19th September 1947
It's been 1 month since the SOS call was made by Maharaja Hari Singh.
Flashback
The shriek of the red telephone tore through the pre-dawn quiet of Arjun's office. He was already there, the glow of a single lamp illuminating maps that seemed to breathe with impending conflict. The Maharaja's voice, when it came, was a frayed wire of panic and outrage.
"Prime Minister Mehra! It's an… an invasion! Muzaffarabad is swarming with these…these armed thugs! My forces, they won't be able to hold for too long! This is an affront, a violation of my promised sovereignty!"
Arjun let the Maharaja's hysteria wash over him, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips. Predictable. "Your Highness," he interjected, his voice a balm of deceptive calm over the storm on the other end, "what you're experiencing is not mere lawlessness. It's the probing claw of Pakistan, testing your defenses before the real strike. Colonel Sharma's intelligence, a source I trust implicitly, indicates their main offensive is slated for the third week of October. These… incursions… are designed to unnerve you, to sow chaos, perhaps even to give them a manufactured justification."
"Justification for what?!" Hari Singh's voice cracked.
"To 'liberate' Kashmir, naturally," Arjun said, the silkiness in his tone barely masking the edge beneath. "Unless Kashmir is part of India, unequivocally, our hands are tied. An independent Kashmir, Your Highness, or one still weighing its options, is simply a low-hanging fruit for Jinnah. Mr. V.P. Menon is ready to depart for Jammu at a moment's notice. For the sake of your throne, your people, and your legacy, I strongly urge you to sign the Instrument of Accession. Without delay. Without conditions. Only then can the Indian Army march to defend what becomes 'our' sovereign territory."
The silence on the line was thick with the Maharaja's desperate calculations. The British buffer was gone. Pakistan was snarling at his borders. His dream of an independent Jammu & Kashmir was dissolving into a nightmare. "How sure are you, Prime minister, that you'll be able to repel these barbarians?" he finally whispered, the fight draining out of him.
"Absolutely sure, Your Highness," Arjun's voice was now pure, unyielding iron, "the entire might of the Indian state will ensure that not one more inch of your land falls. But time, I must impress upon you, is a luxury neither of us possesses. The wolves are not just at the door; they're beginning to scratch at it."
Flashback Ends
Present day, a cable arrived. V.P. Menon, ever the efficient negotiator, had secured the signature. Jammu and Kashmir was officially a part of India. Arjun allowed himself a brief, cold nod of satisfaction. The first critical maneuver, executed weeks ahead of Pakistan's anticipated main thrust, was complete.
Now, the true, unseen forging of Operation Bharat Shakti began. The six-week deadline Arjun had thrown at Cariappa was less a target and more a crucible.
In the War Room, the atmosphere crackled with a frenetic, controlled energy. "Prime Minister," Cariappa would report daily, his voice gravelly from lack of sleep, pointing to grease-pencil marks crawling across vast maps, "the 7th Light Cavalry is moving under cover of darkness towards Ferozepur. Logistical challenges with fuel for the armoured column are significant, but are being addressed properly. As for the PVC brigades, the first brigade is forming up in Pathankot, raw but spirited."
The Partition Volunteer Corps or PVC – were the special brigades that were created for refugees, young but unemployed men and WWII veterans along with those affected by the partition. Calls for PVC echoed across the refugee camps and towns still reeling from the horrors of partition. Posters appeared overnight: "Defend Your Motherland! Avenge Your Families! Join the PVC!"
The response was overwhelming. Men, their eyes still haunted by loss but burning with a desire for retribution, flocked to the hastily established recruitment centers. WWII veterans, their skills rusty but their spirit unbroken, signed up alongside young men who had never held a rifle but were eager to learn. Ex-INA soldiers, men who had once fought against the British for India's freedom, now saw a new enemy in Pakistan and a new purpose under Arjun's decisive leadership.
This move not only significantly reduced the riots, but also helped the displaced people and their families after a monetary reward was promised for their families and loved ones.
Arjun would listen, his eyes missing nothing, his questions precise. "What about the amphibious landing craft for Karachi, General? The element of surprise there is paramount. Are they being marshalled with utmost discretion?"
"As discreetly as one can marshal an armada, Prime Minister," Cariappa would reply, a dry note in his voice that hinted at the sheer impossibility of the tasks Arjun set. Yet, the work got done.
Patel, the Iron Man, bore the weight of resource mobilization. "The textile mills in Ahmedabad are complaining, Arjun," he'd grumble during their evening summaries, a rare weariness in his eyes. "They say converting looms for canvas and uniforms is disrupting their entire export schedule."
"And I say, Sardar-ji," Arjun would counter, his tone unyielding, "that there will be no exports if there is no India to export from. The ₹100 crore I authorized for this Operation is not for debate, it is for victory. Requisition what you must. Inspire where you can. The nation is at war, even if most of it doesn't know it yet."
And the nation, or at least the part of it that had seen the face of that war already, responded. At the PVC recruitment camps, the air thrummed with a potent mix of grief and burning rage. "They took my home in Gujranwala," a grizzled Sikh farmer, barely forty but aged by loss, told a recruitment officer, his voice thick with unshed tears. "They took my wife. Give me a rifle. Show me where to point it." Young men, students whose only battles had been for examination marks, stood shoulder-to-shoulder with ex-INA stalwarts, their shared purpose forging a new, fierce brotherhood under the hurried, brutal training regime. "Basic drills, weapon handling, infantry maneuvers," the instructors barked, pushing them beyond their limits. "Forget what you were. You are soldiers of Bharat now!"
Colonel Sharma's domain was quieter, more shadowy. He'd report to Arjun in hushed tones, the details of fake Khan's 'cooperation' in the Red Fort's depths left unspoken but understood. "The disinformation regarding our troop dispositions in Punjab appears to have been swallowed whole, Prime Minister. Their intelligence is anticipating a primarily defensive posture from us." He'd pause. "And regarding the… internal cleanup… several more individuals with questionable loyalties have been neutralized or are under observation. The network was disturbingly extensive. And we expect to find more of them eventually."
Arjun would simply nod. "Ensure Khan remains a useful conduit until the very last moment, Colonel. Then, ensure he is no longer a concern to anyone."
Even Krishna Menon's diplomatic dispatches from New York carried an undercurrent of cynical exhilaration. "The P5 are, as expected, more concerned with their own chess games of Cold War," he cabled. "Pakistan's narrative of 'spontaneous tribal uprising' is gaining some traction with the British, naturally. I am subtly reminding certain delegations of India's immense potential as a democratic counterweight, should we be adequately recognized and supported."
Late October, 1947
As October's chill began to creep into the Delhi air, the tension in the corridors of power became an almost physical presence. India was a coiled spring, wound tight by Arjun's relentless will.
On the morning of October 21st, Cariappa's call was terse. "Prime Minister. It's begun. Significant lashkar movements reported all along the J&K frontier. Muzaffarabad to Domel. Timings match Khan's final, coerced 'predictions'. They'll hit our forward posts within 24, perhaps 48 hours. Srinagar is braced."
Arjun leaned back in his chair, the grand map of Operation Bharat Shakti seeming to glow faintly in the dim light. A slow, almost predatory smile touched his lips. The six weeks of furious, clandestine preparation, the forging of an army and a nation's will in secret, had come to this.
"Excellent, General," he said, his voice a low thrum of anticipation. "All units to final action stations. Let them advance. Let them commit. Let them believe they are winning." He stood, walking towards the map, his shadow falling across the red arrows poised over Pakistan. "Then, General, we shall show Mr. Jinnah, and the world, the true meaning of 'Bharat Shakti'."
The unseen forge had completed its work. The blade was honed, balanced, and thirsty. The storm was about to break.