28th February 1948
The morning mist clung to the lawns of Lutyens' Delhi like a shroud over the old world. Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel stood at his window, watching the gardener carefully tending to the flowers, similar to how he himself tended to the statecraft.
Three sharp knocks interrupted his thoughts. "Come in," he called, not turning from the window.
His secretary entered with the familiar rustle of papers. "Sardar sahib, Rajaji is here to see you."
Patel nodded, straightening his shoulders. The real work was about to begin.
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Rajagopalachari entered the study with the measured steps of a man who had spent decades navigating across the treacherous waters of Indian politics. His eyes, still sharp as ever despite his age, took in the room's minimalist furnishings—a setting that suited Patel's nature.
"Rajaji," Patel said, gesturing to the simple wooden chair across from his desk. "Tea?"
"Please." Rajagopalachari settled himself, his fingers drumming lightly on the armrest. "I hear you've been quite busy these past weeks."
Patel poured tea from the pot, with steam curling between them. "Busy times require busy hands."
He said as handed over the cup. "As of now, we're in a remarkable position, wouldn't you say?"
"Remarkable. Yes, that's one word for it." Rajagopalachari sipped his tea, letting the silence stretch. "Though I still find it hard to understand how all of it happened so...fast. How many months it has been to our Independence again?"
"Understanding comes with time, old friend." Patel leaned back, studying the older man's face. "Arjun has given us something unprecedented—an India with a steel spine, and the one that has earned the respect of the world.
But, strength without proper channels becomes chaos. We need structures, systems, and control."
"And what of our principles? The values we fought for all these years?"
Patel's laugh was dry. "Principles are for those who don't have to govern. We've learned that lesson well enough." He set down his cup with deliberate care.
"The Congress must evolve, Rajaji. We can't afford to be the party of noble intentions anymore. We must be the party who brings results to the table, to the public."
Rajagopalachari was quiet for a long moment, his gaze distant. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of reluctant acceptance. "Perhaps. I never really liked the socialist mindset of Nehru. Maybe now, Arjun Mehra can lead us in a way that we have always desired."
"Exactly. That's why, I'm planning to gather the members who shares the similar vision within the Congress. But I can't do it alone. I'll need your help as well." Patel replied.
"As for those who can't become what this new India needs, they'll be swept aside. New Bharat doesn't require those idealistic fools."
The old freedom fighter nodded slowly. Outside, the gardener had moved on to pruning the hedges, with precise and purposeful cuts.
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The guesthouse on the outskirts of Delhi had seen better days. Its colonial architecture seemed almost apologetic in the fading light, as if embarrassed by its own grandeur.
Inside, the drawing room held an unlikely gathering—men who had spent years as rivals, now brought together by the magnetic pull of a changing world.
Vinayak Damodar Savarkar sat with his characteristic intensity. Across from him, other figures like Syama Prasad Mukherjee, M. S. Golwalkar, Swami Karpatri Ji, etc shifted uncomfortably in their chairs, still uncertain about this meeting's true purpose.
Patel entered without ceremony, his presence immediately commanding the room's attention. "Gentlemen," he said, taking his seat at the head of the table. "Thank you for coming."
"Sardar sahib," Mukherjee spoke first, his voice carrying its usual precision. "I must say your message was quiet interesting, to say the least. Though I must confess, I'm not entirely sure why we're here."
"Because you're patriots," Patel replied simply. "And because this country needs loyal opposition as much as it needs an effective governance."
A stir went through the room. These were men accustomed to being dismissed as extremists, relegated to the margins of mainstream politics. To hear Patel speak of them as necessary was both surprising and oddly validating.
"I'll be direct," Patel continued. "Prime Minister Mehra has given India the geopolitical strength it needed. But it serves little purpose without the friction of competing ideas...since that's not the democracy that India had promised. That's something else entirely."
He paused, letting his words sink in. "We're prepared to offer you a role in shaping this new India. Not as outsiders looking from the corners, but as partners in governance.
A legitimate opposition that can advocate for traditional values, cultural pride, and an even more robust nationalism than the Congress might publicly embrace."
The room was silent, the weight of the offer settling on each man present. Savarkar leaned forward slightly. "And the boundaries of this partnership?"
"Simple," Patel's voice hardened just enough to make his point clear. "You serve India first. The debates can be vigorous, the criticism can sharp, but the ultimate loyalty must be to the nation and its security.
We're not interested in creating a platform for those who would tear down what we've built."
One of the other men, a regional nationalist leader who had spent years in the political wilderness, spoke up. "This sounds like a false democracy, Sardar sahib. Are we to be decorative opposition?"
Patel's smile was thin. "Rather than false, a managed one. And yes, you'll be as effective as your ideas and your commitment to the nation allow.
Win the people's trust, present better alternatives, and your influence will naturally grow among those who might not fully align with the centralist policies of Congress."
The meeting continued for hours, with details discussed and boundaries explored. When the men finally departed, each carried with them a new understanding of their place in this emerging order.
They would have their party, their platform, and their very own voice in Parliament. But they would also have responsibilities. Responsibilities towards the nation and it's stability.
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The Prime Minister's office was never truly quiet. Even in the small hours of the morning, the building hummed with activity—clerks processing files, telephones ringing in distant offices, the soft footsteps of security personnel making their rounds.
Arjun Mehra had grown accustomed to this constant backdrop of governance these past few months, finding it oddly comforting.
He stood before the large map that dominated one wall of his office, his eyes tracing the new borders that had been carved out through blood and determination. No matter how many times he see it, it still gives him a feeling of surrealism.
"Sir?" Mohan's (who was his secretary) voice came through the intercom. "Krishna Menon-ji is here."
"Send him in."
Menon entered with his characteristic blend of energy and exhaustion, the look of a man who had been living on diplomatic adrenaline for weeks. He carried a leather briefcase that seemed to contain the weight of the world.
"Prime Minister," he said, settling into the chair across from Arjun's desk. "Now that the main task is done, we need to prepare for discussing the deals that we proposed to US, USSR and UK."
"Hmm" Arjun nodded, moving away from the map to face his diplomat. "Go ahead then, what's the status of our delegations who'll be negotiating these deals?"
Menon nodded, understanding the urgency. "The delegations will be prepared by the end of this week. They'll be visiting London first, then Washington and Moscow. But Prime Minister, there will be those who see this juggling act as opportunistic."
"Then let them. Opportunism is just another word for taking advantage of circumstances to serve your people's interests." Arjun stood, walked to the window.
"You know what I see when I look at Delhi at night, Menon-ji? Potential. Millions of people who deserve better than they've ever had.
Industries that could employ them, schools that could educate their children, hospitals that could heal them. But potential means nothing without the means to realize it."
He turned back to Menon. "So yes, we'll work with the Americans for technology and markets. We'll work with the British for infrastructure and expertise. We'll work with the Soviets for heavy industry and defense.
And if that makes us opportunistic, so be it. History will judge us by results, not by the purity of our ideological positions."
Menon gathered his papers, understanding that the conversation was drawing to a close. "And if those nations try to play us against each other?"
Arjun's smile was sharp. "Then they'll soon discover that we're better at this game than they realize. We've been managing competing interests for centuries, Menon-ji. The Mughals, The British, The French, The Portuguese, The Dutch—we've dealt with them all."
As Menon left, Arjun returned to his map, his finger tracing the coastline of India. Somewhere out there, in the darkness of the Arabian Sea and the Bay of Bengal, lay the future.
Trade routes that would carry Indian goods to the world, the naval bases that would protect Indian interests, and diplomatic missions that would advance Indian influence.
29th February 1948
The next morning brought a different kind of meeting.
Patel arrived at the Prime Minister's office to find Arjun studying a series of technical drawings spread across his desk. The hand-drawn diagrams showed strange and complicated visuals, along with what seemed like a journal of sorts.
Unknown to him that these were the drawings that contained infrastructure of a modern nation.
They were the blueprints that Arjun had made himself. Even though it was his first attempt, in both of his lives, it came surprisingly natural to him. The blueprints looked like they have drawn by an expert with years of experience.
But at least it wasn't as bizarre as him possessing the entire encyclopedia of knowledge in his head, or that his body that don't seems to get very tired no matter how hard he pushes.
He has been tirelessly drawing them ever since September of 1947. These blueprints aren't just limited to heavy industrial factories or machines, but went from the smallest of fundamental machines like electric screwdriver to the most complex ones like integrated plants.
Ignoring these sketches, Patel reported while taking his seat, "The political framework is taking shape. Both within the Congress and with the new opposition party. There will be some grumbling, but the major players understand the stakes."
"And they're willing to work within the system?"
"They're willing to work within our system," Patel corrected. "Because they understand that the alternative is irrelevance. We've given them a seat at the table, but we've also made it clear that we're the ones setting the menu."
Arjun nodded, his attention returning to the technical drawings. "Good. Because what we're about to undertake will require political stability.
These industrial projects, the infrastructure development, the economic partnerships—they'll take years to bear fruit. We can't afford to have them disrupted by political chaos."
"How the progress within the Congress?"
"Adapting. Some more enthusiastically than others, but adapting nonetheless." Patel allowed himself a small smile.
They worked through the morning, reviewing reports from across the country. The refugee crisis was stabilizing, the military was consolidating its gains and administration was slowly settling down.
It was the kind of detailed, unglamorous work that made the difference between a successful government and a failed one.
The old order was dying, its death throes playing out in parliament debates and diplomatic cables. In its place, something new was being born. Something that was pragmatic, ambitious, and unafraid to use whatever tools were necessary to achieve its ends.
Whether it would be called democracy or something else entirely remained to be seen. But for Arjun Mehra and Vallabhbhai Patel, such questions were reserved for future historians.
They had a nation to build.