Reborn in 1914: I Will Build India into a Superpower

February 20, 1948

Prime Minister’s War Room,

South Block, New Delhi

The atmosphere inside South Block was calm, clinical, and intense.

Seated around the large, oval oak table were Prime Minister Ram Prasad Gupta, Deputy Prime Minister Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel, General K.M. Cariappa (Commander-in-Chief of the Indian Army), Rear Admiral R.D. Katari, and Air Marshal Subroto Mukherjee.

Spread across the centre of the table was a high-resolution topographical map of the Thar Desert, marked with detailed intelligence dispatches provided by the IB and military reconnaissance flights.

”Prime Minister,” General Cariappa began, using a wooden pointer to indicate the border region near Longewala and Jaisalmer. ”Reconnaissance flights and IB intelligence cross-border assets confirm that Pakistan’s 1st Armoured Brigade and two infantry regiments have begun heavy staging operations near Hyderabad and Rahim Yar Khan in Sindh. They intend to launch an armoured and infantry thrust into the Thar Desert within forty-eight hours.”

Sardar Patel leaned forward, a grim, knowing smile playing on his lips. ”They think they are catching us off guard. They believe our entire army is frozen in the passes of Gilgit.”

”Let them come,” Ram said quietly. His voice carried no anger, no anxiety, only the cold, calculating precision of a grand strategist who had anticipated every move, months in advance. ”General Cariappa, what is our operational posture in the desert?”

”Prime Minister,” Cariappa replied with absolute confidence, ”we have fortified our anti-tank defence lines across the key approaches to Jaisalmer and Barmer. Our forward positions are backed by deeply dug-in anti-tank artillery belts, minefields, and concealed armour squadrons equipped with American-supplied Sherman tanks and high-grade anti-tank weaponry. Furthermore, the terrain in the deep dunes favours the defender heavily. If the Pakistani armoured columns advance into the Thar, they will walk directly into our pre-prepared killing fields.”

”Good,” Ram said, nodding firmly. ”Focus on grinding out the Pakistani offence in the desert. Let them exhaust their armour, their fuel, and their ammunition against our steel defences. Once the Pakistani forces are spent and their momentum is shattered, we counter-attack. But I give you one absolute executive mandate, General: troop safety is paramount. We do not waste the lives of our soldiers in reckless, hasty frontal charges. We use our superior artillery, air support, and industrial firepower to crush them systematically.”

Ram then looked at Cariappa and Patel, his tone turning cold and monumental.

”And listen to me carefully, gentlemen. I am issuing a new long-term strategic directive for the Armed Forces of the Republic. The moment our domestic industrial production stabilises further, when our foundries, ammunition plants, and heavy vehicle lines are running at maximum capacity, we will not merely hold the line in the desert. In due course, we will launch a full-scale strategic offensive to seize the entirety of Sindh and the Makran coast.”

The room went dead silent. The military chiefs leaned in, mesmerised by the sheer scale of the vision.

”We will permanently deprive West Pakistan of its entire sea access,” Ram stated, his finger tracing the coastline from Karachi to Gwadar. ”Without Karachi and the Makran coast, West Pakistan becomes a landlocked, economically unsustainable rump state incapable of waging war against this Republic ever again.”

Ram turned to Rear Admiral Katari. ”Admiral, what is the Navy’s status?”

”Our southern and western fleets are fully deployed, Prime Minister,” Katari reported crisply. ”We have established a tight naval patrol off the coast of Karachi. If the Pakistan Navy attempts any surface sorties or operational manoeuvres against our merchant shipping, we will sink them without hesitation.”

”And the Air Force, Air Marshal?” Ram asked Mukherjee.

”Air Marshal Mukherjee,” the officer responded sharply, ”our transport fleet maintains an unbroken air-supply chain into Kashmir, keeping our mountain troops fully supplied with hot rations, winter gear, and ammunition. Meanwhile, our fighter-bomber squadrons at Jodhpur and Ambala are fully armed and standing by on three-minute readiness to obliterate any Pakistani armour advancing into the Thar Desert.”

”Excellent,” Ram said, standing up from his chair. ”Let Rawalpindi learn that the Republic of India does not merely defend its borders; we forge them in steel.”

February 26, 1948

Colombo, Ceylon

While the desert sands of the Thar remained tense on the brink of battle, the political landscape of Ceylon exploded into chaos.

Barely three weeks after D.S. Senanayake had celebrated Dominion status, the artificial narrative of British-sponsored stability crumbled under the weight of popular anger. Intelligence reports engineered by IB agents and widely disseminated by local trade unions had laid bare the truth: the British local administration’s hand in the assassination of Burmese general Aung San; the resulting vacuum and chaos in Burma, resulting in the total collapse of export shipping; Senanayake’s close relations with the British administration; and the lack of alternatives for when the Burmese exports dried up.

Across Colombo, Kandy, Galle, and Jaffna, massive, unprecedented general strikes and hartals paralysed the country.

On Harrison Road in Pettah and outside the gates of the House of Representatives, tens of thousands of protestors filled the streets. Red and white trade union banners fluttered alongside signs depicting Senanayake shaking hands with British officers while children held empty plates.

”Down with Senanayake! Down with the British puppets!” the crowds chanted, their voices echoing off the stone facades of government buildings. ”He sold our grain to London! India fed us, Senanayake starved us!”

Inside the headquarters of the ruling United National Party (UNP), absolute panic prevailed.

Senior UNP parliamentarians and regional committee leaders gathered in a heated, chaotic meeting. A prominent MP from the Western Province slammed a fist onto the table, his face pale with fear.

”Our own party cadres are joining the strike!” he shouted over the roar of the crowds outside. ”The grassroots support base of the UNP is completely evaporating! The people see every sack of rice coming off the Indian ships, stamped with bold letters reminding them that India saved them while our government did nothing! If we remain aligned with Senanayake, the people will tear down our houses!”

”What choice do we have?” another minister cried out nervously. ”The police forces are overwhelmed! Half the local constabulary in Galle and Kandy have refused orders to baton-charge the protestors!”

By late afternoon, the peaceful strikes transformed into an unstoppable, angry surge toward the centre of power.

A crowd of over fifty thousand protestors began marching directly toward Temple Trees, the official residence of the Prime Minister in Colombo. Iron gates were torn down; police barricades were pushed aside like matchsticks. The local law enforcement apparatus, completely crippled and demoralised, dissolved into the streets.

Inside Temple Trees, D.S. Senanayake stood by the curtained windows of his study, watching through binoculars as the massive wave of humanity crested the hill. His hands trembled violently.

”Where are the British garrison troops?” Senanayake panicked, turning to his colonial military liaison officer. ”Why haven’t they deployed from Trincomalee?”

”Prime Minister,” the British officer replied grimly, setting down a telephone receiver, ”London has given explicit instructions. The Royal Navy will not fire upon Ceylonese citizens to enforce your domestic authority. The political cost in the United Nations would be catastrophic. A launch from HMS London is waiting at the harbour pier to evacuate you and your immediate family to the warship for your own safety.”

Clutching a single leather briefcase, D.S. Senanayake fled through the rear gardens of Temple Trees under heavy armed escort, boarded a swift military launch, and was spirited away to the safety of the British heavy cruiser HMS London riding anchor in the outer harbour.

The Prime Minister had fled. The government had collapsed. Law and order in Colombo were completely shattered.

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 are welcome as always.