The fog over Delhi was still rising from the Yamuna when the Prime Minister's motorcade slipped into the South Block courtyard. The winter air carried a metallic chill, as though the capital itself understood that India had entered a season where every decision would reshape continents. Inside the PMO, the smell of ink and machine oil clung to the polished wood floors—remnants of hundreds of documents stamped, sealed, and dispatched in the last seventy-two hours.
Burma had stopped burning.
Ceylon had stabilized under Indian protection.
And the subcontinent, for the first time in two hundred years, felt like a single organism trying to remember its own spine.
As Anirban Sen entered the Situation Hall, the senior-most architects of the new India stood waiting.
Saraswati Sinha—her shawl wrapped tightly around her, eyes bright with the fire of twenty projects running in her mind.
Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel—leaning slightly on his cane, expression grave but steady, the man who held India's map inside his skull.
Dr. B. R. Ambedkar—spectacles glinting, fingers drumming on the armrest as though counting drafts of the constitution in his head.
Sir C. P. Ramaswami Chetty—beside a tall stack of financial reports, eyes lined with worry.
P. Menon—papers in hand, posture rigid, breathing calm and slow, the quiet machine behind Indian statecraft.
Their conversation stopped when Anirban entered. Not out of deference—though they respected him—but because they all knew this meeting was one of those pages of history where nations step forward or break apart.
"Good morning," Anirban said, taking his seat at the head of the long teak table. "We've secured Rangoon. We've stabilized Colombo. We've restored basic administration. Now we must decide the next phase."
Patel closed the folder before him. "The Eastern Protectorates," he said, "are now your responsibility as much as mine. But the speed at which their institutions are collapsing or transforming… we must match it."
"We will," Anirban replied.
The room collectively exhaled—not in relief, but in preparation.
---
Menon spoke first. "Prime Minister, our temporary administrators in Rangoon and Colombo report that both territories are responding positively to the protectorate structures. The Burmese ministers are cooperating. Ceylon's civil service is intact and surprisingly disciplined. They know their fate is tied to ours now."
"And the border?" Anirban asked.
"Dissolved," Menon replied. "De facto. Legally, the British letter has given us clear authority. Burma is under the Ministry of External Affairs through the Administrator-General. Ceylon is under a provisional arrangement. But local populations…"—he hesitated—"they're acting as though unification is inevitable."
Ambedkar leaned back slightly. "It will be, once the referendum is held. But before that, the administrative spine must be strong. Without civil servants, without policing structure, no constitutional integration will survive."
Anirban nodded. "That brings us to the heart of this meeting."
He turned toward Patel.
"Sardarji, what is the situation with police forces in the protectorates?"
Patel's voice was gravel wrapped in steel. "We have deployed joint teams of Indian Police Service officers and local constables in Rangoon, Mandalay, Jaffna, Trincomalee. NSG teams have taken over critical nodes—airports, ports, telegraph stations. PARA SF is handling jungle counter-insurgency in the Shan and Karen belts. Local forces are being retrained. Within a month, Burma's entire police hierarchy will report through our channels."
He paused.
"But morale is fragile. They were fighting each other until three days ago. They need structure."
"And they'll get it," Anirban replied, turning to Saraswati.
"What about academic and training institutions?"
Her eyes sharpened. "Sir, we've already taken control of Dhaka University, Punjab University, and all the major universities in Burma and Ceylon through UGC directives. Faculty audits are ongoing. Curricula are being aligned with Indian standards. School for Planning and Architecture has been placed directly under the Ministry of Education and Science, as you instructed."
"And the Kendriya Gurukul Sangathan?" he asked.
"We've received over 1900 proposals across the protectorates and Indian territories combined," Saraswati replied. "Six hundred for Kendriya Vidyalayas. Thirteen hundred for Kendriya Gurukuls. Many communities in Burma and Ceylon are already treating these campuses as signs of integration—like embassies of a future India."
Anirban took a slow breath.
"And the UPSC?"
Saraswati's voice warmed with pride. "Sir, the first UPSC and SSC examinations were held on January 1st. The results were processed in record time. By January 21st, all cadres—IAS, IPS, IFS, IRS, administrative services—have been moved to the training academies. Every new recruit is already undergoing intensive programs."
Ambedkar added, "Their legal and constitutional training is underway as well. My committee is accelerating the second booklet of the Bharatiya Nyay Samhita. They will have a complete legal framework before this year ends."
Patel grunted in approval. "Good. Without disciplined officers, protectorates become liabilities."
"Prime Minister," Menon interjected, "the protectorate governments are also requesting interim advisory groups—experts from our ministries—to help restructure taxation, education, rural development, port management, and land administration."
"Assign them," Anirban said. "Every field. Every ministry. Burma and Ceylon must function like the rest of India before they join. I want no administrative shock when the referendum results come."
A silent agreement rippled across the table.
Then Chetty cleared his throat—soft, but the sound sliced through the room like a warning bell.
"Sir," he began, "while consolidation proceeds… the treasury is under severe strain."
Everyone turned toward him. Chetty wasn't a man prone to dramatic statements.
"We have three months of reserve at the current burn rate," he said, each word measured, heavy. "Three months. After that, we cannot sustain war mobilization, protectorate administration, educational expansion, and central recruitment simultaneously without either foreign loans or massive austerity."
"So what are you proposing?" Anirban asked, though he already sensed the scale of the dilemma.
"That we negotiate everything we pre-planned within this three-month window," Chetty responded. "Every project. Every investment. Every resource contract. Every industrial expansion. If we don't secure funding and supply chains now, we will be forced to halt dozens of critical operations."
Saraswati leaned forward. "He is correct, sir. Once the operational phase stabilizes, we can begin receiving the goods and equipment we've ordered. Once that arrives, we can start the infrastructure projects across the nation. But right now, we're suspended mid-air."
Patel frowned. "How bad is our position internationally?"
"Europe is watching," Menon replied. "America is cautious but not hostile. The Soviets are suspicious. The British have exhausted themselves. We must strike deals while we still command momentum."
Ambedkar spoke quietly. "The Constitution we are drafting assumes a confident Union. A Union with both moral authority and financial strength. If the treasury collapses midway… our entire framework becomes vulnerable."
Anirban remained silent for several seconds.
The weight of the subcontinent, of Burma, of Ceylon, of millions of people who looked to India as the only stable horizon, pressed on his chest like a physical force.
Then he looked up.
"We will negotiate," he said firmly. "All major industrial houses, all international partners, all our eastern trade routes. In these three months, we will secure resources for a decade."
"That is what I needed to hear," Chetty murmured with visible relief.
---
For a moment, the air shifted.
Not lighter, but clearer.
The path ahead was perilous, but defined.
Saraswati tapped a document before her. "One more item, sir. The next entrance exam."
"Already?" Patel asked.
"Already," she replied without blinking. "If we want a truly pan-India civil service—one that represents every culture, every language, every border we've absorbed—then our next UPSC and SSC exam must include every Indian territory from Balochistan to Rangoon."
Ambedkar nodded approvingly. "The bureaucracy must reflect the geography."
"January 1st next year," Saraswati continued. "A synchronized exam across all protectorate regions, Union states, princely territories, coastal zones, Himalayan districts, and the new Eastern frontier. This batch will be the first generation of civil servants born from a united administrative vision."
Menon added, "Once they graduate, the transition from protectorate to Union integration will be seamless."
Patel sat back. "A civil service that spans half a continent… Nehru would have fainted."
Ambedkar smirked. "And Mountbatten would have choked."
Even Anirban allowed himself a thin smile.
---
The meeting shifted tones—toward preparation, toward forward planning, toward the next century. Files were opened. Maps were rotated. Advisors entered and exited with memos, telegraphs, coded dispatches.
Throughout the discussion, Anirban spoke little but listened intently, absorbing every detail.
Finally, when the last document had been reviewed, he stood.
"Let me summarize," he said, his voice now carrying the authority of a man who shaped nations with sentences. "Burma and Ceylon are on the path to integration. Our protectorate status will not last long. Their people understand this. Their leaders understand this. And we must ensure it happens without chaos."
He pointed toward Patel. "Sardarji will oversee internal consolidation."
He looked at Menon. "You will coordinate all protectorate administration through External Affairs."
He turned to Ambedkar. "Your committee will shape the legal spine for two new states."
Then he looked at Saraswati.
"You will build the soul."
She bowed her head.
"And Chetty," Anirban finished, "you will make sure the heart keeps beating. Three months' reserve means three months of decisive action. Nothing wasted. Nothing delayed. We negotiate with every nation, every corporation, every ally. The window is narrow. But our resolve is not."
The room filled with a steady silence—a silence of conviction.
Patel rose slowly, leaning on his cane. "You are pushing this nation like a blacksmith forging steel," he said. "You know it will leave a mark on all of us."
Anirban replied softly, "I am only ensuring India becomes what it was always meant to be."
Ambedkar closed his folder. "Then let us make sure the law reflects that destiny."
Menon gathered his papers. "And let us ensure the world recognizes it."
Saraswati stood straighter. "And let us ensure every child—from Balochistan to Colombo to Rangoon—has a place in the new India we are building."
Chetty exhaled deeply. "And let us ensure we can afford it."
Anirban walked to the window. Outside, the sun had fully risen, spilling a golden sheet across Raisina Hill. The flags above North and South Block fluttered with a gentleness that belied the scale of transformation underway.
He spoke without turning.
"This year," he said, "Burma and Ceylon will vote for their futures. And when they do, they will know the truth—that India did not conquer them."
He turned back to his council.
"We rescued them."
No one objected.
Because they all knew it was true.
The meeting ended.
The council dispersed.
And the map of Asia shifted again—quietly, decisively, irrevocably.