Parliament House, New Delhi
25 August 1947, 3:45 PM
The heavy rain had passed, leaving behind that peculiar clarity that follows monsoons—the air scrubbed clean, the light sharper, colors more vivid. The monsoon clouds were thinning over Raisina Hill, leaving the capital washed and gleaming under pale evening light that painted everything in shades of gold and amber. The fountains outside Parliament shimmered, their waters catching the last gilded rays of the day, each droplet a tiny prism reflecting the optimism and anxiety of a nation barely two weeks old.
Inside the chamber, the session had resumed after a brief recess that had allowed members to process the morning's ambitious proposals. Yet the mood was more charged than it had been all morning—the initial shock had worn off, replaced by a restless energy that came from recognizing they were participating in something genuinely historic rather than just ceremonial.
Prime Minister Anirban Sen leaned back in his chair at the Treasury bench, fingers interlocked in a posture that suggested deep thought rather than relaxation, as if gauging the pulse of a restless nation through the hum of debate that rolled like low thunder through the chamber. His glasses had finally dried completely from the morning's humidity, and he could see clearly now—both literally and metaphorically—the path that was being carved through this unprecedented week of policy creation.
Only twelve days had passed since independence's legal framework had begun to take shape through acts, ordinances, and arguments that sometimes seemed more philosophical than practical, more aspirational than achievable. India was, in every sense, being written into existence—not just as a political entity but as a civilization with purpose, with values, with commitments that would define what freedom actually meant beyond the simple absence of British rule.
The House Clerk struck his gavel with the particular authority of someone who'd learned that maintaining order required confident gestures as much as actual power.
"Next agenda item: Health and Welfare, General Provisions—Continuation of Address by the Honourable Minister of Health and Welfare, Rajkumari Amrit Kaur."
The chamber fell quiet with anticipatory attention. Members who'd left during the recess rushed back to their seats, not wanting to miss what would clearly be another significant announcement.
Rajkumari Amrit Kaur rose again, and the afternoon sun streaming through the high windows framed her in light that seemed almost theatrical, almost as if the universe itself was highlighting this moment. She held a stack of handwritten notes—meticulously organized, color-coded in her distinctive style—though those who knew her understood she rarely read from them directly. Her speeches came not from paper but from conviction forged through decades of service, from witnessing suffering she could have avoided by remaining in aristocratic comfort but had chosen instead to confront.
"Honourable Prime Minister, esteemed Members," she began, her voice carrying that particular combination of refinement and steel that characterized her public speaking, "I spoke earlier of hospitals, of patients, of insurance mechanisms, and of our dream for a National Health Authority. But health is not built in hospitals alone. It is built in every meal a family eats, every medicine that reaches a village, every grain that enters our homes without carrying poison disguised as nourishment."
She paused, letting her gaze sweep across the hall. Even Opposition benches—such as they existed in this early Parliament where factional lines were still fluid and uncertain—listened intently.
"Our citizens are not dying merely from disease," she continued, her tone sharpening. "They are dying from the absence of trust. They cannot trust the doctor, because he has no medicine to prescribe or the medicine he prescribes is unavailable. They cannot trust the medicine when they finally obtain it, because it may be counterfeit, diluted, adulterated with substances that harm rather than heal. They cannot trust the food they purchase in markets, because adulteration is so rampant that buying rice or ghee or milk has become a gamble with their children's health."
She leaned forward slightly, her posture conveying urgency.
"What kind of freedom is that, Honourable Members? What does independence mean if a mother cannot feed her child without fear? If a farmer who grows grain cannot afford to buy clean grain for his own family? If a worker who falls ill must choose between fake medicine that might kill him and no medicine at all?"
Her words cut like tempered steel through the afternoon air, each sentence landing with the weight of undeniable truth.
"Under British administration, India was treated as a field for profit extraction, not as a body to be healed. The so-called pharmaceutical trade was a jungle of unregulated agents and opportunistic merchants. Morphine diluted with chalk powder. Quinine mixed with brick dust to increase weight and profit. Insulin that was simply colored water. These were not exceptions—they were routine. And when patients died, the blame fell on poverty or fate or insufficient prayer, not on the poison sold as medicine."
Gasps and murmurs rippled across the hall. Several members looked genuinely shocked, though Anirban suspected most had known about these practices and simply hadn't confronted them directly.
The Prime Minister raised a hand to still the growing noise, his gesture indicating that Rajkumari should continue without interruption.
She nodded her thanks and pressed forward.
"So I propose the creation of an authority—a powerful, well-funded, technically competent authority—the Central Drugs Standard Control Organisation, or CDSCO. It shall be the sentinel of our pharmaceutical system, the guardian standing between our people and those who would profit from their suffering."
She pulled out a document from her folder, holding it up so members could see the official letterhead.
"No drug shall be manufactured, imported, or sold in this Republic without CDSCO's registration, rigorous inspection, and explicit approval. Every pharmaceutical facility—from multinational companies to small local producers—will be licensed and regularly audited. Every medicine will be tested against scientific standards, not marketing claims."
Her voice rose with emphasis.
"CDSCO will license all drug manufacturers and importers. It will monitor quality through surprise inspections and mandatory testing. It will maintain a central Indian Pharmacopoeia—a standard of purity and efficacy written not in the language of profit but in the language of science, setting requirements that every medicine sold in India must meet."
She looked around the chamber, making eye contact with skeptical faces.
"Each province shall have laboratories under this organisation, equipped to test medicines before they reach the people. Modern equipment, trained chemists, standardized protocols. When a batch of medicine arrives in Madras or Bombay or Calcutta, it will be sampled and tested. If it fails to meet standards, the entire batch will be destroyed and the manufacturer prosecuted."
"Let every Indian child's first dose of medicine," she concluded this section with particular intensity, "bear not just the seal of some distant company but the guarantee of trust from the Republic of India. Let every mother know that when she purchases medicine for her sick child, it will heal rather than harm."
The chamber erupted in applause—genuine, sustained applause that went beyond the polite acknowledgment typical of parliamentary proceedings. Several MPs rose to join their hands in the traditional gesture of respect, even those usually cynical of bureaucratic expansion recognizing that this was different, that this addressed real suffering rather than just creating more administrative layers.
But Rajkumari was not finished. She waited for the applause to fade, raising her hand in a gesture that requested patience, then spoke again, her tone softer but somehow more dangerous—the voice of someone preparing to name a sin that everyone knew about but no one wanted to confront publicly.
"And now," she said quietly, "to food—the first medicine of all, the foundation of health that comes before any doctor or hospital or pharmaceutical intervention."
The hall quieted immediately, the shift in her tone conveying that what came next would be equally significant.
---
"Food adulteration is not new," Rajkumari continued, her voice carrying controlled anger now, the kind of fury that came from witnessing preventable suffering. "It has existed as long as markets have existed, as long as there have been people willing to prioritize profit over humanity. But its scale today, its sheer ubiquity in independent India, is monstrous—a betrayal of the freedom we just won, a continuation of colonial exploitation through different mechanisms."
She began pacing as she spoke, a habit when addressing subjects that moved her deeply.
"I have personally visited markets across this nation during my years of service. I have seen rice mixed with stones to increase weight—stones that break teeth, that damage digestive systems, that turn a staple food into a hazard. I have seen ghee adulterated with animal fats and vegetable oils, cheating both religious sensibilities and nutritional value. I have seen milk diluted with chalk water, its nutritional content destroyed while appearing normal. I have seen sugar whitened with bone dust to make inferior product look premium."
She stopped, facing the chamber directly.
"This is not merely theft, Honourable Members. This is not just economic crime. It is a silent assassination of our people's health. It is poison administered in small doses over years, causing malnutrition we blame on poverty when often it's adulteration—children fed milk that contains no nutrition, families cooking with oil that damages their livers, workers consuming tea whitened with substances never meant for human consumption."
An MP from the Bombay Presidency—a businessman, clearly uncomfortable with where this was heading—shouted from his seat: "Madam Minister, these are serious accusations! But how will the government test every grain of rice, every liter of milk, every kilogram of ghee? It's impossible! The administrative burden would be crushing!"
Rajkumari turned toward him sharply, her expression carrying the particular intensity of someone who'd anticipated exactly this objection and had prepared for it.
"Then, Honourable Member, we shall build the system that makes it possible. We shall create infrastructure that makes the impossible routine, that makes protection the default rather than the exception."
Laughter rippled across the benches—nervous and respectful, the sound of people recognizing they were witnessing a formidable political operator who would not be deterred by claims of impracticality.
"I therefore propose the creation of another authority—the Food Safety and Standards Authority of India, or FSSAI. It will oversee every consumable item in the Indian market with the same rigor that CDSCO will oversee medicines. It shall set the standards for nutrition, hygiene, packaging, storage, transportation, and safety. Every mill, every bottling plant, every oil press, every dairy, every food manufacturer shall answer to it."
She pulled out organizational charts from her folder, displaying the proposed structure.
"Each province shall have Regional Food Testing Laboratories, equipped with modern analytical equipment, staffed by trained chemists and food scientists. These laboratories will report to the Central Authority, ensuring standards are uniform across India—what is safe in Punjab must also be safe in Madras, what is adulterated in Bengal must also be caught in Bombay."
"Our citizens must know," she said with absolute conviction, "that when they eat, when they feed their children, when they purchase food in markets, they are not gambling with death. They are exercising a basic right—the right to nourishment without poison."
She looked down briefly at her notes, finding her place.
"The FSSAI will work hand in hand with our National Nutrition and Food Security Commission—as proposed in the August 23rd session—and with the Annapurna Corporation approved yesterday. This is systems thinking, Honourable Members. Food security means ensuring adequate supply through Annapurna. Food safety means ensuring that supply is actually safe to eat through FSSAI. These are complementary functions, not redundant ones."
A pause, then she added with renewed intensity:
"And all these bodies—the NHA providing healthcare, the CDSCO ensuring medicine quality, the FSSAI guaranteeing food safety—all of them will fail without one more foundation stone, one more pillar that supports everything else."
The word hung in the air, laden with significance.
"Research."
---
"For decades," Rajkumari continued, her voice taking on a note of historical grievance, "India's medical research was governed by an association—the Indian Research Fund Association, or IRFA. Established in 1911, it served loyally within its limitations. But it was a colonial instrument, fundamentally designed to serve British interests, directed from London, focused on diseases that affected colonial administrators and soldiers rather than the millions of Indians who suffered from entirely different health challenges."
She looked toward the Speaker's dais, her expression conveying the importance of what she was about to propose.
"The IRFA studied malaria because it killed British troops. It studied cholera because it disrupted colonial administration. It did good work within its mandate—I don't dismiss their contributions. But it never asked: what diseases kill the most Indians? What nutritional deficiencies are we failing to address? What tropical diseases specific to our geography are we ignoring because they don't affect Europeans?"
"Now," she said firmly, "we must rebirth this as a sovereign organisation, answerable only to the people of India and to this Parliament. An organisation that studies our diseases, our diets, our genetics, our specific health challenges."
She spoke slowly, emphasizing each word.
"I therefore propose the establishment of the Indian Council of Medical Research, or ICMR. It shall be housed within the Ministry of Health and Welfare, adequately funded through the MediFund we created this morning, and given broad authority to direct medical and health research across the nation."
She began detailing the structure:
"ICMR shall oversee a network of specialized research institutions—some existing facilities that will be upgraded and reoriented, others to be built new. Institutions focused on specific domains: virology, because epidemic diseases remain one of our greatest threats. Oncology, because cancer kills without regard to wealth or poverty. Nutrition science, because malnutrition is our most widespread health problem. Tropical medicine, because diseases that thrive in our climate require specific expertise. Tuberculosis, which kills more Indians than any other single disease. Maternal and child health, because we lose too many mothers and infants to preventable causes."
Her tone became almost reverent.
"We must no longer wait for Cambridge or the London School of Hygiene to tell us what fevers our people die of. We must study ourselves, heal ourselves, trust ourselves. Indian doctors studying Indian patients in Indian conditions, developing treatments that work for our diseases, our genetics, our circumstances."
For a moment, the chamber was absolutely silent except for the soft sound of the ceiling fans turning, stirring air heavy with the weight of what was being proposed.
Then, from the benches, came a skeptical voice—Mahavir Tyagi, the old soldier-MP from Dehradun, a veteran of Congress campaigns who'd earned the right to question anyone.
"But Madam Minister," he said, rising with the careful movements of someone whose body carried war wounds, "you propose three new authorities in a single session—NHA to provide healthcare, CDSCO to regulate medicines, FSSAI to ensure food safety—and now a research council besides. How will we pay for this empire of bureaucracy? The treasury is already thin. Our Finance Minister looks ready to weep. Will we tax the farmers further? Will we burden the already burdened?"
The chamber stirred with nervous agreement. Finance always provoked unease, especially in a nation so recently bankrupted by partition's costs.
Rajkumari smiled faintly—the smile of someone who'd not only anticipated this objection but had specifically designed her proposal to answer it, who'd spent hours with the Finance Minister working through every calculation.
"No, Honourable Member. We will absolutely not tax the farmer further; we will heal him instead. We will not burden the poor; we will lift their burdens. The funds shall come from the MediFund, whose creation this House approved earlier today through the Life Insurance Corporation mechanism."
She explained patiently, as if teaching rather than debating:
"LICI shall collect insurance premiums from those who can afford them—organized sector workers, government employees, business owners, the emerging middle class. It shall invest those premiums prudently in productive assets that generate returns—infrastructure bonds, industrial development, strategic sectors. And a designated portion of those profits—not the premiums themselves but the returns generated from investing them—shall be dedicated to healthcare infrastructure, research, and public health initiatives."
Her voice took on an edge of moral certainty.
"For too long, the profit extracted from Indian lives went to foreign insurance companies headquartered in London, to British shareholders who'd never set foot in India. Now that profit will circle back to our own people, invested in their health, their security, their future."
Anirban Sen nodded approvingly from his seat. "Let that principle be entered into the permanent record," he said quietly but clearly. "That Indian capital serves Indian development, that our resources build our capacity rather than enriching distant shareholders."
The Speaker struck his gavel with ceremonial authority.
"The proposal of the Honourable Minister to establish the Indian Council of Medical Research, the Central Drugs Standard Control Organisation, and the Food Safety and Standards Authority of India shall be recorded and referred to the Committee on Public Health for formal drafting of detailed legislation. The framework principles are noted and will be subject to vote tomorrow morning."
The chamber broke into applause again—but this time, it was less ceremonial and more genuine, carrying the sound of people who'd been moved by vision rather than just impressed by technical competence. There was something new in the air: structure, foresight, purpose—the sense that they were building something that might actually endure.
As the session prepared to adjourn for the day, the golden light of dusk spilled through the long corridors of Parliament in rays that seemed almost intentionally dramatic. Clerks scurried with files stamped "Confidential" and "Urgent." Reporters rushed to telegraph their summaries to newspapers across India and abroad, knowing these announcements would make front pages. And the ministers, weary but charged with the particular energy that comes from accomplishing something significant, prepared for the next task—to transform words into action, proposals into institutions.
Prime Minister's Office, South Block
7:15 PM
The evening had settled over Delhi with the particular stillness that follows monsoon rains, when the city exhales after days of humidity and tension. Inside the Prime Minister's office in South Block, the air was thick not with moisture but with cigarette smoke and the concentrated energy of people who understood they were designing the foundations of something unprecedented.
Anirban Sen had already affixed his signature to the health proposals earlier in the afternoon, his fountain pen—a gift from Patel after his election as Prime Minister—leaving its distinctive mark across documents that would shortly be presented to the Assembly for final passage. The proposals had been debated, refined, and strengthened through hours of committee work, and now only the formal parliamentary vote remained. But the core Cabinet had reconvened not to revisit what had already been decided, but to address the practical questions that theory always avoided: how much money would actually be required, where it would come from, and how quickly they could move from policy declarations to functioning institutions.
Around the heavy teak table sat the architects of India's emerging welfare infrastructure. Saraswati Sinha occupied the chair to Anirban's right, her white sari impeccable despite the long day, her notes organized with the precision that characterized everything she did. Dr. B.R. Ambedkar sat across from her, his expression carrying the particular intensity of someone who understood that constitutional provisions meant nothing without institutional capacity to implement them. Sardar Patel, positioned at the far end of the table, looked exhausted but alert, his eyes missing nothing despite the fatigue evident in his posture. Rajkumari Amrit Kaur had joined them after the parliamentary session, bringing with her both the satisfaction of a successful presentation and the anxiety of someone who now had to deliver on ambitious promises.
The Finance Minister, R.K. Shanmukham Chetty, sat with his permanent secretary beside him, surrounded by ledgers and budget projections that painted a sobering picture of India's fiscal reality. Chetty was a man of numbers and caution, his entire career built on the principle that governments could promise anything but could only deliver what they could afford. His expression suggested he was about to explain, once again, the difference between aspiration and arithmetic.
"Prime Minister," Chetty began, adjusting his spectacles with the deliberate movements of someone preparing to deliver uncomfortable news, "I have reviewed the proposals approved by the House today with my staff. The creation of the National Health Authority, the Central Drugs Standard Control Organisation, the Food Safety and Standards Authority, and the Indian Council of Medical Research—together with the capitalization of the Life Insurance Corporation of India—these represent the most ambitious expansion of state capacity since independence. Perhaps the most ambitious in our entire history as a civilization."
He paused, consulting a leather-bound notebook filled with calculations written in his precise hand.
"The initial capitalization for LICI alone requires approximately fifteen crore rupees to establish offices in all major cities, train insurance agents, develop actuarial capacity, and create the administrative infrastructure necessary to function as a national insurance provider. The pharmaceutical public sector undertaking you are proposing—assuming we wish it to be competitive rather than merely symbolic—will require another twenty to twenty-five crore for manufacturing facilities, quality control laboratories, research capacity, and distribution networks."
He looked up, his expression apologetic but firm.
"And this is before we address the operational costs of the regulatory authorities, before we fund the research institutions under ICMR, before we build the laboratories required for food and drug testing across every province. We are discussing expenditures that could exceed fifty crore rupees in the first year alone, with ongoing costs that will only increase as these institutions mature and expand their mandates."
The silence that followed was heavy with the weight of fiscal reality confronting political ambition. In a nation still reeling from partition's economic devastation, where the treasury struggled to pay basic administrative salaries, where military expenditures consumed an ever-larger share of the budget, fifty crore rupees represented resources that simply did not exist through conventional means.
Anirban did not look discouraged. If anything, his expression suggested he had expected exactly this assessment and had already begun thinking through solutions.
"Then we must be creative, Finance Minister," he said quietly. "We must find resources where others see only constraints. We must build capacity not through treasury allocations alone but through strategic acquisitions, partnerships, and the intelligent deployment of capital that already exists but is currently serving foreign interests rather than Indian development."
Saraswati leaned forward, her fingers interlaced in a gesture that suggested she had been waiting for exactly this moment to present an idea she had been developing.
"Prime Minister, if I may—there is an opportunity presenting itself that we should not ignore. Several British pharmaceutical firms operating in India are in dire financial condition. The partition has disrupted their supply chains, their British shareholders are eager to divest assets and return home, and their market valuations are depressed because of political uncertainty about India's pharmaceutical policies."
She pulled a document from her folder, sliding it across the table so others could see.
"Specifically, I have been monitoring Glaxo India , Imperial chemical Company, Burroughs and Boots Pure Drug Company. They have manufacturing facilities, distribution networks, and technical expertise. Both are vulnerable to acquisition at prices well below their actual productive capacity because their parent companies in London are prioritizing capital preservation over long-term market presence."
Patel's eyes narrowed with interest, recognizing immediately where this was heading.
"You are proposing that the government purchase these firms outright and convert them into the core of our public sector pharmaceutical undertaking?"
"Precisely," Saraswati confirmed. "Rather than building manufacturing capacity from nothing—which would take years and cost far more—we acquire existing facilities, retain the technical staff who know how to operate them, and transition ownership to the Indian state. We gain immediate production capacity, trained workers, established supply relationships with hospitals and dispensaries, and proven formulations for essential medicines."
Ambedkar spoke for the first time since the meeting began, his voice carrying the particular authority of someone who understood both legal structures and social realities.
"This is elegant in its simplicity. The British firms wish to exit India before our regulatory environment becomes too restrictive for their comfort. We wish to establish pharmaceutical production capacity without the delays of greenfield construction. The transaction serves both parties while advancing our strategic objective of medicine security and price control."
Chetty was already calculating, his pen moving rapidly across his notebook.
"If we can negotiate acquisitions at distressed valuations—and given the current political climate, we likely can—we might establish a functional pharmaceutical PSU for perhaps twelve to fifteen crore rupees rather than the twenty-five I had estimated for new construction. That represents significant savings and, more importantly, immediate operational capacity."
"There is also Bengal Chemical," Saraswati continued, warming to her theme now that she saw the Cabinet engaging seriously with the proposal. "It is India's first pharmaceutical company, established in 1893, with proven technical expertise in producing medicines adapted to Indian conditions. It is currently privately held but struggling financially due to partition disruptions in Bengal. The government could acquire a substantial stake—perhaps forty to fifty percent initially—providing capital for modernization while maintaining private sector efficiency and innovation."
She looked around the table, ensuring everyone followed her logic.
"This mixed model serves multiple purposes. Full government ownership of the acquired British facilities gives us price control and guaranteed supply of essential medicines. Partial ownership of Bengal Chemical preserves entrepreneurial management while aligning the company's interests with public health objectives. Together, they form the foundation of what we might call Hindustan Antibiotics Limited and Indian Drugs and Pharmaceuticals Limited—two entities that can compete with each other to drive innovation while both serving the broader mandate of medicine security."
Anirban smiled, recognizing in Saraswati's proposal the same pragmatic idealism that had characterized Subhas Bose's approach to organization—using existing structures rather than building entirely new ones, converting British assets to Indian purposes, maintaining competitive dynamics even within public sector frameworks to prevent the inefficiency that plagued pure monopolies.
"Draft the acquisition proposals," he instructed. "Finance Minister, work with Dr. Sinha and Dr. Kaur to determine the optimal capital structure. I want those British firms in Indian hands before their parent companies fully grasp what we are building here. Once our pharmaceutical policies are public and our regulatory framework is established, they will recognize the value of their Indian assets and the price will rise accordingly. We move now, while uncertainty depresses valuations."
Chetty nodded, already making notes about which financial instruments could be deployed, which accounts could be tapped, which international loans might be secured using India's improving creditworthiness as collateral.
Rajkumari Amrit Kaur had been listening to the pharmaceutical discussion with satisfaction, pleased that the infrastructure for medicine security was taking concrete shape. But as the conversation appeared to be concluding, she raised a hand, her expression suggesting she had been waiting for the appropriate moment to introduce a different concern.
"Prime Minister, there is another category of health crisis that we have not yet addressed—one that kills as surely as any disease but which we currently profit from rather than prevent. I speak of tobacco consumption, of alcoholic beverages, of substances that generate tax revenue while destroying public health."
The room's attention shifted immediately. This was delicate territory, touching on personal freedoms, cultural practices, economic interests, and the uncomfortable reality that the government derived substantial revenue from products it knew to be harmful.
"Tobacco alone," Kaur continued, "kills millions globally and hundreds of thousands in India annually. Yet we tax it lightly, regulate it minimally, and allow advertising that portrays smoking as sophisticated rather than suicidal. Alcohol consumption contributes to domestic violence, liver disease, accidents, and social disruption. Yet prohibition has proven unworkable—we learned that painful lesson—and moderate taxation generates revenue we desperately need."
She looked around the table, her expression conveying the moral weight of the dilemma.
"We cannot simply ban these products—we attempted that with alcohol in some provinces and created black markets that enriched criminals while impoverishing treasuries. But neither can we continue the current approach of minimal taxation and weak regulation. We need a middle path, one that acknowledges the reality of consumption while creating financial incentives for reduction and dedicating the revenue to mitigating the health consequences."
Saraswati's eyes lit with recognition, seeing immediately where this could lead if properly structured. She sat forward, her posture shifting from listener to active participant.
"If I may, Prime Minister—there is a mechanism that addresses exactly this dilemma, one that has been implemented with some success in Scandinavian countries. We could establish what might be called a Sin Tax framework, a separate category of taxation applied to products with demonstrated negative health externalities."
Chetty's expression shifted from wary to genuinely interested, the look of a Finance Minister who had just heard the phrase "new revenue source" connected to a defensible policy rationale.
"Sin Tax?" he asked, his tone suggesting he was already calculating potential yields. "Please elaborate, Dr. Sinha."
Saraswati organized her thoughts, recognizing that this required careful explanation to avoid appearing either puritanical or fiscally opportunistic.
"The principle is straightforward. Tobacco and alcohol consumption impose significant costs on society—healthcare expenditures for related diseases, lost productivity from addiction and illness, social costs from violence and family disruption. Currently, consumers do not bear these full costs. The tax structure should internalize these externalities, making the price of consumption reflect its true social cost."
She pulled out a sheet of paper and began sketching a framework.
"We implement a graduated tax schedule, starting modestly to avoid creating black markets or provoking immediate political backlash, but increasing systematically over a decade until it reaches approximately sixty percent of the retail price for tobacco products and comparable levels for alcohol based on potency. This generates substantial revenue while creating economic incentives for reduced consumption."
Patel's eyebrows rose slightly, recognizing both the political courage and the potential controversy of what was being proposed.
"Sixty percent taxation will generate fierce opposition from manufacturers, from consumers who will claim we are imposing moralistic restrictions, from provincial governments that currently derive revenue from alcohol sales. You propose to antagonize multiple constituencies simultaneously."
"Yes," Saraswati acknowledged simply, "which is why the implementation must be gradual, transparent, and coupled with compensatory measures. The tax increases are announced ten years in advance, allowing markets to adjust, consumers to modify behavior, and manufacturers to diversify their products. Critically, the revenue generated does not disappear into general treasury accounts where it can be spent on anything. It is dedicated specifically to the National Health Authority and the Central Board of Education—creating a direct, visible link between the tax and the public benefits it finances."
Ambedkar was nodding slowly, seeing the elegance of the structure.
"You are creating a virtuous cycle, or at least a less vicious one. Consumption of harmful products generates revenue, that revenue funds healthcare for treating the consequences of that consumption and education to reduce future consumption. Over time, either consumption declines—which serves our public health objectives—or it continues but fully finances the infrastructure to manage its consequences. Either outcome is superior to the current situation where we reap minimal tax revenue while bearing substantial social costs."
"Additionally," Saraswati continued, building on Ambedkar's point, "we can extend this framework to insurance premiums. Individuals and families who consume tobacco or excessive alcohol face higher life and health insurance premiums through LICI, reflecting their actuarially higher risk. This creates personal financial incentives for healthier behavior while ensuring that those who impose greater costs on the insurance pool contribute proportionally more to sustain it."
Chetty was calculating rapidly, his pen moving across multiple columns of figures.
"If we conservatively estimate current tobacco and alcohol consumption levels, and if we phase in taxation to reach sixty percent over ten years as proposed, we could generate approximately eight to ten crore rupees annually by the end of that period—potentially more if consumption does not decline as sharply as public health advocates hope. Dedicated to health and education infrastructure, that represents a sustainable funding stream that grows with population and economic development."
He looked up, his expression suggesting he had moved from skepticism to cautious enthusiasm.
"This could work, Prime Minister. It addresses multiple objectives simultaneously—revenue generation, public health improvement, insurance pool sustainability—while maintaining political defensibility through the earmarking of funds for education and healthcare."
Saraswati allowed herself a small smile, recognizing that the Cabinet was now sufficiently engaged with the Sin Tax framework to accept the more audacious element of her proposal.
"There is one additional component that transforms this from merely clever taxation into genuine strategic repositioning. Prime Minister, you are aware of the Imperial Tobacco Company of India—ITC—which currently holds near-monopoly control of tobacco production, processing, and distribution throughout the subcontinent."
Anirban nodded, his expression suggesting he knew exactly where this was heading and was prepared to support it despite the political complications.
"ITC operates the most sophisticated agricultural supply chain in India," Saraswati continued, her voice carrying the enthusiasm of someone presenting a solution she had spent considerable time developing. "Their distribution network reaches from metropolitan centers to remote villages. They have established relationships with thousands of farmers, processing facilities across multiple provinces, transportation logistics that move products efficiently despite India's infrastructure limitations, and brand recognition that makes them perhaps the most valuable commercial entity in the tobacco sector."
She paused for emphasis.
"They are also, at this precise moment, vulnerable to acquisition. Partition has disrupted their operations, their British parent company is facing pressure from shareholders to divest colonial assets and focus on domestic markets, and our pending regulatory frameworks—particularly the Sin Tax structure we just discussed—will significantly devalue their stock price once markets fully understand the implications."
Patel's eyes narrowed, his expression shifting from interested to calculating.
"You propose that the government acquire a controlling stake in ITC? That we become, in effect, the primary tobacco merchant in India while simultaneously taxing tobacco consumption at punitive rates?"
"Yes," Saraswati said simply, meeting his gaze without flinching. "And I recognize the apparent contradiction. But consider the strategic logic. If we impose Sin Taxes without controlling production and distribution, we create incentives for smuggling, black markets, and adulteration—exactly the problems we are trying to solve with FSSAI. If we control the dominant producer, we can ensure quality standards are maintained even as prices rise, we can manage the transition away from tobacco dependency in a controlled manner, and most critically, we can repurpose ITC's infrastructure for objectives that serve public welfare rather than merely generating private profit."
She pulled out another document, this one a detailed analysis of ITC's business divisions.
"ITC is not solely a tobacco company, though that remains their dominant revenue source. They also operate paper manufacturing facilities, possess extensive agricultural expertise that could be applied to food crops rather than tobacco, and maintain logistics networks that represent precisely the kind of distribution capacity our public sector currently lacks."
Her voice gained intensity as she outlined the vision.
"We acquire a controlling stake—fifty-one percent or more—while ITC's valuation is depressed by political uncertainty. We install management committed to gradual transformation rather than pure profit maximization. And over the decade during which Sin Taxes are rising, we systematically shift ITC's business model from tobacco dependency to diversified consumer goods production, with particular emphasis on products aligned with our education and development objectives."
Ambedkar leaned forward, intrigued despite the obvious complications.
"You are describing corporate transformation on a massive scale, Dr. Sinha. What specifically would you have ITC produce instead of tobacco?"
Saraswati's smile widened, suggesting she had been hoping someone would ask exactly that question.
"Paper products, primarily—specifically, the paper, notebooks, pencils, pens, and other stationary supplies that will be required in enormous quantities once our Right to Education framework is fully implemented. ITC already possesses paper manufacturing capacity developed to produce cigarette packaging and rolling papers. That same infrastructure can be repurposed to produce educational materials."
She looked at Anirban, knowing he would immediately grasp the elegance of what she was proposing.
"We create a new division within ITC—I would suggest naming it something aspirational, perhaps Classmate—dedicated to producing affordable, high-quality stationary and educational supplies. The Central Board of Education becomes their anchor client, purchasing millions of notebooks, pens, pencils, geometry sets, art supplies, and other materials needed to equip schools nationwide. ITC's distribution network, which currently delivers cigarettes to every corner of India, instead delivers educational supplies to schools in remote villages."
The implications rippled across the table as each person recognized different aspects of the proposal's strategic brilliance.
"The CBE procures these materials at scale," Saraswati continued, "achieving cost efficiencies through volume purchasing and guaranteed multi-year contracts. ITC gains a stable revenue stream that replaces the tobacco income that will decline as Sin Taxes rise and consumption falls. And critically, the educational supplies are provided free of cost to students—removing one of the significant barriers to school attendance for poor families who currently cannot afford to purchase the notebooks and pencils their children need."
Anirban spoke for the first time since Saraswati had begun outlining the ITC proposal, his voice carrying quiet satisfaction.
"It means the profits currently extracted from tobacco addiction—profits that destroy health while enriching shareholders—are redirected toward education that expands opportunity. It means infrastructure built to distribute one kind of dependency is repurposed to distribute the tools for intellectual liberation. It means we convert a colonial corporation serving British stockholders into an instrument of Indian development serving our children's future."
He looked around the table, gauging reactions.
"Dr. Ambedkar, you have been quiet during this discussion. What is your assessment?"
Ambedkar had been sitting with his fingers steepled before his face, his expression thoughtful rather than reactive. When he spoke, his voice carried the weight of someone who had spent decades thinking about how to transform oppressive structures rather than merely opposing them.
"Madam Minister," he said, addressing Saraswati directly, "you are proposing something quite remarkable—and potentially quite dangerous if not managed with extreme care. You ask that we become tobacco merchants while taxing tobacco consumption, that we profit from addiction while funding education to prevent it, that we use the mechanisms of exploitation to finance liberation."
He paused, letting the inherent tension in that formulation settle.
"Critics will say this is hypocrisy, that we cannot claim moral authority while selling cigarettes through state-owned enterprises. They will protest that Sin Taxes are regressive, falling most heavily on the poor who are most likely to consume tobacco and least able to bear additional financial burdens. They will argue that controlling ITC makes us complicit in the harm tobacco causes, that government ownership legitimizes rather than discourages consumption."
Saraswati nodded, acknowledging the validity of these concerns rather than dismissing them.
"All of those criticisms have merit," she said quietly. "I am not proposing this because it is morally simple or politically comfortable. I am proposing it because the alternatives are worse. If we do not control tobacco production and distribution, if we impose taxes without managing supply, we create black markets that enrich criminals while providing no quality standards or tax revenue. If we do not acquire ITC now while it is vulnerable, foreign capital will—and we will have surrendered strategic control of a critical agricultural commodity to shareholders whose only interest is maximizing dividends regardless of social consequences."
Her voice strengthened.
"The Sin Tax framework is transparent and predictable—consumers and producers have ten years' notice of how taxation will evolve, allowing behavioral adjustment and business planning. The revenues are earmarked for health and education, creating visible benefits that justify the burden. And the gradual transformation of ITC from tobacco dependency to educational supplies production demonstrates that government can reshape markets to serve public welfare without simply banning products or destroying industries."
Ambedkar nodded slowly, his expression suggesting he had reached a conclusion.
"I find the proposal defensible, though it will require constant vigilance to prevent the kind of corruption and mission drift that often plague public sector enterprises. You must ensure that ITC management understands their mandate is transformation, not profit maximization—that their success will be measured not by cigarette sales but by the speed and smoothness of transition to alternative products. You must ensure that Sin Tax revenues are genuinely dedicated to health and education rather than quietly diverted to general expenditures when budget pressures mount."
He looked at Anirban.
"If those safeguards are built into the governance structure—if we create accountability mechanisms that survive political transitions and bureaucratic entropy—then yes, I support this approach. It is pragmatic idealism of the kind we need more of."
Patel, who had been listening with the particular attention of someone assessing political risks and operational feasibility, finally spoke.
"The question is not whether this makes strategic sense—Dr. Sinha has made that case convincingly. The question is whether we can actually execute it without triggering the multiple crises this could easily provoke. We would be simultaneously challenging tobacco manufacturers' profits, imposing new taxes on millions of consumers, acquiring a major corporation for state ownership, and committing to industrial transformation on a scale we have never attempted."
His tone was not dismissive but cautionary, the voice of someone who had spent decades turning ambitious ideas into functioning realities and knew exactly how many ways implementation could fail.
"We need a sequencing strategy. We cannot announce all of this simultaneously without overwhelming our capacity to manage the political and administrative consequences. What do we do first, and in what order do the subsequent steps follow?"
Saraswati had clearly thought about this as well, recognizing that even the most elegant policy framework was meaningless without an implementation plan that accounted for political realities and administrative capacity.
"First," she said, organizing her thoughts, "we quietly begin negotiations to acquire controlling stakes in the distressed British pharmaceutical firms we discussed earlier—Glaxo India and Boots Pure Drug. These acquisitions should be portrayed as securing medicine production capacity, which is defensible and largely uncontroversial. The transactions can be completed within three months if we move decisively."
"Second, while those pharmaceutical acquisitions are being finalized, we approach Bengal Chemical about a partial stake purchase. This provides them capital for modernization while giving us influence over pricing and production priorities. Again, this is defendable as securing pharmaceutical capacity and can be accomplished relatively quickly."
"Third, once the pharmaceutical PSUs are established and functioning—perhaps six months from now—we announce the Sin Tax framework. The timing is critical. We wait until the broader health infrastructure is visibly being built, so the tax increase can be credibly linked to funding the National Health Authority and education rather than appearing as pure revenue extraction. The ten-year phase-in gives markets time to adjust and reduces shock."
"Fourth, only after the Sin Tax framework is public and markets have absorbed its implications—when ITC's stock price has declined accordingly—do we move to acquire the controlling stake in ITC. At that point, the acquisition looks like a rescue operation, the government stepping in to stabilize a company whose business model is being disrupted by our regulatory changes. We announce simultaneously our commitment to transforming ITC into a diversified consumer goods company with particular focus on educational supplies production."
She looked around the table.
"This sequencing manages political risk by breaking a potentially overwhelming set of changes into digestible phases, each of which can be justified on its own merits. It manages financial risk by acquiring assets when their valuations are most favorable to our negotiating position. And it manages administrative risk by not overwhelming our limited bureaucratic capacity with too many simultaneous transformations."
Chetty was nodding with increasing confidence, recognizing a plan that accounted for both fiscal realities and political constraints.
"This is manageable, Prime Minister. The pharmaceutical acquisitions require perhaps twelve to fifteen crore in total—substantial but not impossible to raise through strategic borrowing and asset sales elsewhere. The ITC acquisition will depend on market conditions when we move, but if we time it correctly for maximum valuation depression, we might secure controlling stake for another fifteen to twenty crore. Total capital requirement of approximately thirty crore spread across nine to twelve months, with the LICI capitalization providing returns that begin offsetting these expenditures within the first year."
He consulted his notes again.
"The Sin Tax revenues will not be substantial immediately—perhaps two crore in the first year, rising gradually to eight or ten crore by year ten as the tax rates reach their target levels. But combined with the insurance premium revenues flowing through LICI, we create a sustainable funding stream for health and education that does not depend on annual budget appropriations subject to political pressure."
Anirban stood, moving to the window where the evening lights of Delhi were beginning to glow against the darkening sky. He was quiet for a long moment, processing the proposals, weighing the risks against the potential transformations being offered.
"We are designing, in this room, over these past few days, a welfare architecture that transforms the relationship between citizen and state," he said finally, his voice reflective. "No longer will health be a privilege available only to those who can afford private care. No longer will medicine quality depend on a consumer's ability to distinguish legitimate pharmaceuticals from dangerous counterfeits. No longer will education require parents to choose between feeding their children and equipping them with notebooks and pencils."
He turned back to face the table.
"But we are also designing—let us be honest about this—mechanisms of state control that would have been unthinkable under British rule. We propose to control pharmaceutical production, to regulate food safety with unprecedented authority, to own the dominant tobacco company while taxing tobacco consumption, to acquire insurance companies and direct their investments toward state-determined priorities. We are building, in effect, a mixed economy where the state does not simply regulate markets but actively participates in them as producer, insurer, and gatekeeper."
His gaze moved across each face at the table.
"This will work only if we maintain the discipline Dr. Ambedkar rightly emphasized—if these state enterprises serve public welfare rather than becoming patronage machines, if these regulatory authorities enforce standards rather than selling exemptions, if the revenues we dedicate to health and education actually reach those purposes rather than being quietly redirected when politically convenient."
He returned to his seat.
"I support everything that has been proposed here. The pharmaceutical PSUs, the Sin Tax framework, the ITC acquisition and transformation, the dedication of revenues to the National Health Authority and Central Board of Education. But I want each of you to understand the weight of responsibility we are assuming. We are not merely creating programs—we are creating institutions that will shape India for generations. If we succeed, we demonstrate that state capacity can serve human welfare. If we fail, we validate every criticism that government enterprises are inherently inefficient and that market forces should be left unregulated."
Saraswati met his eyes, her expression carrying both understanding and determination.
"Prime Minister, failure is not an option we can afford. Too many lives depend on these institutions functioning as designed. So we build them well, we staff them with competence rather than connections, we create accountability mechanisms that survive political transitions, and we accept that perfection is impossible while insisting that excellence is required."
Patel stood as well, his movement signaling that the meeting was reaching its conclusion.
"Then we have our path forward. Finance Minister, begin the quiet negotiations with the British pharmaceutical firms—no public announcements until deals are finalized. Dr. Sinha, draft the formal ITC transformation proposal but hold it until the Sin Tax framework is public and market conditions are favorable. Rajkumari, coordinate with Finance on the LICI capitalization structure. Dr. Ambedkar, work with Parliamentary Counsel on the legislative language for the regulatory authorities—I want the bills ready for introduction within two weeks."
He looked at Anirban.
"And Prime Minister, prepare yourself for the criticism that will come when these proposals become public. We are challenging powerful interests—tobacco manufacturers, alcohol producers, private insurance companies, pharmaceutical importers, food adulterators—every one of whom will claim we are destroying free enterprise and imposing socialist tyranny. The old Congress guard who preferred Nehru will use this as evidence that you are too radical. The business community will threaten capital flight. The opposition will paint this as government overreach."
Anirban smiled faintly.
"Let them. Every criticism will be an opportunity to explain what we are actually building—not socialism, which centralizes ownership of all productive capacity, but a mixed economy where the state ensures that basic welfare is not subject to market failures. Not tyranny, which concentrates power without accountability, but regulated capitalism where markets serve human development rather than mere profit accumulation."
He stood, indicating the meeting's end.
"We build this carefully, transparently, with public accountability at every stage. We build it to last beyond any of our lifetimes. And we build it to prove that India can govern itself with competence that rivals any Western democracy while maintaining values of social welfare that capitalism alone would never provide."
As the Cabinet members gathered their papers and prepared to depart, each carrying assignments that would consume the coming weeks, Anirban remained standing by the window, watching Delhi's lights spread across the darkening landscape like stars being born from the void.
The architecture of care was taking shape—not through rhetoric or idealism alone, but through the hard work of institutional design, financial engineering, strategic acquisition, and political courage. Within a single week, they had created frameworks for universal healthcare, pharmaceutical security, food safety, education expansion, and now the transformation of harmful industries into instruments of public welfare.
It was ambitious to the point of audacity. It was risky to the point of recklessness. It would provoke opposition from multiple directions simultaneously.
And yet, Anirban thought as the last Cabinet member departed and he was left alone with his thoughts and his memories of a future that would not exist, it was exactly what this moment demanded. India did not have the luxury of incrementalism, of slowly building capacity over generations while children died from preventable diseases and malnutrition. India needed transformation now, implemented with the urgency of people who understood that every day wasted was a life lost.
He returned to his desk, pulling out a fresh sheet of paper, and began drafting the speech he would deliver when these proposals faced their inevitable challenges in Parliament and in public discourse. The words came easily, flowing from the doubled consciousness of someone who had lived through one future's failures and was determined to build something better in this timeline.
"The question before us," he wrote, "is not whether government should intervene in markets, but whether intervention serves human welfare or merely transfers power from private monopolies to public ones. The answer lies not in ideology but in design—in creating institutions with clear mandates, transparent operations, and accountability mechanisms that prevent the corruption that destroyed trust in both colonial administration and market capitalism."
He paused, considering the weight of what they had just committed to building.
Then he continued writing, the fountain pen moving steadily across paper, designing the rhetorical defense for an architecture of care that would either transform India or become another monument to ambitious failure.
Outside, Delhi slept—exhausted from the day's work, unconscious of the decisions being made in its name, trusting that those who governed would govern well.
Anirban intended to earn that trust, one institution at a time.
The algorithm had been given better input.
Now came the execution that would determine whether input became output, whether vision became reality, whether India's architecture of care would stand the test of time and need.