Reborn in 1914: I Will Build India into a Superpower

1937

With the legal avenues of the colonial system proving predictably sterile, Ram turned his attention entirely to the long game.

In late 1937, Ram convened an unpublicized meeting in Kanpur. The attendees were not political activists or university agitators; they were senior representatives from the Marwari, Gujarati, and Multani trading guilds: men who controlled the private credit networks, shipping lines, and trade routes stretching far beyond the borders of British India.

The room was thick with the scent of tobacco and rich textiles. Maps of South Asia, the Himalayas, and Southeast Asia were unrolled across a low wooden table.

”The British view India as a set of administrative provinces bounded by lines on a map,” Ram began, addressing the assembled merchants. ”They measure our neighbours only by military outposts and tax yields. We must think differently. We must think in terms of cultural and economic mandalas.”

He pointed to the regions bordering the subcontinent: the tribal belts of the North-East, the hills of Burma, the high passes of Tibet, the valleys of Nepal, Bhutan, and the island of Lanka.

”When the British eventually leave, and they will leave, sooner than any of us expect, these borderlands will face a choice,” Ram said, his eyes scanning the room. ”They will either orient themselves toward a strong, unified Indian state, or they will drift into the orbit of hostile foreign powers, ideological extremism, or internal chaos. We cannot afford to start building those relationships on the day the Union Jack comes down.”

A senior Marwari trader, Seth Goverdhandas, stroked his moustache thoughtfully. ”Ram-ji, these regions are rugged, tribal, and deeply suspicious of plainsmen. The British govern them with political agents and military garrisons. How do you propose we convince them?”

”Not with armies, and certainly not with politicians,” Ram replied. ”We convince them through trade, respect, and shared heritage. Your businesses already engage in trading with these people; we will expand that narrow opening.”

Ram outlined his master plan, breaking it down into distinct operational guidelines:

Cultural and Economic Envoys

Using the existing trade houses as cover, trusted envoys, disguised as grain buyers, timber merchants, and cultural scholars, would be sent into Burma, the North-East tribal tracts, Nepal, Bhutan, Lanka, and the Tibetan border towns.

Listening and Integration

”Your envoys are not going there to preach or dominate,” Ram instructed. ”They are going to listen. They will learn their languages, document their oral histories, understand their local governance structures, and identify their economic vulnerabilities. They will locate the ancient cultural and spiritual threads that bind these mountain and forest communities to the broader civilizational fabric of India.”

Strategic Sowing of Goodwill

The trade networks would quietly subsidise essential goods, salt, iron tools, textiles, and medicine in these remote regions. ”When a village in the Chin Hills or a monastery in Bhutan faces a harsh winter, it should be Indian trade networks, not British relief or foreign missionaries, that quietly provide for them. Sow the seeds now so that when the time comes for these regions to choose their future, they view India not as an expansionist empire, but as a natural, protective home.”

Exclusion and Focus

Ram was exceptionally strict on ideological boundaries. ”Avoid the communist cells operating along the Burmese border. Avoid non-Dharmic proselytisers. We are building a civilizational perimeter rooted in shared heritage and mutual survival, not ideological experiments. We focus on tribes, Buddhist monastic networks, and indigenous communities whose ways of life are naturally compatible with a strong, pluralistic, yet culturally rooted Indian core.”

Absolute Secrecy

”This work must proceed slowly, quietly, and completely under the radar of both British Intelligence and local political parties,” Ram warned. ”If the British catch wind of this, they will frame it as sedition or regional subversion. If political ideologues get hold of it, they will ruin it with loud speeches. We have time. Go slow, but go sure.”

Seth Goverdhandas looked at the maps, then back at Ram. ”This will cost millions of rupees over the next decade, Ram-ji. And the return on this investment is not profit in a ledger.”

”The return, Seth-ji,” Ram said, his voice quiet with absolute conviction, ”is that when this continent fractures under the weight of independence and partition, our borders will not be defenceless lines drawn by a British lawyer. They will be secured by people who already consider themselves part of our world.”

The traders looked at one another, nodded in silent agreement, and began signing the credit transfers.

The Rust Problem and the Chemical Shield

By late 1937, Ram’s underground operation faced a silent, devastating enemy, not CID Inspector Das or Special Branch, but the unforgiving humidity of the Indo-Gangetic plain.

The clandestine distribution network relied on damp temple basements, buried earthen pits, and the monsoon-swollen river barges plying the Ganges and Yamuna. Without industrial climate controls, moisture was relentless. Precision-machined steel components, hand-tooled firing pins, and rifle barrels were arriving at destination nodes pitted with reddish-brown scale. A firearm with a rusted bolt or a pitted bore was not just unreliable; it was a death sentence for the person pulling the trigger.

Standard commercial lubricants available in the market were useless for long-term covert storage. They either dried into a sticky, dust-attracting resin or washed off in high humidity.

Ram realised he didn’t just need a better way to store his weapons; he needed to manufacture his own specialised chemical compounds.

Utilising his Bachelor of Science degree from the University of Allahabad, Ram spent weeks experimenting late into the night in his makeshift home laboratory. He needed two distinct formulations: a fast-evaporating, anhydrous solvent that could flush out water and degrease metal parts instantly, and a heavy, synthetic mineral lubricant blended with micro-crystalline wax that would create an airtight, moisture-repellent film over steel, preserving it for years even under river water.

Manufacturing these chemicals at scale, however, required industrial-grade distillation columns, bulk petroleum distillates, and heavy mixing vats. Setting up such a facility openly would immediately trigger British military scrutiny.

Ram’s solution was a masterpiece of dual-use industrial cover: Gupta Chemical Works.

He submitted an application to the United Provinces Department of Industries and Excise for a license to manufacture medical disinfectants, surgical spirits, and floor cleansers. The timing was impeccable. Provincial hospitals and the Indian Railways were desperately seeking low-cost, domestically produced sanitation chemicals to replace expensive European imports.

The primary obstacle to setting up a chemical distillation plant was not political suspicion, but the British Excise Department’s obsessive fear of tax evasion. Sanitisation chemicals used industrial alcohol as a raw material, and alcohol could easily be diverted to make untaxed, illegal country liquor.

Ram found himself standing in the humid Allahabad district office across from Senior Excise Inspector Geoffrey Higgins, a cynical, overworked bureaucrat whose entire existence revolved around spirit meters, tax stamps, and tobacco ash.

”A B.Sc. in chemistry, fresh out of Naini Jail for political agitation,” Higgins remarked, flipping through Ram’s application with a dismissive thumb. ”And now you want to distil rectified spirits and phenolic solvents right next to the railway junction, Mr Gupta?”

”Politics was a student’s folly, Mr Higgins,” Ram replied smoothly, maintaining a calm, respectful demeanour. ”Commercial chemistry is far more profitable. My plant will supply the United Provinces Health Department with hospital-grade Lysol and surgical alcohol at thirty per cent below import costs.”

Higgins peered over his spectacles. ”The Crown doesn’t care about hospital savings, Gupta. We care about excise leakage. High-proof alcohol has a way of vanishing out the back door.”

”Which is why I have designed the plant with a permanent Excise Office right at the front gate,” Ram said, sliding the blueprinted layout across the desk. ”Your inspector will hold the master keys to the primary spirit storage vats and log every gallon denatured with pyridine.”

Higgins examined the drawings. The front-gate placement gave the illusion of total surveillance. What the blueprints subtly masked was that the high-volume mineral oil mixing bays and solvent fractioning tanks were located in the rear assembly building, a section designated as ”Soap and Wax Saponification,” entirely exempt from spirit excise oversight.

”I’m assigning Inspector Edward Vance to your facility,” Higgins warned, stamping the provisional permit with a heavy thud. ”Vance can smell a missing gallon of spirit from a mile away. Try any funny business with your ledgers, and you’ll be back in Naini before the week is out.”

Within six months, Gupta Chemical Works was a bustling industrial site on the outskirts of Nuhas. High chimneys spewed white steam, heavy iron boilers hummed, and trucks loaded with crates of branded hospital disinfectants rolled out the front gates daily.

Inspector Edward Vance, a lean, suspicious Englishman with a habit of wiping sweat from his neck with a stained handkerchief, kept a relentless vigil. He conducted surprise audits, hydrometer tests, and daily checks on the raw alcohol vats.

Ram knew that an inspector who found nothing would keep digging until he did. So, Ram gave Vance exactly what he expected to find: petty native corruption.

During the third month, Ram deliberately allowed a sixty-gallon discrepancy to appear in the alcohol denaturing log. When Vance discovered it, he stormed into Ram’s office, slamming the ledger onto the desk with a triumphant glare.

”Explain this, Gupta! Sixty gallons of 95% rectified spirit unaccounted for between Tuesday and Friday! Off to the black-market bazaars, was it?”

Ram feigned instant, trembling panic. He jumped up, closed the office blinds, and pulled out a drawer, nervously pushing an envelope stuffed with high-denomination rupee notes across the desk.

”Mr Vance... please,” Ram whispered, wiping fictitious sweat from his forehead. ”It was not sold for drinking! I swear it. The batch yielded higher purity than logged... I diverted the surplus to a local textile dye master to offset our coal costs. It was a foolish risk... please.”

Vance looked at the sweating young proprietor, then down at the thick envelope. His stern posture relaxed into a smug, condescending sneer. He pocketed the envelope.

In Vance’s mind, the mystery of Ram Prasad Gupta was solved. He wasn’t a dangerous revolutionary or an ideological mastermind; he was just another greedy, small-time native businessman quietly cooking his books to make a few extra rupees on the side.

”Keep your ’discrepancies’ under two per cent, Gupta,” Vance said, clapping Ram patronisingly on the shoulder. ”And make sure my monthly... auditing fee arrives on time.”

”Of course, Mr Vance. Thank you for your mercy,” Ram stammered, lowering his head in apparent humiliation.

The moment Vance left the room, Ram’s panicked expression vanished. His eyes grew cold and sharp.

The bribe was a masterstroke of psychological camouflage. By convincing the British inspector that the facility’s only secret was petty tax evasion, Ram ensured Vance never looked twice at the heavy drums of petroleum fractions, micro-crystalline waxes, and anhydrous solvents arriving at the rear loading bay.

In the secluded rear workshop, Shaktidas Sharma’s trusted technicians were not making soap. They were blending Ram’s custom formulations:

Solvent-D: A water-displacing degreaser that stripped moisture and dirt from metal parts instantly without leaving a residue.Preservative-7: A dark, viscous, wax-infused mineral oil engineered to seal firearm mechanisms.

Shipped out in crates falsely labelled as ”Heavy Industrial Machinery Lube” and ”Rail Track Cleaner,” these compounds were distributed throughout the underground network.

Crate after crate of firearms could now be wrapped in oil-soaked burlap, submerged in muddy river barges, or buried in damp temple basements for years. When dug up, a quick wipe of the bolt was all it took; the steel underneath remained as bright, pristine, and lethal as the day it was forged.

By late 1938, the three pillars of Ram’s post-jail strategy were silently taking root.

In the subterranean vaults of remote temples and rural akharas, Shaktidas Sharma was methodically training small, tightly bound cadres. They learned basic logistics, covert communications, and asset management, operating entirely outside the knowledge of the British police and the public political parties.

In the legislative halls, the rejection of Ram’s radical social and administrative bills had quietly eroded the illusions of the Congress leadership, planting seeds of deep frustration with the limits of colonial constitutionalism.

And far beyond the dusty roads of the Gangetic plain, silent envoys were walking the mountain paths of Nepal, the high valleys of Bhutan, the dense forests of Assam and Burma, and the ancient trade ports of Lanka. They carried no weapons and made no speeches. They carried salt, medicine, trade goods, and an open ear, storing up goodwill, mapping terrain, and quietly weaving the outer defence of a nation that had not yet been born.

Ram stood on the ghats of the Ganges at twilight, watching the river flow silently toward the sea. The world was drifting rapidly toward a global war. The storm was coming, but for the first time, the foundations were being laid in the deep, unyielding dark.

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