Parliament Canteen, New Delhi
21 August 1947, 9:37 PM
The Parliament building had taken on the peculiar quality that large public spaces acquire after hours—the same rooms that during the day pulsed with urgency and noise now felt cavernous and almost sacred in their emptiness. The high ceilings that had amplified passionate debates now simply echoed the occasional footstep of a clerk finishing late paperwork or a guard making rounds. The grand corridors where members had clustered in heated discussion just hours before now stretched dark and silent, illuminated only by dim bulbs placed at intervals that created more shadow than light.
The canteen, normally bustling with members grabbing quick meals between sessions or conducting informal negotiations over tea and samosas, was nearly deserted. The kitchen staff had mostly departed, leaving only a skeleton crew to serve the handful of people who remained in the building past ten in the evening. The ceiling fans turned slowly overhead, their rhythm hypnotic but inadequate against the monsoon humidity that seeped through every window and doorway, making the air feel thick and close despite the late hour.
At a long corner table positioned beneath a window streaked with rain, three figures sat in positions that suggested both exhaustion and a curious reluctance to depart despite the hour and the obvious need for rest. They had been on opposite sides of an ideological storm earlier that day, their confrontation in the Assembly chamber having been witnessed by hundreds and certain to be analyzed and debated for weeks to come. Yet here they were, sharing a simple meal in the kind of informal proximity that only Indians truly understood—that profound comfort with physical nearness, with eating together, with allowing silence to be companionable rather than uncomfortable.
Dr. Bhimrao Ramji Ambedkar sat with his back straight despite visible fatigue, his round glasses catching what little light the dim bulbs provided, his plate before him containing simple dal and rice that had been served without ceremony or special treatment. His expression carried the complex mixture of emotions that the evening had generated—intellectual satisfaction at having engaged in genuine debate, moral uncertainty about whether abstaining had been courage or cowardice, and something deeper that might have been loneliness born of being perpetually caught between communities, belonging fully to none.
Across from him, Saraswati Devi had removed the formal demeanor she maintained during public proceedings. Her hair, which during debates had been severely tied back in a bun that suggested discipline and control, was now loosely gathered with strands escaping to frame her face. She ate with the unselfconscious focus of someone genuinely hungry rather than someone performing the social ritual of dining, her earlier intensity replaced by quietness that suggested she was processing the day's events in internal spaces she shared with no one.
At the head of the table, Prime Minister Anirban Sen ate with his hands in the traditional manner, scooping rice and dal with practiced efficiency that came from decades of eating this way despite years spent in Western educational contexts where such practices were considered uncivilized. His presence at this informal gathering was itself remarkable—prime ministers did not typically linger in canteens past ten at night, did not eat simple food alongside controversial ministers and ideological opponents. But Anirban had never been typical, and the formality of his position sat uneasily on shoulders that remembered being an orphan raised by temple priests who taught that hierarchy was illusion and that the measure of a person was found in their actions rather than their titles.
The three ate in silence for several minutes, the only sounds being the soft scrape of utensils against metal plates, the distant thunder that rolled across Delhi from monsoon clouds gathering strength, and the occasional footstep of a guard passing through corridors beyond the canteen. It was the kind of silence that could go either direction—toward comfortable companionship or toward awkward discomfort—and for a while the outcome hung uncertain.
Finally, Saraswati set down her spoon and spoke, her voice soft but carrying clearly in the quiet space.
"Dr. Ambedkar, I may have spoken too harshly during the debate. I know your fight comes from pain, not politics. From lived experience rather than theoretical abstractions. I should have acknowledged that more explicitly rather than simply attacking the policy implications of your proposals."
The apology was genuine but also tactical—Saraswati was too intelligent not to recognize that today's adversary might be tomorrow's necessary ally, that building relationships across ideological divides required acknowledging the legitimacy of opposing perspectives even while disagreeing with their conclusions.
Ambedkar paused mid-bite, his hand hovering over his plate as he considered her words. When he finally responded, his voice carried the weariness of someone who had fought too many battles, endured too many humiliations, to take offense at honest intellectual combat.
"Pain is indeed a good teacher, Madam Minister," he said quietly, setting down his own utensil and removing his glasses to clean them with the edge of his kurta—a gesture that somehow made him seem more human, more vulnerable. "The problem with pain as pedagogy is that it teaches lessons no one should have to learn. It creates perspectives that are valuable precisely because they emerge from experiences that should never have occurred."
He replaced his glasses and looked directly at her, his expression carrying something between sadness and hard-won wisdom.
"You are not wrong in your arguments. Your logic is sound, your concerns about unintended consequences are legitimate, your faith in merit-based systems reflects values I share in principle. You just grew up differently—in circumstances where pain taught different lessons, where the primary threats were religious orthodoxy and gender discrimination rather than caste degradation."
Saraswati smiled faintly, an expression that acknowledged the accuracy of his assessment. She glanced at the simple dal and rice on her plate—the same food that millions of Indians ate daily, that crossed all boundaries of caste and class and religion in its basic sustenance.
"Different worlds, same hunger," she said simply. The phrase carried layers of meaning—literal hunger for food, metaphorical hunger for dignity and respect, the hunger for a nation that could transcend its divisions rather than being consumed by them.
Ambedkar's eyes grew distant, his gaze shifting from his companions to some internal landscape visible only to him, populated by memories that had shaped everything he had become.
"When I was a child in Mhow," he began, his voice taking on the quality of someone sharing testimony rather than merely recounting history, "we could not touch the same water pot that upper-caste children drank from. The teacher would pour water from a height so our lips would not pollute the vessel. Sometimes he forgot, or was busy, and we would go thirsty all day under the burning sun."
He paused, his hands curling slightly as if remembering the physical sensation of childhood thirst.
"My stomach used to burn so intensely that I would chew tamarind leaves and pretend it was dinner. Tell myself that the sourness was flavor rather than just acid eating at my empty gut. That hunger never truly leaves you, even when you eat three meals a day as an adult. It lodges somewhere in your body's memory, creating anxiety about scarcity that no amount of current abundance can fully erase."
The confession was delivered without self-pity or theatricality—simply stated fact about how deprivation in childhood created permanent psychological scars that influenced adult behavior in ways that those who had never experienced such deprivation could not fully comprehend.
Anirban had been listening in silence, but now he looked up from his meal, his expression grave with the kind of seriousness that came when someone recognized that they were witnessing not just conversation but revelation of truths that mattered profoundly.
"Then perhaps that is what our next war should be," he said quietly, his voice carrying conviction that suggested this was not casual observation but decision being made in real time. "Not a war of ideology—we have had enough of those and they have generated more heat than light. Not a war of identity—that path leads only to permanent division. But a war against hunger itself. Against the malnutrition that cripples bodies and minds before they have chance to develop fully, that perpetuates poverty across generations because children arrive at adulthood already damaged by deprivation they experienced before they even understood what was being done to them."
He turned toward the canteen entrance where a clerk was visible in the corridor beyond, probably preparing to close the building for the night.
"You there," Anirban called, his voice carrying authority despite the informal setting. "Please send word immediately to the Agriculture Minister and the Health Minister. Tell them the Prime Minister requires their presence urgently."
The clerk appeared in the doorway, his expression showing confusion mixed with concern that suggested he was calculating whether this was legitimate emergency or whether the Prime Minister had perhaps lost perspective about what constituted urgent business at half past nine on a night when everyone was exhausted.
"Sir, it is quite late," the clerk ventured cautiously. "Perhaps this matter could wait until morning session tomorrow?"
Anirban smiled, but the expression carried no humor—only the grim satisfaction of someone who had made a decision and would not be deterred by procedural objections or concerns about convenience.
"India's children do not stop being hungry just because the clock says it is late," he replied, his tone mild but unyielding. "And our nation does not sleep simply because bureaucrats prefer regular hours. This is urgent. Please send the word immediately."
The clerk nodded quickly and departed, his footsteps echoing down the corridor with unusual speed that suggested he had recognized that arguing would be futile and possibly dangerous to his continued employment.
After the clerk had gone, Ambedkar looked at Anirban with an expression that mixed curiosity with something that might have been hope struggling against decades of experience that had taught him to mistrust sudden enthusiasm from political leaders who promised transformation but delivered only speeches.
"Prime Minister, what exactly are you planning?" he asked, his tone suggesting he already suspected but wanted confirmation before allowing himself to believe.
Anirban did not answer immediately. Instead, he stood and walked to the window, looking out at the rain that was beginning to fall more heavily, turning the streets of Delhi into rivers that reflected the few streetlights still burning. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the quality of someone who was thinking aloud, working through implications as he articulated them.
"Dr. Ambedkar, you spoke today about how Dalit children arrive at school already disadvantaged by circumstances that have accumulated over generations. Lack of books in the home, lack of parental education, lack of cultural capital that makes learning feel natural rather than foreign. All true. All important."
He turned back to face the room.
"But there is a more fundamental disadvantage that we have not adequately addressed. These children arrive at school already cognitively impaired by malnutrition. Their brains did not develop properly because their mothers were malnourished during pregnancy. Their bodies are stunted because they did not receive adequate protein and micronutrients during critical growth periods. They cannot concentrate in class because they are genuinely, physically hungry."
His voice gained intensity.
"We can provide the best curriculum in the world, can hire the most dedicated teachers, can build beautiful school buildings—and it will all be wasted if the children sitting in those classrooms are too malnourished to learn effectively. Malnutrition is not just uncomfortable—it causes permanent cognitive damage that no amount of later intervention can fully reverse. We are allowing an entire generation to be intellectually crippled by something as preventable as inadequate nutrition."
Saraswati was leaning forward now, her expression showing that she was following his logic and recognizing where it was leading. As someone who had studied both education and public health, she understood the research on nutrition's impact on cognitive development, understood that this was not sentiment but hard scientific reality.
"You are proposing comprehensive school meal programs," she said, not as question but as statement confirming what she had already inferred. "Universal provision of nutritious food to all students regardless of economic background, integrated into the education system as fundamental component rather than charitable supplement."
"Exactly," Anirban confirmed, returning to the table and pulling out a sheet of paper from the leather folder he had carried with him—the same folder that contained notes from today's education debates, now being repurposed for this new initiative. "And not symbolic gestures or minimal provisions. Genuinely nutritious meals, scientifically designed to provide the calories and micronutrients that growing children require. Two meals per day—one in the morning to ensure children are not attending class on empty stomachs, one at midday to sustain them through afternoon sessions."
He began sketching rough outlines on the paper, his handwriting quick and barely legible but his concepts clear.
"Milk for calcium and protein. Eggs where culturally acceptable, legumes where religious or cultural preferences preclude eggs. Vegetables for micronutrients and fiber. Grains for calories and energy. Locally sourced wherever possible to reduce costs and support regional agriculture, but with national nutritional standards that cannot be compromised regardless of local availability."
Ambedkar was nodding slowly, his expression showing both approval and the kind of skepticism that came from having seen too many grand plans fail during implementation when they encountered political resistance or bureaucratic inertia.
"This will be expensive," he observed, his tone practical rather than dismissive. "Feeding millions of children two meals daily will require massive infrastructure—kitchens in every school, supply chains for ingredients, staff to prepare and serve food, quality control to ensure nutrition standards are maintained. The budget implications are enormous."
"Yes," Anirban agreed without hesitation. "It will cost perhaps two to three percent of our entire national budget once fully implemented. It will require building kitchen facilities in forty thousand schools over the next decade.But It will also create employment for hundreds of thousands of cooks and food service workers. It will create guaranteed markets for farmers producing milk, eggs, vegetables, and grains, which will in turn stimulate agricultural investment and improve rural incomes."
He looked directly at Ambedkar.
"But consider the alternative cost—the cost of allowing an entire generation to be intellectually stunted by malnutrition. The cost in lost productivity when adults cannot perform cognitively demanding work because their brains were damaged by childhood hunger. The cost in healthcare treating diseases caused or exacerbated by poor nutrition. The cost in social unrest when people are perpetually hungry and desperate."
He paused for emphasis.
"Investing in child nutrition is not charity—it is the most economically rational thing a developing nation can do. Every rupee spent feeding children returns multiple rupees in increased productivity, reduced healthcare costs, and social stability. The question is not whether we can afford it. The question is whether we can afford not to do it."
The three continued their discussion for another half hour, sketching frameworks and considering implications, when the canteen door opened and two figures entered, both showing signs of having been roused from late-evening rest but alert enough to recognize that they had been summoned for something consequential rather than trivial.
Dr. Rajendra Prasad, serving as Agriculture Minister in addition to his role as President-elect of the Constituent Assembly, moved with the dignified pace of someone who had spent decades in public service and would not be rushed by mere urgency. His dhoti and kurta were impeccably clean despite the late hour, suggesting either that he had not yet retired for the evening or that he maintained multiple changes of clothing for precisely such unexpected summons.
Rajkumari Amrit Kaur, the Health Minister, arrived with the brisk efficiency that characterized everything she did—educated at Oxford, princess of the Kapurthala royal family who had nevertheless committed herself to Gandhi's movement and to building modern healthcare infrastructure for independent India. She carried a small leather bag that likely contained notes and reference materials, suggesting she had used the brief interval between summons and arrival to gather whatever documentation might be relevant.
Both ministers paused at the entrance to the canteen, taking in the unusual scene—their Prime Minister sitting at a corner table with two other figures, the remains of a simple meal before them, papers beginning to spread across the surface in patterns that suggested planning was already underway.
"Prime Minister," Rajendra Prasad said with formal courtesy, "your message indicated urgency. What crisis requires attention at this hour?"
Anirban gestured to empty chairs at the table, inviting them to sit rather than standing on ceremony.
"Not a crisis in the conventional sense—no invasion, no riot, no immediate catastrophe requiring emergency response. But a crisis nonetheless, one that has been unfolding for generations while we have accepted it as inevitable rather than recognizing it as solvable problem."
He slid the paper he had been sketching on across the table so both newcomers could examine it.
"We are going to implement comprehensive nutrition programs in every school in India. Two meals per day for every student from primary through high school. Scientifically designed to provide complete nutrition rather than just filling stomachs. Integrated into the education system as fundamental right rather than charitable provision."
There was a moment of stunned silence as both ministers processed what they had just heard. Rajkumari Amrit Kaur recovered first, her medical training providing immediate framework for understanding the proposal's significance.
"Prime Minister, from a public health perspective this is absolutely correct policy," she said, her voice carrying the precision of someone who had spent years translating medical knowledge into policy recommendations.
"Childhood malnutrition is perhaps our greatest health crisis—it kills more children than infectious diseases, causes more long-term disability than any single pathogen, and perpetuates poverty across generations by ensuring that each new cohort arrives at adulthood already damaged by deprivation."
She pulled a notebook from her bag and began flipping through pages filled with dense handwriting.
"I have been collecting data on nutritional deficiencies since even before taking this position. The numbers are staggering. Approximately sixty percent of children under five show signs of chronic malnutrition—stunted growth, cognitive impairment, weakened immune systems. Anemia affects more than seventy percent of women and children due to inadequate iron intake. Vitamin A deficiency causes preventable blindness in thousands of children annually.
Protein-energy malnutrition creates the conditions for infectious diseases to become fatal when they should be merely uncomfortable."
She looked up from her notes.
"If we could address even half of these deficiencies through systematic school feeding programs, we would save more lives than any medical intervention short of universal vaccination. And unlike vaccinations, which prevent specific diseases, nutrition improves every aspect of health and development simultaneously."
Rajendra Prasad was nodding thoughtfully, his fingers steepled before his face in the gesture of someone working through complex calculations.
"From an agricultural perspective, this creates fascinating possibilities," he said slowly, his tone suggesting he was thinking aloud rather than delivering prepared remarks.
"Currently, our farmers face perpetual uncertainty—they plant crops without knowing whether markets will exist, whether prices will cover their costs, whether middlemen will extract all their profit margins. This creates rational incentives to minimize risk by producing only traditional subsistence crops rather than experimenting with higher-value products."
He leaned forward, warming to his subject.
"But if the government commits to purchasing milk, eggs, vegetables, and legumes at guaranteed prices for school meal programs, we create enormous stable demand that farmers can plan around. They can invest in dairy cattle knowing that milk markets are guaranteed. They can plant vegetables knowing that government procurement will occur regardless of whether private markets materialize. They can form cooperatives that aggregate supply and negotiate better terms than individual farmers could achieve."
His voice gained enthusiasm rarely heard from someone as naturally reserved as Rajendra Prasad.
"This could transform Indian agriculture from subsistence to commercial within a generation. Not by forcing farmers to change through top-down mandates, but by creating market incentives that make commercial agriculture more profitable and secure than subsistence production. The school meal program becomes agricultural development policy disguised as social welfare."
Anirban was smiling now, pleased that both ministers immediately grasped not just the humanitarian case but the broader strategic implications.
"Exactly correct on both counts," he confirmed. "This is not a single-purpose program—it is integrated policy that addresses malnutrition, agricultural development, rural employment, and educational effectiveness simultaneously. The kind of comprehensive intervention that achieves multiple goals through single mechanism rather than requiring separate programs for each objective."
He turned to Saraswati, who had been listening quietly while the ministers articulated their perspectives.
"Minister Sinha, you will integrate this into your Education framework—call it the Nutritional Rights of Students. Make it clear that education includes not just instruction but also the basic physical conditions that make learning possible. A child too hungry to concentrate is a child being denied their right to education regardless of whether a school building and teacher are technically available."
Saraswati nodded, already making notes in her own documentation.
"I will draft language establishing that school meal provision is mandatory component of Right to Education rather than optional enhancement. This prevents future governments from treating it as budgetary luxury that can be eliminated during fiscal constraints. Once established as right rather than benefit, it becomes much more difficult to remove."
Anirban then turned to Ambedkar, his expression showing that what he was about to propose carried particular significance given their earlier ideological confrontation.
"Dr. Ambedkar, I want you to draft framework for an autonomous National Nutrition and Food Security Commission. This will be statutory body operating under the Prime Minister's Office, not merely advisory committee that can be ignored when politically convenient. It will have authority to set nutritional standards, to monitor compliance, to investigate failures, and to recommend policy adjustments based on outcome data."
Ambedkar's eyes widened slightly, the first genuine surprise Anirban had seen from him all evening. A statutory commission with real enforcement power was rare in Indian governance—most oversight bodies were advisory at best, their recommendations easily dismissed by politicians who found them inconvenient.
"A statutory body means permanent institutional oversight," Ambedkar said slowly, his legal training immediately grasping the implications. "It means that even if future governments want to dismantle or undermine this program, they must confront an independent commission with legal authority to expose and oppose such efforts. That is genuinely bold, Prime Minister."
"Bold?" Anirban smiled faintly, though his eyes remained serious. "It is survival. We cannot build a functional nation on the foundation of malnourished children whose brains and bodies were damaged before they had opportunity to develop fully. Every other priority we have—economic development, technological advancement, democratic participation—depends on having a population capable of complex thought and sustained effort. Malnutrition undermines all of it."
He stood and walked again to the window, watching rain that was now falling in sheets that obscured visibility beyond a few meters.
"The British left us an administrative apparatus designed for extraction and control. We have begun dismantling that apparatus and replacing it with institutions designed for development and empowerment. But we cannot succeed if we only change formal structures while leaving unchanged the underlying conditions that perpetuate poverty and deprivation. We must attack those conditions directly."
Saraswati had been watching Anirban closely, and now she spoke with the kind of insight that came from understanding someone's deeper motivations rather than just their stated policies.
"If we can feed our children properly, ensuring that every child regardless of economic background receives adequate nutrition during critical development years, the barriers of caste and class and creed will begin collapsing within a generation," she said quietly. "Not because we have legislated them away or because we have convinced people to abandon prejudices—but because well-nourished children develop more fully, learn more effectively, and compete more successfully regardless of their backgrounds."
She paused.
"A Dalit child and an upper-caste child who both receive adequate nutrition, who both attend quality schools, who both grow up without the cognitive impairment that malnutrition causes—they will compete on genuinely equal terms in ways that no amount of reservation or legal protection can create. We will have addressed the underlying material conditions that make caste hierarchy sustainable rather than just attacking its ideological superstructure."
Ambedkar was very still, his expression suggesting he was working through implications that had not fully occurred to him before this moment. When he finally spoke, his voice carried a quality of wonder mixed with cautious hope.
"A full stomach does not hate," he said simply, the phrase somehow containing entire philosophy about human nature and social conflict. "Or at least, it hates less viscerally, less desperately. Prejudice and hierarchy do not disappear merely because material conditions improve—but they lose much of their emotional force when they are not reinforced daily by physical suffering that demands someone to blame."
He looked at Anirban with new respect.
"You are attempting something that generations of reformers have failed to achieve—changing society not through moral exhortation or legal mandate, but through systematic intervention in material conditions that shape human development and social relationships. It might actually work."
Rajkumari Amrit Kaur had been taking notes throughout the conversation, but now she set down her pen and looked at Anirban with the kind of practical concern that doctors and administrators develop after years of watching beautiful ideas founder on implementation realities..
"Prime Minister, I support this completely from policy perspective. But we need to discuss practical challenges that will determine whether this succeeds or becomes another well-intentioned program that fails during implementation."
She consulted her notes.
"First, dietary diversity and cultural acceptability. India is not homogeneous—what constitutes appropriate nutrition varies by region, religion, and cultural tradition. Eggs are excellent protein source, but many vegetarian communities object to them on religious grounds. Dairy is crucial for children, but some tribal populations are lactose intolerant. Certain vegetables considered essential in one region are completely unfamiliar in others."
Anirban nodded, acknowledging the legitimacy of the concern.
"We establish national nutritional standards—minimum requirements for calories, protein, essential vitamins and minerals—but allow regional flexibility in how those standards are met. Southern states might use more rice and lentils. Northern states might use more wheat and dairy. Tribal regions might incorporate traditional foods that meet nutritional requirements while respecting cultural practices. The goal is adequate nutrition, not dietary uniformity.".
Rajkumari Amrit Kaur made notes, apparently satisfied with that framework.
"Second, quality control and corruption prevention. Food programs are notoriously vulnerable to corruption—suppliers providing inferior quality, officials taking bribes, quantities being siphoned off for sale in black markets. How do we ensure that what we mandate actually reaches children in edible and nutritious form?"
This time it was Ambedkar who responded, drawing on his legal expertise.
"The statutory commission I will draft will include surprise inspection authority—teams that can arrive unannounced at any school and test food quality, measure quantities, interview students and teachers. Violations result in immediate suspension of suppliers and criminal prosecution of officials involved. We make corruption more costly and dangerous than honest implementation."
He paused.
"Additionally, we require transparency—every school must post publicly the menu being served, the quantities received, the suppliers being used. Parents and local communities become monitors, empowered to report discrepancies. The more eyes watching, the harder corruption becomes to sustain."
Rajendra Prasad added his perspective from agricultural side.
"We also need to think about supply chains and infrastructure. Rural schools in remote areas may not have reliable access to fresh milk or vegetables. Transportation networks may be inadequate. Storage facilities may not exist to prevent spoilage during monsoon or summer heat. These are not insurmountable problems but they require investment and planning."
Anirban was pacing now, his mind clearly working through operational details even as he articulated broader vision.
"We begin with a phased implementation rather than attempting universal coverage immediately. Start with urban schools and those rural schools that have adequate infrastructure. This allows us to identify problems, refine processes, build supplier relationships, and train staff before expanding to more challenging environments."
He counted on his fingers as he outlined the sequence.
"First year—cover primary schools in cities and large towns, approximately twenty percent of total student population. Use this to establish standard operating procedures, nutritional guidelines, quality control mechanisms. Second year—expand to rural schools in regions with good road networks and market access, reaching perhaps forty percent of students. Third year—tackle more remote areas, using lessons learned from earlier phases. Full coverage within five years."
Saraswati was nodding approval of the incremental approach.
"This also has political advantages. By demonstrating success in early phases, we build public support that makes it harder for opposition to block expansion. Parents who see their children benefiting become advocates. Teachers who observe improved student attention and performance become allies. We create momentum that carries the program forward even when facing bureaucratic resistance or fiscal pressure."
The discussion continued for another hour, moving systematically through operational challenges and potential solutions. How to handle religious dietary restrictions—allow families to opt out of specific components while ensuring children still receive adequate nutrition through alternatives. How to prevent stigmatization of economically disadvantaged students—provide same meals to all children rather than making school feeding program targeted at the poor. How to integrate with existing healthcare initiatives—use school meal programs as platform for vitamin supplementation, deworming medication, and basic health screening.
By the time the discussion began winding down, approaching midnight, papers covered the table in overlapping layers—Saraswati's draft language for integrating nutrition into education rights framework, Ambedkar's preliminary notes on commission structure and enforcement mechanisms, Rajkumari Amrit Kaur's nutritional standards and health monitoring protocols, Rajendra Prasad's calculations about agricultural procurement and pricing policies.
It was Rajendra Prasad who first raised the question that had been hovering unspoken throughout the discussion.
"Prime Minister, this is ambitious and necessary work. But I must ask—have you consulted with Foreign Minister Nehru and his circle about these plans? They were notably absent from this evening's session, and I suspect they will have strong opinions about a program of this scope that commits substantial budget resources without their input."
The question hung in the air, and for the first time that evening a tension entered the room that had nothing to do with policy substance and everything to do with political dynamics.
Anirban's expression darkened slightly, his jaw tightening in way that suggested frustration carefully controlled.
"Foreign Minister Nehru and Maulana Azad departed the Parliament premises shortly after the education vote concluded," he said, his tone carefully neutral in way that somehow made it clear that neutrality required effort. "They did not remain for consultation, did not inquire about what additional work might be underway, did not express interest in collaborative policy development."
He paused, then added with edge that cut through diplomatic phrasing.
"They apparently preferred celebrating with their circle—congratulating themselves on having voted for the Right to Education Act while conveniently ignoring that they opposed every substantive component until political calculation made opposition untenable. I find it difficult to regret their absence when their presence would likely have consisted primarily of objections designed to demonstrate their progressive credentials rather than substantive contributions to implementation planning."
The bitterness in Anirban's voice was unusual enough that everyone present took note. The Prime Minister typically maintained careful courtesy toward Nehru despite their policy differences, recognizing that public conflict between the two most visible leaders of independent India would damage the government's credibility and unity. But the late hour and the accumulated stress of the day had apparently weakened his normal filters.
Saraswati looked troubled, her political instincts warning that this kind of division within the top leadership could prove dangerous.
"Prime Minister, whatever your personal frustrations with Foreign Minister Nehru, we cannot implement programs of this magnitude without broad political support. He has substantial following within Congress and significant international visibility. If he opposes nutrition programs publicly, claiming they divert resources from other priorities or questioning their feasibility, he could create political obstacles that undermine implementation regardless of the policy's merits."
Ambedkar nodded agreement, his own complex relationship with Nehru giving him particular insight into how the Foreign Minister might react.
"Nehru believes in social welfare and would support feeding hungry children in principle. But he will object to the mechanism—he prefers dramatic gestures and visible programs that create immediate political impact rather than systematic long-term interventions that show results only after years of patient implementation. He may well argue that these resources should instead go toward industrial development or infrastructure projects that have more obvious political benefits."
Anirban was quiet for a moment, visibly forcing himself to think strategically rather than simply reacting to his irritation at Nehru's absence and his circle's tendency to criticize without contributing.
"Then we will manage him carefully," he finally said, his voice returning to more controlled register. "We present this not as nutrition program but as education infrastructure—we are simply ensuring that the Right to Education Act we passed today can actually function effectively by addressing the physical prerequisites for learning. We emphasize agricultural development benefits, rural employment creation, healthcare cost savings. We frame it in language that makes opposition seem like opposing progress rather than just questioning one particular policy mechanism."
He looked at each person present.
"And we move quickly. Finalize frameworks this week, announce the program next week, begin pilot implementation within the month. Create facts on the ground that make reversal politically costly rather than allowing time for opposition to organize and gather momentum. Once parents have seen their children receiving meals, once farmers have signed procurement contracts, once thousands of cooks have been employed—dismantling becomes much harder than preventing establishment in the first place."
Rajkumari Amrit Kaur smiled slightly, recognizing the political calculation even as she appreciated its necessity.
"You are learning the art of democratic governance, Prime Minister. Vision is important, but so is understanding that good policy must be defended politically or it will be destroyed by those who benefit from existing arrangements regardless of how much suffering those arrangements cause."
The telephone in the canteen rang suddenly, its sharp metallic sound jarring in the quiet that had settled over the late-night discussion. The sound was unexpected enough that everyone startled slightly—phones in the Parliament canteen rarely rang at midnight, and when they did it typically signaled emergencies or urgent political developments that could not wait for normal business hours.
Anirban stood and walked to where the phone hung on the wall near the kitchen entrance, his expression shifting from the thoughtful engagement of policy discussion to the wary alertness of someone who had learned that late-night calls rarely brought pleasant news. He lifted the receiver and spoke briefly.
"Prime Minister's office, Anirban speaking." His voice was clipped, professional, revealing nothing about who might be calling or what the conversation might concern.
Those remaining at the table watched as Anirban listened in silence for nearly a minute, his face growing progressively more serious, his free hand clenching and unclenching in unconscious expression of tension that his controlled expression otherwise concealed. He said nothing during this interval except occasional brief acknowledgments
—"Yes," "I understand," "Confirmed"—that provided no information to observers about the substance of the conversation.
Finally, after what felt like much longer than the minute or two that actually elapsed, Anirban spoke more substantively.
"Thank you for the advance notice, Sardarji. I will be prepared. We will discuss strategy before the meeting." He listened for a few more seconds, then concluded: "Yes, tomorrow at seven-thirty, before they convene. Goodnight."
He hung up the receiver with deliberate care, his movements controlled in a way that suggested he was managing reactions that required conscious suppression. For a moment he stood with his back to the table, one hand still resting on the telephone, his posture suggesting someone gathering composure before turning to face questioning that he knew was coming.
When he finally turned back to face the group, his expression was grave enough that everyone present immediately understood that whatever news had been delivered was significant and probably unwelcome.
What has happened?" Saraswati asked directly, her tone carrying none of the formal deference that normally characterized interactions between ministers and prime minister, instead reflecting the kind of straightforward concern that emerged among people who had worked together intensely and developed genuine collaborative relationship. "Your expression suggests this is not routine communication."
Ambedkar was watching Anirban with the particular attention of someone whose decades of political experience had taught him to read unspoken signals, to identify moments when the ground beneath political arrangements was shifting in ways that would soon become obvious to everyone but that could be anticipated by those paying careful attention.
Rajendra Prasad and Rajkumari Amrit Kaur exchanged glances that suggested they too recognized that something consequential had just occurred, something that would affect not just this particular late-night policy discussion but broader political dynamics within the government and the Congress Party.
Anirban returned to the table and sat down slowly, his movements carrying the heaviness of someone who had just received confirmation of something he had expected but hoped might not occur quite so quickly or quite so aggressively.
"That was Sardar Patel," he said quietly, his voice steady but carrying undercurrent of tension that everyone present could hear. "He called to inform me—to warn me, really—that there will be a Congress Working Committee meeting tomorrow morning at eight-thirty. The stated purpose is to discuss the legislation we passed today, to review the policy decisions made and to ensure they align with party principles and commitments."
He paused, then added with bitter precision that made the real meaning clear.
"The actual purpose, according to Patel's intelligence, is to conduct what amounts to an open interrogation of my leadership. Foreign Minister Nehru and his supporters within the Working Committee are preparing to challenge the education policy we passed, to question the pension fund mechanism as financially reckless, and to object to the appointment of Minister Sinha as representing abandonment of the party's commitment to inclusive leadership that respects traditional constituencies."
The words fell into silence heavy with implications that everyone immediately grasped. A Working Committee meeting to review the Prime Minister's decisions, called less than twelve hours after those decisions had been made, with participation from the Foreign Minister who had conspicuously absented himself from the actual policy development—this was not routine oversight but political challenge, an attempt to establish that Anirban's authority was not absolute and that significant decisions required approval from party elders who had not been consulted.
Saraswati's face had gone pale, her hands gripping the edge of the table with enough force that her knuckles showed white against her brown skin. She understood immediately that she was the focal point of this challenge, that her appointment and her controversial policy positions had provided the opening that those uncomfortable with Anirban's leadership style had been seeking.
"They are going to demand my removal," she said, not as question but as statement of obvious conclusion. "Nehru and his circle will argue that I am too controversial, too divisive, that my rejection of caste-based reservation represents betrayal of Congress's commitment to social justice. They will say that you appointed me without adequate consultation, that you are governing autocratically rather than collaboratively."
Ambedkar's expression had grown darker, his jaw set in the way that indicated he was containing anger through conscious effort. He had witnessed too many reform efforts destroyed by political maneuvering within Congress, had seen too many promising leaders undermined by factions that preferred comfortable mediocrity to challenging excellence.
"This is what happens when you actually try to govern rather than just managing political coalitions," he said, his voice carrying acid bitterness born of long experience with Congress's internal dynamics. "Nehru and his supporters are comfortable with symbolic gestures and inspiring speeches about social justice. But when someone actually implements policies that might work—that might genuinely transform conditions rather than just redistributing existing poverty—they panic because success would expose their own failures by comparison."
Rajendra Prasad looked troubled but not particularly surprised, his expression suggesting this confirmed expectations rather than revealing unexpected development.
"The Foreign Minister has substantial support within the Working Committee," he observed, his tone carefully neutral in way that avoided taking sides while acknowledging political reality. "Many members are uncomfortable with how quickly you have moved since taking office, with how many significant decisions have been made without the extensive consultation that Congress traditionally employs. They view your efficiency as circumventing democratic deliberation, as concentrating too much power in the Prime Minister's office."
He paused, then added more sympathetically.
"Whether that criticism is fair is separate question from whether it is politically consequential. Fair or not, you will face serious challenge tomorrow that could damage your authority regardless of how well you defend your positions."
Rajkumari Amrit Kaur had been quiet throughout this exchange, but now she spoke with the kind of practical political insight that came from years of navigating spaces where her presence was tolerated but her authority was constantly questioned.
"The nutrition program we have just designed will become part of tomorrow's battle," she predicted, her voice carrying grim certainty. "Nehru's supporters will characterize it as Prime Minister making major policy commitments without Working Committee approval, as diverting resources from other priorities that have broader political support, as another example of autocratic decision-making that bypasses proper consultative processes."
She looked directly at Anirban.
"You need to decide tonight whether you are prepared to defend not just the specific policies but the broader principle that governance requires executive authority to make decisions efficiently rather than subjecting every choice to endless committee deliberation that produces lowest-common-denominator compromises satisfying no one."
The question hung in the air—not whether Anirban would defend his decisions, which everyone present knew he would, but whether he was prepared for the political consequences of that defense, whether he understood that tomorrow's meeting might represent inflection point that would determine whether he could continue governing effectively or would be reduced to figurehead managing competing factions rather than actually leading.
Anirban sat in silence for a long moment, his eyes distant as he processed implications and calculated options. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the quiet determination of someone who had made peace with difficult choice.
"I will not apologize for governing effectively," he said simply.
"I will not pretend that endless consultation and committee deliberation are the same as democratic accountability. I was elected to lead, and leadership requires making decisions based on evidence and expertise rather than political convenience."
He looked at each person present.
"Tomorrow I will defend every decision we made today. The unified curriculum, the economic-based reservation, the pension fund mechanism, Minister Sinha's appointment, and this nutrition program we have just designed. I will defend them not by claiming infallibility but by presenting evidence of their necessity and feasibility, by demonstrating that these policies address actual problems rather than just positioning for political advantage."
His voice hardened.
"And if the Working Committee decides they would prefer a Prime Minister who governs by consensus and committee rather than by executive decision informed by expert advice, they are welcome to remove me. But they will have to explain to the public why they dismissed someone who was actually getting things done in favor of returning to the paralysis of endless deliberation that has characterized Congress for decades."
The defiance was clear, the willingness to risk his position rather than compromise on principles he believed were essential for effective governance. Whether this represented courage or recklessness would depend on tomorrow's outcome and on whether he could convince enough Working Committee members that his approach was justified by results rather than simply being autocratic overreach.
Patel's warning had transformed the late-night policy discussion into something more fraught—not just technical planning but potentially the final collaborative work of a team that might be dismantled by political forces uncomfortable with their effectiveness. The nutrition program they had designed with such care might never be implemented if tomorrow's meeting went badly, if Nehru's challenge succeeded in constraining Anirban's authority or forcing changes in his ministerial team.
Saraswati looked at the documents spread across the table—frameworks and timelines and commitments that now seemed fragile, contingent on political survival rather than being established facts.
Her expression carried the particular frustration of someone who had worked intensely on something important only to discover that its fate would be determined not by its merits but by political calculations having little to do with whether it would actually help children or transform agricultural markets or improve public health.
"Then We should finalize everything tonight," she said abruptly, her tone carrying urgency born of recognition that time might be shorter than they had assumed. "Get signatures, establish formal commitments, create documentation that makes reversal more difficult even if political circumstances change. Make this real enough that it cannot simply be abandoned because one meeting goes badly."
Ambedkar nodded agreement, his legal mind immediately grasping the strategic value of creating established facts that would be harder to undo than plans that existed only as intentions.
"I can draft basic commission framework tonight—not the detailed provisions that will require weeks to perfect, but core structure and authority that establishes it as entity with legal standing. Once that exists, even in preliminary form, dismantling requires explicit action rather than simple abandonment through inaction."
The group returned to their documents with renewed intensity, no longer discussing possibilities but creating commitments, no longer exploring options but making decisions that would be harder to reverse. The work that had earlier felt expansive and visionary now felt urgent and defensive, an attempt to protect what they were building from political forces that might destroy it not because they had better alternatives but because they were threatened by effectiveness that made their own inadequacies more visible by comparison.
Ambedkar pulled out fresh sheets of paper and began writing in his precise legal hand, drafting the framework for the National Nutrition and Food Security Commission with the kind of attention to detail that made the difference between advisory bodies that could be ignored and statutory commissions with real enforcement power. His pen moved quickly across the page, establishing governance structures, defining jurisdictional authority, specifying reporting requirements and accountability mechanisms.
Saraswati worked on integrating nutritional rights into the education framework, her language careful to establish these provisions as fundamental components rather than optional enhancements. She drafted passages that would make school meal programs legally mandated rather than merely recommended, that would create justiciable rights enforceable through courts if future governments attempted to eliminate them for budgetary reasons.
Rajkumari Amrit Kaur refined her nutritional standards and health monitoring protocols, translating general principles into specific measurable requirements that could be used to evaluate program effectiveness. She specified minimum caloric intake by age group, essential micronutrient requirements, acceptable variation based on regional food availability, and health indicators that would be tracked to demonstrate impact on child development.
Rajendra Prasad calculated procurement volumes and pricing structures, working through the mathematics of how many tons of milk and eggs and vegetables would be needed annually, how many farmers would need to be contracted, what guaranteed prices would be sufficient to stimulate production while remaining fiscally sustainable. His calculations filled several pages, the numbers growing larger and more impressive as the full scale of the program became clear.
The night guard appeared in the doorway, clearly surprised to find people still working at nearly one in the morning, uncertain whether he should interrupt or simply wait for them to finish.
"Sir, we typically close the building at midnight," he said hesitantly, addressing Anirban with the deference that guards show to authority but also with the insistence of someone responsible for security who needs the building emptied. "I can allow additional time if necessary, but I need to know when you expect to conclude."
Anirban looked at the work still spread across the table, at the documents being frantically completed by people who understood they were racing against political clock that might expire before bureaucratic processes could be completed.
"Another hour," he said firmly. "We will be finished by two o'clock. Please ensure the building remains accessible until then."
The guard nodded and withdrew, leaving the group to their work—work that continued with minimal conversation now, everyone focused on completing their assigned portions, on getting signatures where needed, on transforming plans into commitments formal enough to survive political turbulence.
Outside, unnoticed by anyone inside the canteen, a few remaining clerks passed through the corridors, preparing to close the Parliament building for the night. In the distance, the faint sound of laughter could still be heard echoing from where Nehru and his circle had departed earlier, their cars splashing through rain-soaked streets toward homes and hotels where they would sleep comfortably while congratulating themselves on having participated in historic legislative session.
But inside the canteen, five people remained bent over papers and notes, working through details that would determine whether millions of children would grow up healthy or stunted, whether India would develop the human capital necessary for economic advancement or would perpetuate poverty through generations of malnutrition.
As the work progressed, Ambedkar paused in his drafting and looked up at the others, his expression carrying the weight of someone who understood they were participating in something that transcended normal politics.
"When I was that child chewing tamarind leaves and pretending they were dinner, I could not have imagined that one day I would sit in a room with the Prime Minister of independent India and help design a system to ensure no child would have to endure what I endured," he said, his words coming slowly as if each one carried weight that required deliberate articulation. "I spent my life fighting legal battles—for voting rights, for temple entry, for the abolition of untouchability in law if not in practice. Important battles, necessary battles. But this—this addresses something more fundamental than any legal provision can touch. This addresses the physical reality that shapes everything else."
He looked at Anirban with an expression that combined respect with something approaching wonder.
"You understand something that many reformers miss, Prime Minister. That social change requires material foundation. That we cannot build equality on the foundation of malnourished children whose bodies and brains were damaged before they had opportunity to demonstrate their capabilities. That the most radical thing we can do is not to pass laws protecting disadvantaged groups, but to eliminate the material conditions that create disadvantage in the first place."
The comment hung in the air, and for a moment everyone stopped their work to acknowledge what Ambedkar had articulated—that they were attempting to change India not through ideological proclamation but through systematic intervention in the material conditions that shaped human development and possibility.
Saraswati broke the contemplative silence, her voice carrying practical concern that grounded the discussion back in immediate realities.
"We have drafted frameworks, established principles, committed to implementation. But we need timeline and accountability mechanisms or this will drift into the bureaucratic void where so many well-intentioned policies disappear, consumed by procedural delays and administrative inertia that kills reform without anyone having to explicitly oppose it."
She pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and began sketching timeline.
"One week to finalize legal frameworks and draft announcement language. Two weeks to identify pilot schools for initial implementation—urban schools with existing infrastructure that can begin immediately. Three weeks to establish procurement contracts with dairy cooperatives and agricultural suppliers. 6 weeks to have meals being served in pilot schools, with data collection beginning to measure impact on attendance, attention span, academic performance."
Anirban nodded approval, appreciating the concrete specificity rather than vague commitments to eventual implementation.
"And we establish clear ministerial responsibility. Minister Sinha coordinates overall implementation as part of education infrastructure. Minister Prasad handles agricultural procurement and farmer engagement. Minister Kaur establishes health monitoring and nutritional
standards. Dr. Ambedkar drafts the statutory commission framework and ensures legal protections against future dismantlement."
He looked at each person.
"We reconvene in one week to review finalized documents. We will announce the pilot schools name, in which Presidency, in which district, in which province publicly in two weeks, —we are simply ensuring that education rights include the physical prerequisites for learning, not just access to classrooms and teachers. We move fast enough that opposition cannot organize effectively before implementation creates political facts that make reversal costly."
The strategy was clear, the division of labor logical, the timeline aggressive but potentially achievable. Yet underlying all the practical planning was awareness that they were attempting something unprecedented in scale and scope—universal nutrition guarantee for all school-age children in a nation of hundreds of millions, most of whom lived in poverty without reliable access to adequate food.
As the clock approached two in the morning, as the final documents were signed and dated and organized into folders that would be delivered to appropriate offices in the morning, the group finally allowed themselves to acknowledge the exhaustion that had been accumulating throughout the long day and longer evening.
Anirban stood and looked at his collaborators—these people who had worked with him to design something potentially transformative, who had contributed expertise and political courage in equal measure, who now faced uncertain futures depending on tomorrow's political battle.
"Regardless of what happens tomorrow at the Working Committee meeting," he said quietly, his voice carrying gratitude that transcended political calculation, "this night's work matters. We have created frameworks for addressing malnutrition that will outlast any particular government, that establish principles future leaders can build on even if we are not there to implement them ourselves. That is worth doing regardless of personal political consequences."
Saraswati gathered her materials slowly, her movements showing fatigue but also the kind of satisfaction that comes from having done work that matters.
"We will see what tomorrow brings," she said simply. "But tonight we built something real. That is enough."
As the group finally departed into the rainy night, heading to homes or hotels where they would try to get a few hours of sleep before tomorrow's confrontation, the Parliament building settled into darkness—its corridors empty, its chambers silent, holding within its walls the echoes of debates and decisions that would shape a nation still learning what independence actually meant, still discovering whether democracy could produce not just freedom but also the competent governance that made freedom sustainable.
The rain continued falling on Delhi, washing the streets clean, the monsoon performing its ancient cycle of destruction and renewal. Somewhere in the darkness, children slept with empty stomachs, their bodies and minds being shaped by deprivation that would mark them permanently. But in the folders and documents now locked in ministerial offices, there existed the blueprints for changing that reality, for ensuring that future generations would grow up with the nutrition their potential required.
Whether those blueprints would survive tomorrow's political battle, whether the vision articulated tonight would overcome the resistance that always met genuine reform, remained uncertain.
But the work had been done, the commitments had been made, and the possibility had been created. In a nation still finding its way, still learning how to translate independence into actual improvement in people's lives, that possibility mattered profoundly.
The canteen lights went dark as the guard made his final rounds. The Parliament building stood silent in the rain, waiting for morning and whatever political storms the new day would bring.