Reborn in 1914: I Will Build India into a Superpower

1942-43

While Ram bore the moral weight of his casualties, a far greater man-made horror was taking shape in the east.

Winston Churchill’s War Cabinet in London, obsessed with building European war reserves and prioritising British domestic stocks, systematically diverted shipping, grain, and transport away from Bengal. Millions of tons of rice were exported or denied to the civilian population under a paranoid ”denial policy” aimed at preventing Japanese forces from utilising local supplies.

The seeds of the catastrophic Bengal Famine were sown.

In an emergency covert meeting in Allahabad with senior leaders of the Marwari trade network, Ram laid out immediate countermeasures.

”Churchill is engineering a famine,” Ram told the seated merchants, his tone dangerously sharp. ”They are stripping Bengal, Orissa, and Bihar of grain reserves to feed European stockpiles. Within months, millions will be starving in the streets of Calcutta.”

Seth Dalmia leaned forward, his face pale. ”What are your orders, Ram Prasad-ji? The Imperial grain inspectors are seizing stockpiles wherever they find them.”

”Expand our covert storage operations immediately across UP, Bihar, and Orissa,” Ram commanded. ”Utilise the trading network to buy up pulses, rice, wheat, and packaged rations through thousands of small, independent village traders. Store the grain in our underground, concealed granaries. Do not let a single grain enter the imperial export pipeline. When the famine strikes, our Seva Vahini kitchens and local distribution cells will be the only wall standing between our people and total annihilation.”

Far from the shadowed havelis of Allahabad, in the vast, barren expanse of the Western Desert, the strategic calculations Ram had set in motion reached their violent climax.

The desert night was torn apart by the earth-shaking roar of over one thousand Allied artillery guns. The sky blazed in flashes of orange and violent red as high-explosive shells rained down on Erwin Rommel’s fortified defence lines.

Inside a narrow artillery trench, surrounded by spent brass casings and the deafening concussions of the bombardment, Lieutenant Devendra Nath peered through his rangefinder optics. Beside him, Corporal Madhavan Nair adjusted his field wireless set, while Sergeant Bikram Thapa stood ready by the breech of their 25-pounder field gun.

”Grid four-two-nine!” Madhavan shouted over the radio noise, his headset pressed tight to his ears. ”American armoured divisions are pushing from the south! Rommel’s 15th Panzer Division is counter-attacking into the gap!”

”Target locked!” Devendra yelled back, switching rapidly to simplified Sanskrit over the intra-battery radio network to bypass Axis wiretaps. ”Agni mukha! Degrees thirty-six, fire for effect!”

Bikram Thapa spat dust from his mouth, slapped a 25-pounder high-explosive shell into the red-hot gun breech, and slammed the block shut. ”Shell loaded! Clear the recoil!”

The gun roared, sending a massive shockwave through the trench floor.

Just two hundred yards to their left, a unit of German panzergrenadiers attempted to establish a mortar position on a sandy ridge. Devendra spotted them through his optics.

”Look at them, Bikram!” Devendra called out, jabbing a finger toward the ridge. ”The Afrika Korps! Aggressive, fluid, precise! They fight like wolves!”

”Let them fight like wolves!” Bikram yelled back, pulling the firing lanyard again with a roar of flame. ”Our gunners were trained in Jhansi and Allahabad! We out-fire them shell for shell!”

As the battle raged through the night, American armoured units pushed from the west, while British and Indian divisions ground down the Axis centre, executing a massive strategic pincer movement.

During a brief lull in the firing, as the crew cooled the gun barrel with damp rags, Madhavan Nair sat on an empty ammo crate, wiping grease from his face. He looked out over the burning expanse of the desert, where hundreds of knocked-out German and Italian tanks burned like scattered bonfires.

”The Italians broke yesterday,” Madhavan said, his voice hoarse from smoke. ”And now Rommel’s panzers are running out of fuel. The grand Afrika Korps is finished.”

Devendra walked over, setting a hand on Madhavan’s shoulder. ”The Italians lacked the heart for an imperial war they didn’t choose. The Germans had the tactical genius, but they lacked the strategic depth. And our men... our men fought because they are learning how to win wars.”

Bikram slapped another shell casing onto the growing pile. ”When we go home, Devendra-bhai, no British officer will ever dare tell us that Indians cannot handle modern armour and heavy artillery.”

”No,” Devendra said quietly, looking toward the horizon where the first pale light of dawn was breaking over the desert. ”When we go home, we will be the army that no empire can ever disarm.”

By early May 1943, the combined Allied pincer crushed all remaining Axis resistance in North Africa. Over a quarter of a million German and Italian troops surrendered, ending the desert war forever and freeing the Mediterranean Sea lanes.

The tide of global war had definitively turned.

In January 1943, Allied leaders had met at the Casablanca Conference in Morocco, where Roosevelt and Churchill declared that they would accept nothing less than the unconditional surrender of Germany, Italy, and Japan. The grand strategic framework of the post-war world was being written in the high councils of the Western powers.

Yet, far from the formal halls of Casablanca, a small, dramatic drama unfolded in the deep, dark waters of the Indian Ocean.

In April 1943, off the coast of Madagascar, a German submarine, U-180, surfaced in the choppy, black waves under a moonless night sky. A few hundred yards away, another dark, metallic hull broke the surface: the Japanese submarine I-29.

A small rubber boat was lowered into the rough sea. Inside sat Subhas Chandra Bose, wrapped in a heavy coat, his round spectacles catching the faint luminescence of the ocean spray.

Transferring from the German U-boat to the Japanese vessel, Bose executed a historic, perilous voyage across two oceans. He was travelling to Tokyo, and ultimately to Singapore, to assume direct command of the Indian National Army, unite the millions of Indian expatriates in Southeast Asia, and prepare a military march on India’s eastern frontier.

In Allahabad, a week later, Ram Prasad sat alone in his study. The night was quiet save for the distant, rhythmic chirping of crickets in the garden.

Shaktidas entered the room quietly, holding a tiny slip of paper bearing a newly decoded cypher from their Samvardhannetwork in Rangoon. He set it on the desk.

”Subhas has arrived safely in Tokyo,” Shaktidas whispered. ”He meets with Prime Minister Tojo this week. By summer, he will be in Singapore taking command of the INA.”

Ram picked up the paper, read the brief message, and then held it over the glass chimney of his oil lamp. The paper caught fire, curling into black ash that floated into the brass tray below. ℯℯ𝑙.

”Subhas moves from the East with Japanese armour,” Ram murmured, standing up and walking to the window.

Outside, the first pale blue light of dawn was beginning to touch the distant confluence of the Ganges and Yamuna rivers.

”Our soldiers return from the West, trained in British artillery and American logistics,” Ram continued, his voice low, steady, and carrying the immense, unbroken weight of a decade of preparation. ”Our factories are forged. Our women are organised. Our grains are stored. Subhas will strike the front door with a hammer, and we will hold the foundation from within.”

Shaktidas stood beside him, looking out at the rising sun. ”The world is burning out, Ram.”

”Let it burn,” Ram Prasad Gupta whispered, his eyes reflecting the golden light breaking over India. ”When the smoke clears... we will be standing.”

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