Education = Infrastructure = Power
"Build schools in villages before building monuments in cities. Make teachers our most respected profession—pay them well, train them rigorously, protect them legally. Create a scholarship system so merit, not money, determines who studies what."
Anirban felt excitement building—the same sensation from his other life when a research project suddenly revealed its full potential.
"Funding?" he asked, though he was already calculating possibilities.
"Three sources," Saraswati said, writing as she spoke. "One: redirect money currently wasted on ceremonial expenditures—do we really need maharajas and nawabs receiving privy purses while children starve for lack of schools? Two: create an education bond—Indians are patriotic, many will invest in their nation's future if given the chance. Three: partner with industry—they want educated workers, let them help create them."
Patel was shaking his head, but not in disagreement—in reluctant admiration.
"You realize what you're proposing, Doctor? A revolution wrapped in bureaucracy. You'll bypass every traditional power structure—religious authorities who control education, zamindars who prefer illiterate laborers, caste hierarchies that depend on keeping certain groups ignorant."
"Exactly," Saraswati said, turning to face them. "And by the time they organize opposition, there will be ten thousand new schools and a million children learning mathematics instead of memorizing religious texts. You can't reverse that without looking like you're against children's welfare."
She set down the chalk.
"Sometimes it's safer to change the world by making it think it's just filling out forms."
The rain had stopped. Outside, the eastern sky was beginning to pale—the long afternoon bleeding into evening, the first full day of independence already waning.
Anirban extended his hand across the table.
"Then it's settled. Sardar, you handle the iron—the princely states, the administrative integration, the hard power. Dr. Sinha, you handle the intellect—education, science, building institutions that outlast us. And I'll handle the intrigue—managing Congress, navigating international relations, making sure we have space to work."
Patel grasped his hand, his grip firm. "And together we'll handle history."
Saraswati joined them, her fingers cool but steady. "Let this be our quiet oath—India will not be a begging nation. Not in science, not in spirit, not in anything. We build capacity, or we build nothing."
They stood in silence as the light of late afternoon spilled through the high windows, painting the map of India in shades of amber. Three figures—the statesman, the scholar, and the strategist—bound by an oath no parchment would record but which would shape every decision that followed.
As the first rays of evening light touched the tricolor over Raisina Hill, the guards outside stood at attention, their shadows long across the forecourt. Delhi was waking from its afternoon stupor to evening celebrations—music drifting from neighborhoods, the smell of festive cooking, the sound of children who'd never known British rule playing in streets that were now, theoretically, theirs.
But inside South Block, a different India was being designed—one of education, steel, and uncompromising will.
Anirban turned once more to the map, his voice quiet but carrying complete certainty.
"Before December, this map must be whole—every princely state integrated, every border secured. Before the decade ends, illiteracy must be cut in half. Before I die—" he paused, remembering rain and crushed metal and truths too expensive to speak "—India must be sovereign not just in name, but in capability."
Patel and Saraswati stood on either side of him, all three studying the map as if it were a patient requiring diagnosis and treatment.
"The immediate priorities," Anirban continued, "are clear. Kashmir before winter—we need the accession secured and military assets in place before Pakistan moves. Junagadh within months—economic pressure and plebiscite.
Hyderabad within a year—strategic strangulation and psychological operations."
"And education?" Saraswati asked.
"Education is the long game that makes everything else sustainable. Start immediately. I want to see the framework for your national education policy within two weeks. We'll make it public policy within a month."
"You work fast," she observed.
"I've wasted enough time already on this ," Anirban said, though neither of them could possibly understand what he meant—the decades lost in another timeline to indecision and compromise.
Patel checked his pocket watch. "We should join the evening ceremonies. Appearances matter, and your absence will be noted."
"Five more minutes," Anirban said. He wasn't ready to return to the theater of politics just yet—the speeches and garlands and photographs that created the illusion of governance while the real work happened in locked chambers.
He looked at his two collaborators—the aging independence fighter who'd learned statecraft through necessity, and the young academic who'd abandoned royalty for reason. Unlikely allies, perhaps, but united by understanding that nations weren't built by sentiment alone.
"One last thing," Anirban said. "Everything we discussed today stays between us. The Cabinet will receive implementations, not deliberations. Congress will receive announcements, not consultations. And the press will receive facts, not process."
"You're creating an inner circle," Patel observed neutrally.
"I'm creating an engine that works," Anirban corrected. "Democracies need transparency in outcomes, not in every internal debate. We'll be accountable for results, not for how we achieved them."
Saraswati smiled slightly. "Spoken like someone who understands that sometimes the most democratic thing you can do is make decisions efficiently instead of endlessly discussing them."
"Or," Patel said dryly, "like someone who spent too much time studying autocracies and learned their methods if not their values."
Anirban didn't deny it. In his other life, he'd studied every model of governance, every system that worked and failed. He'd seen how democracies could be paralyzed by process, and how autocracies could be efficient but brittle. The challenge was finding synthesis—democratic accountability with operational efficiency.
"Gentlemen—" he caught Saraswati's sharp look "—and Doctor, the sun is setting on our first day. Let's make sure when it rises tomorrow, India is stronger than it was this morning."
They gathered their papers, locked the sensitive files in the cabinet that only Anirban and Patel had keys to, and prepared to rejoin the official celebrations. But all three knew that the real celebration was what they'd built in that locked room—not monuments or speeches, but the architecture of a nation that might actually work.
As they reached the door, Saraswati paused.
"Prime Minister, one question—why me? You could have chosen someone less controversial, someone who wouldn't require political capital to defend."
Anirban considered his answer carefully.
"Because I've spent my life studying nations that failed, Doctor. And they all shared one trait—they chose comfort over competence, symbolism over substance, tradition over transformation. I won't make that mistake. You're here because you're the best person for the job, and India doesn't have the luxury of settling for anything less."
She held his gaze for a moment, then nodded. "Then I'll prove that your political capital was well-spent."
As they emerged into the corridor where aides and junior ministers waited anxiously for direction, the performance resumed. Smiles for cameras. Gracious words for dignitaries. The careful choreography of democracy in action.
But Anirban carried with him the certainty that came from knowing the future—or at least, one version of it. In that other timeline, India had stumbled through decades of missed opportunities, choosing ideological purity over practical achievement, allowing sentiment to override strategy.
Not this time.
This time, the algorithm had better input.
And if that required him to be remembered as the Prime Minister who broke with tradition, who appointed controversial figures, who centralized power in service of effective governance—so be it.
He'd already died once for documenting truth.
This time, he would live to build it.
The thunder that ended one life had indeed become the lightning illuminating another path. And on this path, India would not apologize for surviving, for building, for demanding excellence instead of accepting adequacy.
The tricolor caught the evening light as they descended the stairs of South Block, and Anirban felt—perhaps for the first time since waking in 1915 with memories of a future that would never exist—that history might actually bend toward something better.
Not perfect. Never perfect.
But better.
And in the gap between what was and what could be, three people had just planted the seeds of transformation.
Now came the harder part: making them grow.