Reborn in 1914: I Will Build India into a Superpower

15 August, 1947

New Delhi

By ten o’clock, the atmosphere shifted from the public emotional intensity of the Red Fort to the formal, polished chill of Government House, the vast Viceregal Lodge designed by Lutyens to project the permanent majesty of the British Empire.

In the grand official study, where high arched windows offered a panoramic view of the manicured fountains and stone terraces of the Mughal Gardens, Admiral Lord Louis Mountbatten stood behind the massive mahogany executive desk. He wore the immaculate white tropical dress uniform of an Admiral of the Fleet; his chest covered in rows of brightly coloured campaign ribbons. Despite his posture of practised regal dignity, his eyes showed dark circles of exhaustion. The intense negotiations of the past months had taken their toll.

Beside him stood Lady Edwina Mountbatten, quiet and composed, along with his chief administrative officer, Sir Eric Miéville. On the polished surface of the desk lay two heavy leather-bound portfolios containing the formal constitutional instruments of transfer, bound in red leather and stamped with the royal seal of George VI.

The double doors of the study opened, and the chief butler announced the Prime Minister.

Ram Prasad Gupta walked into the room with a swift, purposeful stride. He was accompanied only by Shaktidas, who carried a single leather folder containing executive memoranda.

Mountbatten stepped out from behind the desk, extending a hand with his accustomed, broad diplomatic charm.

”Prime Minister,” Mountbatten said, his voice echoing slightly in the high-ceilinged room. ”A magnificent assembly at the Fort this morning. I had the shortwave relay tuned in here in the study. Unusually direct speech, if I may say so. Most leaders taking office on such an occasion prefer to offer the public broad, sweeping promises of milk and honey.”

Ram took Mountbatten’s hand, giving it a brief, firm shake before releasing it.

”Promises of milk and honey are useless when the granaries are half-empty, and the railways are divided, Lord Mountbatten,” Ram said smoothly. ”Our people need an honest appraisal of the work ahead, not political lullabies. Most of all, they must know the trials ahead, and hence not expect miracles.”

Mountbatten offered a dry, slightly constrained smile, his sharp eyes taking in the calm, unreadable face of the man who had outmanoeuvred colonial intelligence, organised industrial networks under the very nose of the Raj, and now stood as the Chief Executive of the world’s newest sovereign state.

”Quite,” Mountbatten said, gesturing toward the mahogany desk. ”Well, Ram Prasad-ji, the formal hour has arrived. As Governor-General representing the constitutional transition, I formally execute the instruments transferring full executive authority over the central government of India to you as Prime Minister.”

Ram walked to the desk. He did not pause to examine the ornate gold-leaf lettering on the leather cover. He picked up the silver fountain pen placed beside the inkstand, signed both documents with swift, firm strokes, and set the pen down.

”It is done,” Mountbatten said, pulling the second copy toward himself to append his own signature. ”India is a fully self-governing Dominion.”

”A sovereign state, Excellency,” Ram corrected gently, though his tone left no room for debate. ”The dominion terminology is a temporary constitutional bridge for your parliament’s convenience. The authority exercised from this desk from this moment onward originates entirely from the people of India.”

Mountbatten blinked, caught off guard by the immediate, clinical boundary Ram drew. ”Of course. Legally and practically, the governance is entirely yours. My office remains available to assist in coordinating the joint defence council and managing the phased departure of the remaining British garrison units.”

”Regarding those units,” Ram said, stepping closer to the desk and gesturing to Shaktidas, who handed him a single sheet of typed paper. ”Here is the operational schedule my office has drawn up for the complete logistics clearance of British military personnel through the ports of Bombay and Cochin. We expect the War Office in London to adhere strictly to these dates. We will not tolerate British troops remaining quartered on Indian soil past the agreed transition windows.”

Mountbatten took the sheet, his eyes glancing over the tightly packed lines of dates and unit designations. A faint look of surprise crossed his face.

”You have already mapped out the embarkation logistics for the Royal Artillery regiments?” Mountbatten asked, looking up.

”An army that is leaving should not be left to wander around railyards without a clear timetable,” Ram replied flatly. ”It creates friction with local populations and complicates our own troop movements toward the northern frontiers. I am sure you agree that a clean, efficient departure serves both our nations the best.”

Mountbatten nodded slowly, placing the document in his personal file. ”You are an uncommonly thorough man, Prime Minister.”

”In governance, Excellency, thoroughness is the only substitute for luck,” Ram said with a brief nod. ”I will not trespass more of your time, lady, gentlemen, I bid you a good morning.” 𝑓𝑟ℯℴ𝓂

The main Cabinet Room in the South Block of the Secretariat building was stiflingly warm. The high ceiling fans whirred uselessly against the thick afternoon heat, doing little more than circulating the heavy air that smelled of fresh paint, wood polish, tea, and tobacco smoke.

Around the long, oval teak table sat the core leadership of the new Indian state. It was an extraordinary gathering of individuals who had spent decades in intense political rivalry, separated by profound ideological chasms, distinct worldviews, and bitter personal histories.

On Ram’s immediate right sat Jawaharlal Nehru, resting his chin on his hand, his eyes staring thoughtfully out the window at the grand expanse of Rajpath. On Ram’s left sat Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel, sitting upright like an ancient stone monolith, his lips set in a tight line, his hand resting heavily on a pile of territorial maps.

Further down the table sat Mahatma Gandhi, sitting quietly in a plain wooden chair brought in specially for him, his thin hands resting over his wooden staff; Vinayak Damodar Savarkar, dressed in a dark coat, his sharp, analytical eyes watching every movement around the room with cool vigilance; Dr. B.R. Ambedkar, immaculate in his tailored blue suit, a thick leather ledger containing constitutional drafts rested against his knee; Syama Prasad Mookerjee; Rajkumari Amrit Kaur; Dr. Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan; Dr. John Matthai; the industrialist Ardeshir Darabshaw Shroff; and the newly appointed intelligence chief, Bhola Nath Mullik.

Ram took his place at the head of the oval table. He did not wait for the low, scattered murmurs in the room to cease naturally. He struck his knuckles once against the teak surface.

The room fell silent.

”Gentlemen, Rajkumari-ji,” Ram began, his eyes sweeping deliberately over each face present. ”We meet today not as members of political parties, not as ideological theorists, and not as representatives of specific communities. We meet as the executive administration of a nation facing immediate, critical perils.”

He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table.

”Outside this building, the public is celebrating our independence. Inside this room, we must face the reality of our position. The partition of the subcontinent has severed our primary agricultural regions in the west and east from our biggest industrial processing centres. Our financial reserves are severely depleted. Millions of refugees are moving across shattered borders under an uneasy truce. And our armed forces are currently being partitioned down to the last rifle and truck.”

He looked directly at Savarkar, then turned his gaze toward Nehru.

”If we waste the coming months in ideological warfare, if the Congress and the Hindu Mahasabha, or the socialists and the industrialists, choose this moment to fight for ideological dominance, this state will collapse before it learns to administer its own districts.”

Savarkar shifted in his seat, leaning forward slightly. ”Prime Minister, no one here desires administrative collapse. But we cannot build stability on illusions. The security situation on the western border is deteriorating by the hour. Thousands of our people are being driven from their homes in West Punjab. The first duty of a sovereign government is not administrative harmony, but the uncompromising protection of its citizens.”

Nehru turned sharply, his face flushing with immediate heat. ”And how do you propose to protect them, Savarkar-ji? By inciting reciprocal panic on this side of the border? If we abandon our secular principles in our very first hour out of fear and anger, we validate the very ideology that partitioned this country!”

”Principles will not stop an armed mob at the Lahore railway station, Jawaharlal!” Savarkar retorted, his tone sharp as a razor.

”That is enough,” Ram said.

His voice was neither loud nor aggressive, but it carried a weight that cut through the escalating dispute instantly. He looked at Nehru, then turned a cool, unblinking gaze on Savarkar.

”We will have no ideological duels across this table,” Ram said calmly, but with total finality. ”Not today, and not so long as I sit in this chair. Forego our differences for now and focus entirely on governing this vast nation. I need help from every one of you. No single political faction in this country possesses the administrative, legal, financial, and military talent required to hold this subcontinent together.”

He looked toward Gandhi, who sat quietly listening, a faint, sad smile touching his lips. Gandhi inclined his head in a single, slow gesture of silent agreement.

”I reiterate what I stated this morning,” Ram pressed on. ”We cannot blame others anymore for any failures. Not the British, not the Viceroy, not the Muslim League. If a refugee starves, if a train is attacked, if a factory shuts down due to lack of raw material, it is our failure. And we will answer for it.”

Ram pulled a typed document from his leather portfolio and laid it flat on the desk.

”Here is the tentative assignment of executive portfolios for this initial stabilisation Cabinet. In this transitional period, ministers will be required to wear multiple hats, manage overlapping jurisdictions, and work without personal vanity or administrative friction.”

He read out the assignments in a slow, steady voice:

”Prime Minister: Ram Prasad Gupta.

Ministry of External Affairs: Jawaharlal Nehru.

Ministry of Defence: Jointly held by myself and Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel during the operational reorganisation and integration of the armed forces.

Ministry of Finance: Ardeshir Darabshaw Shroff.

Ministry of Health: Rajkumari Amrit Kaur.

Ministry of Education: Ram Prasad Gupta.

Ministry of Culture & Parliamentary Affairs: Dr Sarvepalli Radhakrishnan.

Ministry of Home Affairs & Princely States: Vallabhbhai Patel.

Ministry of Railways & Transport: Dr John Matthai.

Director of the Intelligence Bureau: Bhola Nath Mullik.

Governor of the Reserve Bank of India: Sir Chintaman Dwarakanath Deshmukh.”

Ram set the paper down and looked across at Ardeshir Shroff, the sharp-minded Bombay industrialist.

”Shroff-ji, your immediate priority at Finance will be to establish tight capital controls while maintaining credit lines for essential industrial imports. You will work directly with Sir Chintaman at the Reserve Bank to ensure our currency reserves do not bleed out during this period of market uncertainty.”

Shroff nodded briskly. ”The liquidity situation is precarious, Prime Minister. The imperial sterling balances locked in London will take time to negotiate. We will need immediate dollar liquidity if we are to purchase food grains and industrial machinery from the Western Hemisphere.”

”Arrangements for dollar liquidity are already underway,” Ram said, offering no further elaboration for the moment. He turned to Dr Ambedkar. ”Dr Ambedkar, the drafting of the permanent Constitution must proceed with absolute priority. You will have full institutional autonomy and whatever administrative staff you require.”

Ambedkar inclined his head slightly, his hand resting on his thick leather folder. ”The legal framework will be robust, Prime Minister. But constitutional law is only as strong as the executive will to enforce it.”

”The executive will to enforce it will not falter, but our constitution must reflect our realities and not just ideals that we strive towards,” Ram said firmly.

He stood up from his chair, signalling the end of the full Cabinet session. ”Ministers, take charge of your respective departments immediately. Handover protocols begin within the hour. Good day.”

The ministers stood up, exchanging quiet, hurried remarks as they gathered their papers and filed out through the tall mahogany doors. Within five minutes, the room had emptied of its broad political assembly.

A/N: I am once again asking you for reviews, comments, stones. Imagine Bernie Sanders Financial Assistance gif/meme here