Reborn in 1914: I Will Build India into a Superpower

1947

By late February 1947, the winter chill in New Delhi had given way to a hot, dust-laden wind that blew across the sweeping avenues of Lutyens’ capital. Rear Admiral Lord Louis Mountbatten had arrived as the final Viceroy of Imperial India, bearing a mandate from Prime Minister Clement Attlee’s cabinet to extricate the British Empire from the subcontinent with utmost speed.

Inside the grand, wood-panelled reception room of the Viceroy’s House, Mountbatten sat behind an expanse of polished mahogany. His posture was impeccable, his eyes bright with naval confidence, yet beneath the charming facade lay the frantic awareness that the empire’s machinery was grinding to a catastrophic halt.

Sitting across from him were Jawaharlal Nehru, his face drawn with exhaustion and anxiety, and Muhammad Ali Jinnah, impeccably dressed in a tailored Savile Row suit, sitting rigid, monocle in hand, his expression cold and unyielding. Ram Prasad Gupta sat quietly to Nehru’s left, acting as a special constitutional advisor, a position he had quietly secured through the backing of the Congress pragmatic wing led by Vallabhbhai Patel and the Hindu Mahasabha.

”Gentlemen,” Mountbatten began, his voice crisp and authoritative, ”the British government’s stance is final. We will transfer power no later than June 1948, and if circumstances demand, even earlier. But I cannot hand over a continent to a civil war. We must find a workable compromise between a unified Indian Union and the Muslim League’s demand for Pakistan.”

Nehru leaned forward, his hands trembling slightly as he spoke. ”Lord Mountbatten, the Congress has conceded concession after concession. We agreed to the Cabinet Mission Plan’s complex grouping scheme despite our grave reservations about central authority. But Mr Jinnah demands nothing short of the absolute vivisection of India, taking whole provinces like Bengal and Punjab where millions of Hindus and Sikhs reside!”

Jinnah raised a thin, pale hand, his voice raspy, precise, and entirely devoid of warmth. ”It is not a matter of concessions, Jawaharlal. It is a matter of fundamental, irreconcilable reality. The Muslims of the subcontinent are not a minority; we are a nation.

”Two hundred years of British rule cannot erase a thousand years of distinct identity. We will not submit to a perpetual Hindu majority in a centralised Delhi legislature. If you do not grant us Pakistan with full sovereign authority over the five provinces, there will be no settlement, only absolute chaos!”

”And what of the millions of non-Muslims in Punjab and Bengal, Mr Jinnah?” Ram spoke up, his voice low, measured, and dropping into the heated atmosphere like lead.

Jinnah turned his sharp gaze toward Ram, his eyes narrowing behind his monocle. ”You speak as a communalist, Mr Gupta, despite your academic pretence.”

”I speak as a politician looking at the demographics, Mr Jinnah,” Ram replied calmly, looking straight into Jinnah’s eyes without flinching. ”You claim the principle of self-determination for Muslim-majority areas. By that exact mathematical logic, the non-Muslim majorities of Eastern Punjab and Western Bengal possess the identical right of self-determination.

”You cannot demand the partition of India based on religious majorities while simultaneously denying the partition of Punjab and Bengal on the very same grounds. If Pakistan is created, Punjab and Bengal will be divided down the middle. No logic in the universe will allow you to take Calcutta or Amritsar.”

Jinnah’s jaw tightened, his posture stiffening into icy fury. He leaned back, dismissing the argument with a wave of his hand. ”Pakistan cannot exist without its trunk and limbs! A mutilated, moth-eaten Pakistan is an insult to our rights! If the Congress and its Hindu allies insist on tearing away Bengal and Punjab, then let the British leave us to settle it in the streets! We will have Pakistan, divided or undivided, peaceful or through a sea of blood!”

”Mr Jinnah!” Mountbatten warned, his diplomatic composure cracking slightly. ”I will not tolerate threats of violence in this chamber!”

”It is not a threat, Your Excellency,” Jinnah rasped, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. ”It is a prophecy.”

Nehru rubbed his temples, looking utterly despondent. Ram remained impassive, noting the precise limit of Jinnah’s willingness to compromise. The man was driven by an absolute, uncompromising megalomania masked as legalism; no political argument would ever sway him. Partition was no longer a threat to be averted; it was a physical certainty that had to be managed with cold, unyielding precision.

Two days later, inside a quiet private sitting room at the Imperial Hotel, Ram sat across from George V. Allen, the American Ambassador to India, along with a senior commercial attaché from the U.S. Consulate.

Rain drizzled outside, streaking the high windowpanes. Ram poured two cups of Darjeeling tea, placing one in front of the diplomat.

”Your dispatches to Washington have been quite detailed, Mr Ambassador,” Ram said in smooth, refined English. ”Particularly regarding the situation in Manchuria.”

Allen paused, his teacup halfway to his lips. He looked at Ram with renewed interest. ”You follow the Chinese Civil War closely, Mr Gupta?”

”Any pragmatic observer of Asian geopolitics must,” Ram replied, leaning back. ”Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek’s Nationalist forces are bleeding themselves dry against Mao Zedong’s Communists in the northeast. The Truman administration is pouring billions into the KMT, yet Soviet armour and captured Japanese stockpiles are steadily tipping the balance toward the CCP. If Mao takes China, the geopolitical balance of Asia flips permanently.”

Allen set his cup down, leaning forward. ”The United States is committed to preventing a Communist takeover of Asia, Mr Gupta. But Congress is growing weary of endless financial drains in Nanking.”

”Chiang Kai-shek’s problem is not merely financial; it is logistical and intelligence-based,” Ram said calmly. ”Through our intelligence networks established during the Asian theatre of the war, my organisations possess deep operational visibility into Northern Burma, Yunnan, and the border passes into Southern China. We can provide the Nationalist military high command with actionable intelligence on CCP supply corridors, guerrilla movements in the southern provinces, and Japanese equipment caches hidden along the frontier.”

Allen’s eyes narrowed. ”And what does your organisation expect in return for such... non-official intelligence cooperation?”

”We do not ask for dollars, Ambassador,” Ram said, his voice hard as iron. ”We require industrial and strategic material for India’s immediate post-independence industrialisation. Specifically, surplus American cold-weather military gear, parkas, alpine boots, high-altitude tents, currently stockpiled in Southeast Asia. Furthermore, we require priority export licenses for complete American heavy industrial plant equipment: standardised cement manufacturing units, structural steel rolling mills, and advanced machine tooling.”

Allen smiled faintly. ”You are asking for industrial infrastructure under the guise of an intelligence exchange, Mr Gupta. President Truman’s advisors are exceedingly cautious about steel and industrial exports.”

”I am aware of President Truman’s caution,” Ram said smoothly, reaching into his inner jacket pocket and sliding an unsealed envelope across the polished table. ”Which is why my associates in New York and Washington have already raised this matter directly with Senator Vandenberg and key members of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. You will find that several key figures in the Democratic Party’s finance committee are fully supportive of strengthening India’s industrial base as a democratic bulwark against Soviet expansion in Asia.”

Allen picked up the envelope, scanned the short, coded memorandum inside, and looked back at Ram with a look of profound respect and faint unease.

”You move very quickly, Mr Gupta,” Allen said quietly.

”Time is a luxury India does not possess, Mr Ambassador,” Ram replied, picking up his tea. ”The Chinese Civil War will resolve itself within two or three years. When Mao stands atop Tiananmen Square, I intend for India to possess the industrial steel, the heavy cement, and the high-altitude gear necessary to secure our own northern borders against any empire that looks south across the Himalayas.”

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