Reborn in 1914: I Will Build India into a Superpower

An hour later, the venue shifted to the Grand Cabinet Room in South Block. The long table was fully packed with the political leadership of the Republic. Present were senior Congress leaders, key coalition ministers, and prominent figures from the Hindu Mahasabha, including Syama Prasad Mookerjee. Jawaharlal Nehru was notably absent, currently in Europe conducting high-level diplomatic briefings with European powers regarding French and Portuguese enclaves in India.

Ram stood at the head of the table, flanked by Patel. The room buzzed with low, energetic chatter until Ram struck the table twice with his knuckles, bringing immediate silence.

”Ministers, colleagues,” Ram began, his calm voice filling the hall. ”In the absence of Pandit Nehru, who is wrapping up his European tour, the Sardar and I have taken decisive executive action regarding the northern frontier. Yesterday in Srinagar, we executed a Mutual Defence Pact with Maharaja Hari Singh. Should Jammu and Kashmir come under armed attack, an automatic Instrument of Accession takes effect instantly, and the state becomes an integral, sovereign part of the Union.”

A violent wave of reactions instantly broke across the room.

Syama Prasad Mookerjee slammed his palm on the table, a proud, triumphant smile breaking across his broad face. ”Brilliant! Monumental! For months, the indecision of the Jammu Durbar has left the northern frontier wide open to aggression. By linking defence directly to accession, you have forced the Maharaja’s hand and sealed the northern gateway of Bharat in iron! The Hindu Mahasabha fully, unconditionally ratifies this action!”

”Wait, let us not act in haste,” interrupted a senior Congress minister, leaning forward with an anxious, furrowed brow. ”A Mutual Defence Pact signed in secrecy? What about international diplomatic fallout? What will the United Nations say if we move troops into a princely state without an open, democratic plebiscite first? When Jawaharlal-ji returns from London and Paris, he will face severe international grilling!”

Patel stepped forward, his eyes flashing like polished steel as he cut down the objection with blunt, unyielding force.

”Let the international diplomats grill whomever they wish in their air-conditioned halls in Geneva or Lake Success!” Patel barked, his heavy hand coming down on his cane with a loud thump. ”When an invader crosses your border with blood on his bayonet, he does not ask for a constitutional referendum! He brings slaughter! Our primary, sacred duty as the government of this Republic is the defence of our soil and our people! International law recognises the right of self-defence. The pact is signed, the legal framework is absolute, and any foreign power that challenges it will find Indian infantry waiting for them in the passes!”

The room erupted into a mix of fierce applause and fervent nods of assent from both the nationalist wing and pragmatic administrators.

”The Cabinet’s duty today,” Ram stated, restoring order with an authoritative gesture, ”is to ratify the requisitioning of civilian infrastructure. We are officially placing every Douglas DC-3 transport aircraft belonging to Indian National Airways, Tata Airlines, and Bharat Airways under direct Ministry of Defence command. Furthermore, emergency civil construction funds are hereby released for the Banihal land corridor.”

The vote was called. Hand after hand went up across the table, passing the executive measures without a single dissenting vote.

Late that night, the heavy wooden doors of the Prime Minister’s private study were closed against the quiet corridors of South Block. The amber glow of a single brass desk lamp illuminated scattered maps, logistics ledgers, and troop deployment schedules.

Patel sat heavily in a broad leather armchair, rubbing his weary eyes, while Ram poured two cups of hot black tea from a silver pot. Shaktidas Sharma sat at the side credenza, sorting through a thick stack of audited industrial ledgers and personnel registers.

”The military machine is moving, Ram,” Patel said softly, taking a sip of the tea. ”But my mind keeps returning to the Population Transfer Agreement. If war erupts in the Kashmir mountains within the week, what happens to the human corridors across the western border?”

”That is my primary concern,” Ram said, sitting opposite him, his expression grim. ”Outbreak of open war will trigger massive, uncontrolled panic along the Punjab border. The movement of trains and road convoys could ground to a complete halt. Worse, thousands of stranded refugees could be trapped in transit camps and utilised as human shields or bargaining chips by hostile forces.”

Shaktidas Sharma shook his head, offering a reassuring, confident nod. ”We are in a far stronger position today than we were two months ago, Ram. Thanks to the expanded railway network, dedicated truck fleets, and the civil security escorts we deployed, we have already completed eighty per cent of the population transfer.”

”Eighty per cent,” Ram repeated, running the numbers mentally.

”Yes,” Shaktidas confirmed. ”The remaining twenty per cent is currently moving along secure, heavily fortified transit channels. The entire remaining transfer should be fully completed within one month. And even if hostilities break out in the high altitude of Kashmir, it will not immediately destabilise the southern transit lines in Sindh or the eastern border in East Pakistan. Those sectors remain insulated for now.”

Ram nodded slowly, relieved. ”That buys us critical breathing room. Now, Vallabhbhai, let us address General Cariappa’s alarm regarding ammunition quality.”

Ram turned slightly toward Shaktidas. ”Shaktidas, present the full audit of the syndicate’s industrial infrastructure to the Sardar.”

Shaktidas stood up, picked up a heavy leather-bound ledger stamped with high-grade security seals, and laid it directly in front of Patel.

”Sardar-sahib,” Shaktidas spoke in his measured, precise auditor’s tone, ”for over sixteen years, while the colonial authorities searched for ghost cells, the Prime Minister constructed a vast, standardised underground arms manufacturing and precision-machining network across northern India. This is not a scattered collection of blacksmith shops. It is a fully integrated industrial apparatus.”

Patel opened the ledger, his dark eyes widening as he scanned row after row of meticulous data.

”We currently have over 12,000 highly trained metallurgical technicians, lathe operators, tool makers, and quality-control inspectors operating across covert foundries in Kanpur, Meerut, Allahabad, Agra, and Aligarh,” Shaktidas explained, tapping the column. ”These workers do not work in isolation. They operate under a modular manufacturing system where individual workshops produce standardised, interchangeable components, springs, firing pins, receivers, and brass shell casings, hidden inside commercial textile bales and hardware shipments.”

Shaktidas turned the page to reveal a master equipment ledger. ”Our foundries possess specialised high-precision casting moulds and automated chemical testing kits for propellant purity. While the government ordnance factories suffer from a quality control issue in brass casing tolerances under sub-zero conditions, our private network maintains tolerance under all conditions. We have been producing ammunition with absolute metallurgical consistency for over a decade.”

Ram picked up a blue executive draft from his desk. ”Disbanding this network now would be a crime against national security. Instead, my 12,000 workers will be immediately deployed to state ordnance factories in Kanpur, Cossipore, and Jabalpur. They will directly train the existing state workforce on our precision-checking protocols and high-purity casting techniques.

Simultaneously, our private foundries will be brought into the open to maintain maximum round-the-clock ammunition output for the armed forces. Vallabhbhai, please sign this executive order nationalising all my private ammunition foundries and research workshops immediately.”

Patel stared at the blue draft, then looked at the audited ledger, and finally up at Ram with a mixture of awe and profound, astonished realisation.

”Twelve thousand trained arms technicians...” Patel whispered, his voice thick with marvel. ”And Arthur Reginald’s Special Branch spent fifteen years searching for the ’Northern Syndicate,’ tearing apart freight cars, never imagining that the architect running a continent-spanning armoury was sitting quietly in the Department of History at Allahabad University!”

Patel set the document down, his face growing serious and deeply reflective. He looked closely at Ram.

”Tell me something, Ram,” Patel asked, his tone dropping into a warm, deeply personal register. ”Why go to such terrifying, dangerous lengths? You had the intellect, the reputation, and the standing to join the Indian National Congress decades ago. You could have risen to the very top of the national movement and effected change from within, cleanly, legally, and without risking the gallows. Why build an underground armoury?”

Ram looked out the high-arched window into the pitch-black Delhi night. Long-buried memories stirred within him, silent, heavy, and unbreakable.

”My father,” Ram said softly, his voice echoing with deep quiet. ”You may know of his memory, Vallabhbhai, or perhaps only how his life ended. He had quiet, deep ties with the early revolutionary movements, men who walked the shadows with Chandrashekhar Azad and Bhagat Singh. From my earliest days, I saw that colonial empires do not surrender power because of elegant legal briefs or moral appeals to their conscience. They respect only one language: raw, organised, undeniable power.”

Ram turned back to Patel, his eyes steady and resolute. ”In my youth, I was convinced that the only path to genuine independence was forcing the British out through an armed uprising, not just isolated acts of political martyrdom, but a massive, synchronised military uprising involving the entire populace, like another 1857. When I looked at the Congress back then, I saw brilliant, dedicated leaders who were, in truth, comfortable with Dominion status. Even when we raised the banner of Purna Swarajya, I had a deep, haunting feeling that if the Crown offered us a comfortable, semi-autonomous dominion arrangement, mainstream politics would have settled for it.”

Patel listened without interrupting, his heavy brow furrowed in deep thought.

”And then,” Ram continued, his tone hardening, ”I saw the worsening, unaddressed communal rift growing across the country. Politicians were making grand speeches in assemblies, but on the streets, no one was addressing the fundamental vulnerability of our people. So, I expanded the syndicate. First, to manufacture weapons to safeguard my own religious people against organised pogroms and riots; then, to construct a covert industrial backbone that could field an army when the colonial state inevitably collapsed. From there, it continued until it became a national force.”

Patel stared at Ram for a long moment, but he did not offer a meek or passive concession on behalf of the Congress movement. Instead, the Sardar sat up straight, his jaw setting firmly, his dark eyes burning with his own formidable, historic conviction.

”You judged us harshly in those early years, Ram, perhaps too harshly,” Patel said, his voice carrying the formidable weight of a man who had spent decades organising millions of peasants across Bardoli and Gujarat. ”You saw legalism and compromise where there was, in fact, a deliberate strategy to unite a fragmented, destitute nation without triggering total, bloody chaos before we were ready to hold it together.

”Had we called for an open, armed uprising in the 1920s or 30s without the mass political consciousness that Gandhiji built brick by brick, the British would have crushed the continent under iron heels, divided us into twenty warring princely fiefdoms, and walked away leaving behind a graveyard.”

Patel picked up his silver pen, signing his firm, decisive signature at the bottom of the nationalisation draft with an emphatic stroke.

”But,” Patel added, looking up at Ram with a fierce, unreserved gleam of respect, ”you were right about the brutal reality of the end. When the moment of truth arrived, speeches did not secure our borders; your steel and our organisation did. You built the sword in the dark, Ram, while we built the state in the light. Now, sword and state belong to the same Republic.”

The following morning, the focus shifted from military readiness to national administrative health. Minister of Health Rajkumari Amrit Kaur was ushered into the Prime Minister’s study, carrying thick administrative dossiers and statistical reports.

A woman of immense poise, aristocratic dignity, and fierce administrative competence, Rajkumari Amrit Kaur greeted Ram and Patel before taking her seat across the mahogany table.

”Prime Minister, Home Minister,” Kaur began, opening her primary report. ”If we are to prepare the Republic for the strains of potential war in the north alongside the massive burden of refugee integration, our medical infrastructure is facing an acute crisis.”

”Give us the exact picture, Rajkumari-ji,” Ram said, pouring her a glass of water.

”We face a severe, life-threatening shortage of certified doctors and trained nurses,” Kaur stated bluntly. ”While our medical inventories and hospital stocks are adequate in the urban plains, Bombay, Calcutta, Delhi, and Madras, there are catastrophic shortages of both personnel and basic medicines in the tribal belts, the hill districts, and the rural interior.”

She tapped a specific section of her dossier. ”To address the severe deficit of high-level medical professionals, my ministry formally proposes the immediate establishment of a premier, world-class medical training and research institution in the capital: the All-India Institute of Medical Sciences, or AIIMS Delhi. It will serve as the nation’s apex institute for advanced medical education, research, and producing top-tier specialist doctors.”

”A visionary project,” Patel remarked, nodding approvingly. ”But AIIMS will take years to construct and turn out its first batch of medical graduates. What is your immediate solution for the crisis in our rural district hospitals today?”

”Inspired directly by the emergency probationary clerical examinations you recently conducted to fill administrative vacancies,” Kaur replied with a subtle, confident smile, ”I propose an emergency short-term re-hiring scheme. We will immediately recall all competent, recently retired Indian doctors and nurses under temporary, two-year state contracts. We will re-deploy them directly to understaffed rural district hospitals and border transit zones.”

Ram nodded in immediate agreement. ”Both proposals are approved, Rajkumari-ji. But we must expand the scope far beyond Delhi.”

Kaur looked at him, surprised. ”Expand the scope, Prime Minister?”

”Yes,” Ram said decisively. ”India is too vast a continent to rely on a single apex medical institute in New Delhi. I want executive planning to begin immediately to establish AIIMS not just in Delhi, but across seven additional regional hubs: Calcutta, Patna, Nagpur, Shimla, Baroda, Madras, and Jaipur. Every major geographic region of this Republic must have its own self-sustaining fortress of advanced medical research and tertiary care.”

Kaur’s eyes lit up with deep admiration. ”Eight national institutes... that will completely revolutionise public health across South Asia!”

”And regarding the critical shortage of rural nursing staff,” Ram continued, his mind rapidly synthesising administrative assets, ”we cannot wait three years for standard hospital nursing degrees. We must draw upon existing, proven organisational structures. During World War, specialised welfare institutes were established in various provinces to support widows, displaced women, and destitute families. Those exact women’s units are currently doing a stellar job managing sanitation, nutrition, and first aid in refugee camps across the nation.”

Patel leaned forward, immediately seeing the operational link. ”You want to utilise those established welfare facilities and trained female cadres?”

”Precisely,” Ram said. ”We will utilise those exact facilities to launch an accelerated rural healthcare and civil nursing course. We will recruit practising traditional midwives (dais) and active women workers from these refugee welfare units into a structured, intensive six-month crash course in basic hygiene, infection control, wound triage, and maternal care. We will transform our traditional midwife network and proven women’s welfare cadres into a disciplined, frontline primary healthcare corps for our villages.”

Rajkumari Amrit Kaur closed her notepad, her face glowing with profound pride and resolve. ”It is pragmatic, deeply empowering for rural women, and immediately actionable. I will have the executive mandates and institutional blueprints on your desk by tomorrow morning, Prime Minister.”

As Kaur bowed and departed, Ram stood up and walked to the high-arched window of South Block. Outside, the late afternoon sun bathed the vast red sandstone expanses of the Secretariat in a brilliant, golden light.

Patel walked up beside him, resting his hand on his cane, looking out over the capital. The iron loom of the Republic was weaving its threads, military, industrial, social, and administrative, into an unbroken shield, ready to face the gathering storm.

A/N: Let me know your thoughts in the comments and reviews. Add the story to your library/collection to receive update notifications. Power stones welcome.

I am thinking of opening a Ko-fi page. Something like subscribers can get featured in the story, as we will need more characters going forward. What do you guys think?