Reborn in 1914: I Will Build India into a Superpower

1947

The damp, metallic tang of cold machine oil, charcoal, and sulphur hung heavy in the subterranean air beneath the brickworks outside Kanpur. Forty feet below the peaceful surface of the Ganges plain, hydraulic presses hissed, and heavy lathes hummed behind double-thick sound-baffling walls.

Ram Prasad Gupta stood at the long workbench, illuminated by the harsh overhead glow of industrial electric lamps powered by concealed diesel generators. Beside him, Shaktidas wiped a film of grime from his wire-rimmed spectacles and presented a heavy, dark-lacquered metal tube fitted with a curved baseplate and a heavy bipod.

”The Type 89 Grenade Discharger,” Shaktidas said, his voice quiet, matter-of-fact, yet filled with suppressed pride. ”The men call it the knee mortar, though as we suspected from our estimates and assessments, launching it from the actual knee breaks the femur. Our foundries have perfected the cold-stamped barrel casing and the adjustable firing-pin mechanism. We are using standard 50mm high-explosive fragmentation rounds.”

Ram picked up the weapon, testing its balance. It was lightweight, remarkably portable, and deadly at short range, perfect for scrub forest, urban alleyways, and hill passes.

”Range?” Ram asked, picking one up.

”Accurate to seven hundred metres with an error of less than ten centimetres. Can be extended up to one kilometre but the accuracy suffers, with an error of fifty centimetres.” Shaktidas replied dutifully.

”Production tolerances?” Ram asked, his fingers tracing the machined thread of the range-adjustment screw. ℯℯ𝑙.

”Precision-milled to within five-hundredths of a millimetre,” Shaktidas replied, pointing toward a row of crates stacked against the damp brick wall. ”We hit a breakthrough in the heat-treatment process for the steel barrels last month. We can now produce eighty units a week across Kanpur, Meerut, and the hidden foundries near Asansol. Ammunition production remains our bottleneck because of chemical propellant limits, but we have built three thousand mortar rounds with standardised impact fuses.”

”Distribute them immediately,” Ram ordered, setting the mortar back on the felt-lined table. ”Small, discreet shipments. Fifty units each to the local defence cells in Jammu, the southern valleys of Kashmir, Gurdaspur, Amritsar, and the border districts of Bengal: Jessore, Dinajpur, and Nadia. Give each armoury limited live ammunition-twenty rounds per tube.

”They are not to fire a single round for training; dry-drill only. These are not for offensive actions. They are defensive force multipliers. When the borders are drawn and the storm breaks, our local elders and defence units must have the firepower to hold off raiders, irregulars, or hostile mobs until a regular national army can stabilise the frontier.”

Shaktidas nodded, making a swift, encoded entry in his cypher notebook. ”It will be done. Freight transfers through the Marwari merchant channels are already active. The crates are labelled as heavy irrigation pipe fittings and centrifugal pump casings.”

Ram turned his attention to a detailed topographical map of Northern Burma and the eastern tribal tracts stretched across the neighbouring table. Red and blue pins marked the hill corridors of the Shan, Kachin, and Karen territories.

”And Rangoon?” Ram asked.

”The Samvardhan network has embedded itself seamlessly,” Shaktidas reported, pulling a decoded dispatch from his pocket. ”General Aung San and his Anti-Fascist People’s Freedom League believe they control the entirety of the Burmese hinterland from their offices in Rangoon. The British authorities are preparing their quiet retreat, content to treat Aung San as the sole undisputed leader of a unified Burma. But in the hills, the reality is entirely ours.”

Over three years, Ram had quietly deployed medicine, simple water-filtration systems, small agricultural tools, and respectful, unyielding diplomatic engagement directly to the tribal chieftains. Where British administrators had treated the hill tribes with paternalistic neglect and Burmese nationalists had treated them with ethnic chauvinism, Ram’s operatives had brought quiet assistance, respected tribal customs while establishing deep economic dependence.

Deep in the dense, misty bamboo forests of the Salween basin, inside a raised wooden longhouse near the Karen hills, that strategy was bearing fruit.

Dr Anand, an operative trained in Ram’s medical and intelligence cadre, pulled his stethoscope from his ears and smiled down at a six-year-old boy resting on a woven bamboo mat. The child’s fever had finally broken, his breathing steady after three days of severe pulmonary congestion treated with precious doses of penicillin smuggled through Assam.

Beside the mat, Saw Ba U, a veteran Karen village elder with silver hair and skin like weathered teak, let out a long, trembling breath. He stepped forward, placing a heavy, calloused hand on Anand’s shoulder.

”He is my eldest grandson’s only son, Doctor,” Saw Ba U said softly in his native dialect, translated by a local cadre member. ”The Burmese doctors in the lowlands told us to pray to the spirits and leave him. The British magistrate at Mawchi left three weeks ago with his trunks and never looked back. Yet you stayed.”

”We do not abandon our neighbours, Elder,” Anand said gently, packing his medical kit. ”The men from the lowlands in Rangoon speak grand words of a new nation, but when the monsoon comes, words do not cure the lungs, nor do they build bridges across the river.”

Saw Ba U spat out a wad of betel nut onto the floorboards and shook his head with cold contempt. ”Aung San’s politicians in Rangoon do not know our mountains, nor do they know our people. They think because the British gave them paper authority, we will bow to their police. If Rangoon sends soldiers into these hills to tax our harvest and strip our customs, they will find every ridge defended.”

”India seeks no mastership over your hills, Saw Ba U,” Anand said quietly, looking the old man in the eye. ”We seek only a peaceful frontier. If Rangoon attempts to subjugate you, you will have trade, medical supplies, and iron from across the border. But you must ensure that your people stand firm. Let Rangoon rule its river delta; the mountains belong to those who live in them.”

The old Karen chief bowed his head deeply. ”Tell your masters in Allahabad and Delhi that as long as the Karen live, Rangoon’s hand will never reach our borders. Our allegiance is to those who brought life when others brought only neglect.”

Back in the Kanpur vault, Ram listened as Shaktidas summarised the dispatch.

”Aung San may inherit the title of Prime Minister in Rangoon,” Ram said coolly, looking at the map, ”but his government will be an island surrounded by autonomous, armed hill states. A fragmented, weak Burma guarantees that our eastern flank in Assam and Manipur will remain entirely secure from any external threat for a generation. Let us ensure the hill tribes remain well-provisioned.”

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