Reborn in 1914: I Will Build India into a Superpower

New Delhi

The high teak doors of the Prime Minister’s private study in South Block stood closed against the corridor’s quiet hum. Late January in New Delhi brought a crisp, dry chill that settled deep into the red sandstone, but inside, the heavy brass radiator clanked rhythmically, filling the room with a steady warmth.

Ram Prasad Gupta stood at the wide mahogany desk, a series of intelligence dispatches from the Intelligence Bureau laid out alongside shipping manifests from the Port of Calcutta and the docks of Rangoon. Across the table, B.N. Mullick, Director of the Intelligence Bureau, adjusted his spectacles, his pencil poised over an open leather notebook.

”The intelligence reports from Colombo are no longer ambiguous, Prime Minister,” Mullick said, his voice measured and precise. ”What began ten weeks ago as localised grain hoarding in the Western Province has broadened into a systemic collapse of basic food distribution across Ceylon. Prices for clean rice in Colombo, Kandy, and Galle have multiplied sevenfold within thirty days.”

Ram picked up a cable stamped SECRET / IB-DESK 4, running his fingers along the typed text. ”The root cause isn’t domestic production in Ceylon itself, is it?”

”No, Prime Minister,” Mullick replied, shaking his head. ”Ceylon imports nearly seventy-five per cent of its basic grain requirements, roughly one and a half million tonnes annually, primarily from the Irrawaddy Delta in Burma.

Following the assassination of General Aung San and the brief period of military factionalism and civil strife in Rangoon, the riverine barges and processing mills along the Irrawaddy came to a standstill. The administrative integration protocols our military missions helped secure in Rangoon stabilised Burma’s internal borders, but the commercial export pipelines were choked for over 6 months. The rice is sitting in warehouses, but there is no one to export it.”

”And while Rangoon’s export infrastructure stalled,” Ram observed coldly, ”the British Colonial Office and D.S. Senanayake’s provisional administration made no contingency arrangements for the island’s reserves.”

”Precisely,” Mullick said. ”The British administration in Colombo relied entirely on private merchant cartels in Singapore and London to manage grain futures. When the Burmese supply chain faltered, those cartels diverted available shipments to Europe to meet post-war sterling commitments.

Ceylon was left completely exposed. By our estimates, the urban centres have less than nine days of grain stocks remaining. In the rural tea plantations of the central highlands, the situation is far worse.”

Ram walked slowly toward the high arched window, looking down at the sweeping expanse of Rajpath, where the winter sun cast long, sharp shadows across the stone paving.

”This is not merely an administrative failure by the British,” Ram said softly, his voice carrying the deliberate, monumental weight that had come to define his executive mandates. ”It is an indictment of the entire colonial apparatus that spent two centuries binding these islands to London while leaving them unable to feed their own people. Their local garrison holds responsibility for the assassination of General Aung San and the resulting chaos, and now the shortages in Ceylon.

D.S. Senanayake believes he can march into independence on February fourth under a British dominion charter, smiling for Western newsreels while his population starves.”

He turned back to face the IB chief. ”We will not allow a famine on our southern doorstep, Mullick. Nor will we allow the British to pretend that this crisis is an act of God.”

”What are your orders, Prime Minister?” Mullick asked, leaning forward.

”First,” Ram stated, his tone sharp and decisive, ”we mobilise the Southern Naval Command and the merchant marine fleet at Vishakhapatnam and Madras immediately. I want fifty thousand tonnes of high-grade rice from our national strategic reserves loaded onto Indian-flagged transports within seventy-two hours. Every single sack of grain sent south will be stamped in bold, clear black ink in Sinhala, Tamil, and English: INDIAN AID, FROM THE PEOPLE OF INDIA TO THEIR CEYLONESE BROTHERS.”

Mullick smiled thinly, his pencil writing rapidly. ”A visible narrative of solidarity.”

”More than a narrative, Mullick, an inescapable reality,” Ram continued. ”Second, I want IB operational teams placed on every transport ship and stationed at every major distribution point across Colombo, Jaffna, Trincomalee, and Galle. You will work alongside local trade unions, civic committees, and temple trusts.

Ensure that every family receiving a ration of rice understands two fundamental facts: first, that it was British administrative incompetence and their engineered collapse in Burma that caused this starvation; second, that when London turned its back, it was their brothers in the sovereign Republic of India who fed them.

Third, I want the navy and our merchant ships to restore exports of Burmese rice to Ceylon while our fifty thousand tonnes hold the line. But every sack of grain will be stamped with the same truth.”

”And regarding Senanayake’s political standing?” Mullick inquired, eyeing Ram closely.

”D.S. Senanayake and the United National Party have built their entire political posture on the claim that remaining a British Dominion ensures stability and prosperity,” Ram said, his eyes narrowing. ”Your agents will systematically erode that myth. Use local journalists, vernacular pamphlets, and political organisers to highlight Senanayake’s total reliance on British approval.

Let the people of Ceylon see that while Senanayake sits in his air-conditioned chambers exchanging toasts with British governors, it is the Indian Navy landing at the piers of Colombo with the grain that keeps their children alive.”

”It shall be executed with absolute discretion and efficiency, Prime Minister,” Mullick said, closing his notebook with a firm snap and standing up. ”The first naval escorts will depart Vishakhapatnam before midnight tomorrow.”

After Mullick departed, the silence of the study settled back into the room. Ram remained at his desk, his eyes drifting to a small, framed photograph resting near the edge of the mahogany surface.

It was a photograph taken in Port Louis, Mauritius, barely two weeks prior. In it, Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi sat under the shade of a wide banyan tree, dressed in his familiar coarse khadi wrappings, holding a letter sent directly from New Delhi.

Ram leaned back, his hands resting on the armrests of his leather chair, reflecting deeply on the strange, unpredictable threads of history.

In another world, in the original timeline that Ram remembered from a lifetime before, January 30, 1948, was a date burned into the memory of a nation with fire and blood. It was the day an assassin’s bullet on the lawns of Birla House had silenced the Mahatma forever, leaving a young, grieving republic to navigate its baptism of fire without its ideological compass.

But here, in this timeline forged by steel, statecraft, and industrial foresight, the timeline had fractured.

Absorbing the British-held territories of Mauritius and the Seychelles in a debt swap agreement had brought thousands of third-generation and fourth-generation Indian indentured labourers back under the umbrella of their motherland. When Indian civil services started taking over the administration of the islands, the people made it a point to have Mahatma Gandhi visit them, just to show their children that there was a tangible link between them and their motherland apart from the civil administration. Gandhiji had complied easily.

The distance had not silenced his voice, but it had altered its momentum. 𝘧𝓇ℯℯ𝑤ℯ𝘣𝓃ℴ

When the war in Kashmir had escalated in late autumn, Gandhiji had initially issued stern, heartfelt appeals for an immediate ceasefire, arguing against the use of armed force. But Nehru and Patel had held regular correspondence with him before and during his departure, presenting him with undeniable intelligence of the brutal, state-sponsored nature of the Pakistani tribal invasion, the mass atrocities committed in Baramulla, and the imperative duty of the state to protect innocent lives.

”Bapu,” Patel had told him with grave, unyielding clarity in his letters, ”we are not waging an offensive war for territory or conquest. We are defending the innocent against slaughter. If the Republic does not hold the high passes of Kashmir with iron, there will be no peace left for your philosophy to protect.”

Gandhiji had wept quietly, but he had understood. He had agreed that defensive duty, Kshatra Dharma in its purest, unselfish sense, was permissible when exercised solely to protect the weak against lawless violence.

Ram stared at the photograph, a faint, uncharacteristic softening touching his eyes.

He survived, Ram thought to himself. He is alive in Mauritius, writing his tracts on peace, while we forge the iron shield that allows his idealism to exist.

Ram knew that many in the Western press viewed his administration as cold, pragmatic, and unyielding, a government driven by heavy industrial indices, intelligence networks, and military power. But Ram knew the truth. Power without a moral centre was merely tyranny; but morality without power was suicide. By keeping Gandhi alive and honouring his moral authority from a safe distance, the Republic maintained its soul while its leadership wielded the cold, necessary blade of statecraft.

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