The morning sun streamed through the tall windows of what would soon officially become the Prime Minister's office, painting everything in shades of gold and amber.
Arjun Mehra stood there, staring out at the red sandstone magnificence of Rashtrapati Bhavan, still trying to wrap his head around the absolute insanity of his situation.
August 15th, 1947. Independence Day. A date every Indian kid learned in school, a date that was supposed to be fixed in history, unchangeable, already written. Except here he was, somehow standing in the middle of it, about to change everything.
His reflection in the glass looked wrong. The face was different, younger, belonging to this time period. But behind those eyes was still him, still Dr. Arjun Mehra, the historian who had made a career out of tearing apart the mistakes of post independence India.
The man who had literally been giving a lecture about constitutional betrayals just before a truck had decided to make a very permanent counterargument.
The cosmic joke of it all was almost too much. Yesterday, if you could even call it yesterday when you were talking about time travel or reincarnation or whatever the hell this was, he had been criticizing every decision made during these crucial years. Today, he was apparently in a position to actually do something about it.
But that was not even the strangest part. The strangest part was the knowledge.
When he had first woken up in this body, in this time, he had expected to have his historical knowledge intact. That made sense, or as much sense as any of this made.
He knew the political timeline, the wars, the policy disasters, all the ways India had stumbled and fallen in the decades ahead. That was his specialty. That was what he had spent fifteen years studying with his freakishly perfect memory.
What he had not expected was everything else.
Suddenly, his brain was crammed full of information he had never studied, never even thought about. Advanced mathematics that would not be discovered for decades. Computer science concepts that would not exist until the digital age.
Scientific principles, engineering techniques, technological blueprints that belonged to the twenty first century. It was like someone had downloaded the entire knowledge base of modern civilization into his head and said, "Here, have fun with that."
He rubbed his temples, still getting used to the sheer weight of it all. So this is what they mean when they talk about divine intervention, he thought. Because there was no way this was natural. No way this was just some weird accident of the universe.
This was a gift. A very specific, very purposeful gift.
And he had a sinking feeling it was not his only one.
The door behind him creaked open, the old hinges announcing a visitor before the voice did. "Prime Minister Sahib."
Arjun turned around to find Krishna Menon standing in the doorway, looking every bit the intellectual socialist revolutionary that history remembered him as.
In his original timeline, Arjun had written an entire chapter about Menon, about how his brilliant mind had been consistently undermined by his idealistic communist fantasies and his inability to see hard geopolitical realities.
But that was the future Menon. This Menon still had potential. This Menon could maybe, possibly, be guided toward something more useful than the disaster he was destined to become.
"The Cabinet is assembled," Menon continued, his tone formal, respectful, everything you would expect when addressing the new Prime Minister. "We must discuss the integration of the princely states."
Right. The princely states. That whole mess where hundreds of technically independent kingdoms had to be convinced, cajoled, or occasionally coerced into joining either India or Pakistan. In the original timeline, it had been a messy, complicated process that had taken years and left wounds that never quite healed.
Arjun moved away from the window, his mind already racing through everything he knew about what was coming. "Before we go into the Cabinet meeting," he said, his voice carrying an authority that surprised even him, "I need to see the current intelligence reports. Kashmir, Hyderabad, Junagadh. Everything we have. Every single detail."
Menon's eyebrows shot up. Whatever he had been expecting from the new Prime Minister on independence day, it apparently was not this. "Sir, should we not first address the celebration plans? The nation is expecting speeches, ceremonies. There are protocols..."
"The nation is expecting us to not screw this up," Arjun interrupted, walking over to the massive mahogany desk that had belonged to the Viceroy until literally yesterday. The symbolism was not lost on him. Indian leader, British furniture, and a future that was about to go very differently than everyone expected.
He looked at Menon directly, making sure the man understood he was serious. "Krishna ji, I am going to tell you something that is going to sound strange. Maybe even crazy. But I need you to trust me on this."
Menon said nothing, just waited, his expression carefully neutral.
"We have less than three months," Arjun continued, "before Pakistan tries to take Kashmir by force. They are going to use tribal raiders, make it look unofficial, but it will be a planned military operation. Hyderabad's Nizam is already talking to Pakistan about joining them instead of us. And Junagadh? The Nawab is going to announce accession to Pakistan within weeks, maybe days."
The silence that followed was heavy. Menon's face went through several expressions, starting with surprise, moving through skepticism, and landing somewhere around deeply concerned confusion. "Sir, how can you possibly know these things with such certainty? These are very specific predictions."
Arjun had spent most of the sleepless night preparing for exactly this question. You could not just tell people you were from the future. They would think you were insane. You had to give them something they could accept, something that made sense within their framework of reality.
"Tell me something, Krishna ji," he said, leaning against the desk. "If you were leading Pakistan right now, what would you do? You have just gotten your Muslim homeland, but it is divided, weak, economically fragile. You need legitimacy, you need strategic depth, you need to prove that partition was the right choice. What would you do?"
Menon was quiet for a moment, his analytical mind clearly working through the scenario. "I would... I would try to secure the Muslim majority princely states. Use them to strengthen the two nation theory, to justify the partition."
"Exactly," Arjun said. "And which states fit that profile? Kashmir, with its Muslim majority population and strategic location. Hyderabad, the largest and richest princely state with a Muslim ruler. Junagadh, small but symbolically important. It is not prophecy, Krishna ji. It is just understanding human nature and geopolitical incentives."
It was a good answer, logical enough to be believable. Menon nodded slowly, though Arjun could see he was not entirely convinced. That was fine. Convincing him completely would come with time, with results.
"But sir," Menon said, "Mountbatten's integration plan suggests a more gradual approach. He believes we should give the princes time to make their decisions, avoid appearing aggressive..."
"Mountbatten's plan serves British interests," Arjun cut him off, sharper than he intended. "His loyalty is to the Crown, not to India. Never forget that. He is here to manage our independence in a way that protects British strategic concerns. We cannot afford to follow his timeline. We need to act fast, act decisively, and act in our own interests, not his."
They walked together toward the Cabinet room, and with every step, Arjun felt the weight of what he was about to attempt settle more heavily on his shoulders. In his original timeline, India had fought wars in 1947, 1962, 1965, and 1971.
Thousands dead, billions spent, territory lost and regained and lost again. All because of poor planning, weak leadership, and idealistic policies that ignored hard realities.
The partition riots had killed over a million people, maybe more. The economic policies of the first two decades had left India poor while other Asian nations raced ahead.
And worst of all, the dream of Akhand Bharat, of a truly united India that included all the territories that rightfully belonged to the civilization, had been abandoned almost before it began.
But here, now, with knowledge of what was coming and the power to actually do something about it, maybe things could be different.
The Cabinet room was buzzing with nervous energy when they entered. Ministers from across the political spectrum had gathered, all of them looking simultaneously excited and terrified about what came next.
Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel sat at the table, his expression stern, his reputation as the Iron Man of India already well established. Maulana Azad looked contemplative, stroking his beard. The younger ministers were practically vibrating with eagerness mixed with uncertainty.
Interestingly, conspicuously, Nehru was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Gandhi.
Arjun filed that information away for later consideration as he took his seat at the head of the table. Power moves started with small things like seating arrangements, and he was not about to give up the psychological advantage.
"Gentlemen," he began, looking at each of them in turn, "we are standing at a crossroads. Not just for our immediate future, but for the entire trajectory of our civilization for the next hundred years, the next thousand years.
The British have given us political independence. That is just step one. But true freedom, real freedom, which economic, military, and cultural freedom, that is still something we have to win for ourselves."
He let that sink in for a moment, watching their faces. These were capable men, most of them. But they were also proud men, ideological men, men with egos that could fill rooms.
Managing them was going to require every bit of diplomatic skill he had learned from studying their historical counterparts, from understanding how they thought, what motivated them, what scared them.
"Sardar Patel ji," he continued, turning to the Iron Man himself, "I am placing the integration of the princely states under your direct command. Unlimited resources, unlimited authority, and one clear mandate.
By December 31st of this year, every single square inch of territory that rightfully belongs to India must be flying our tricolor. No exceptions. No compromises. Not for the Nawabs who think Islamic brotherhood matters more than Indian sovereignty.
Not for the French who are still squatting in Puducherry. Not for the Portuguese who think they can keep Goa forever. Everyone leaves or everyone joins. Those...are the only two options."
Patel's eyes actually gleamed. This was exactly the kind of clear, unambiguous mandate he thrived on. The man had not gotten the nickname Iron Man by being soft or compromising.
But of course, there was pushback. There was always pushback.
"Prime Minister," Maulana Azad interjected, his voice careful, diplomatic, "what about our commitment to secular principles? Such aggressive action, such forceful integration, might alienate the Muslim population. It might make them feel unwelcome, might confirm Pakistani propaganda that India is a Hindu nation..."
Arjun turned to face him directly. "Maulana sahib, with all due respect, secularism means that all citizens are treated equally under Indian law regardless of their religion. That is what secularism means.
It does not mean, it has never meant, allowing foreign powers to claim Indian territory because they share a religion with some of our people. Our fight is not against Islam. Our fight is not against Muslims. Our fight is against the partition of our motherland, against the division of our very civilization."
The room erupted in murmurs. This was clearly not the passive, idealistic, lets all hold hands and sing approach many of them had expected from Congress leadership.
Arjun pressed forward while he had momentum. "Furthermore, we will be establishing a National Security Council as soon as the immediate crisis is settled. Our intelligence capabilities need to be strengthened immediately. We cannot, we will not, be caught off guard by our neighbors' ambitions ever again."
As the meeting continued, Arjun laid out what must have seemed like a radical, almost revolutionary departure from expected Congress policy. Immediate industrialization focused on heavy machinery and cutting edge technology.
Diplomatic relationships with both the Soviet Union and the United States, playing them against each other while maintaining genuine non alignment, not the fake kind that just meant being weak.
And most controversially, a comprehensive plan to integrate the territories that had been given to Pakistan through a combination of diplomatic pressure, economic incentives, and when necessary, overwhelming military force.
"Prime Minister," Patel said as the meeting was winding down, his voice thoughtful, "your vision is ambitious beyond anything we have discussed before. More ambitious than anything I think most of us even imagined was possible.
But it will require unity among us that goes beyond our personal differences, beyond our ideological disagreements."
Arjun nodded seriously. "Sardar sahib, in the world I am envisioning, India does not just survive the next few decades. India thrives. India becomes what it was always meant to be, what it should have been. But that world, that future, can only be built if we have the courage to take paths that others are too afraid to walk.
The question we have to ask ourselves is simple. Do we want to be remembered as the generation that merely inherited independence from the British? Or do we want to be remembered as the generation that forged a great nation?"
He paused, then added, "Also, Krishna ji, I am leaving the press management to you. Make sure they understand the narrative we want."
As the ministers filed out, each one lost in their own thoughts about the dramatic shift in direction they had just witnessed, Arjun stayed in his seat. Through the window, he could see crowds already gathering for the independence celebrations, their faces bright with hope and joy and expectations they did not even fully understand yet.
He thought about the India he had left behind. His India, his time. Prosperous in many ways, sure. A nuclear power, a growing economy, a voice on the world stage. But still struggling with the wounds of partition, still dreaming about the unity that had been lost.
Still dealing with the institutional rot that had set in during those crucial first decades when the Congress party had slowly transformed the world's oldest continuous civilization into a family business, where dynasty mattered more than merit, where caste and religious vote banks replaced actual development.
But here, right now, with seventy seven years of hindsight compressed into his head and an eidetic memory that let him recall every detail, every statistic, every policy failure, he had a chance to prevent it all. To heal the wounds before they were even inflicted.
To build the institutions properly from the start so they could not be corrupted later.
His vision for India's future was clear, and it was far more ambitious than anything the current leadership could possibly imagine.
Phase one was immediate and obvious. Stop the partition riots through decisive action and overwhelming force. Integrate the princely states completely, no half measures. And most importantly, turn the inevitable war with Pakistan into an opportunity.
When they attacked, and they would, India's response would not be defensive or limited. It would be total. East Bengal would become Bangladesh under Indian protection. Balochistan, Jammu and Kashmir, Khyber, Karachi, Lahore, all of it would come back to India.
Pakistan would be reduced to a landlocked rump state dependent on Indian goodwill just to access the ocean.
Phase two would happen even during the chaos of phase one. India would demand its rightful place on the UN Security Council as a permanent member.
Not as a beggar asking for favors, but as a victor nation that had just liberated vast territories and protected millions of people. The world would have no choice but to accept it.
And during all that chaos, during the confusion of war and territorial integration, unfortunate accidents would happen.
Tragic accidents. Heroic deaths, even. Leaders whose vision was stuck in Gandhian pacifism, whose economic policies were shackled to Nehruvian socialism, they would die serving the nation. Martyrs, all of them. The history books would remember them fondly.
He had spent fifteen years studying how Nehru's idealistic blunders had weakened India at every turn, how Indira's authoritarian socialism had crippled economic growth, how the dynasty had slowly poisoned every institution. Their removal during wartime, framed as noble sacrifice, would be both patriotic and brutally practical.
Phase three was more subtle, more long term. He needed to cultivate a legitimate opposition. Democracy required opposition, or at least the appearance of it. The Hindu Mahasabha was currently fragmented and marginalized, but it could be reformed, reorganized, turned into a real nationalist party.
He would need someone to challenge him publicly while coordinating policy privately. The theater of democracy required genuine seeming opposition, even if that opposition was carefully managed behind the scenes.
The ultimate goal was elegant in its simplicity. Total control disguised as democratic process.
With both the ruling Congress party and the opposition Hindu Mahasabha under his influence, any legislation he desired would pass with exactly the right margins. Not overwhelming majorities that would seem suspicious, but carefully calculated votes that would appear completely legitimate.
When the Lok Sabha and Rajya Sabha were eventually established, the same principle would apply. Bills would pass with 51% when that was appropriate, sometimes 60% for constitutional amendments, always with enough opposition votes to maintain the illusion of genuine democratic debate.
Close votes, dramatic speeches, impassioned arguments, all of it theater, all of it controlled.
The beauty was in the subtlety. Future historians would never suspect that India's greatest legislative achievements, its most important constitutional developments, were all orchestrated by a single mind controlling both sides of every debate.
He would not need to be Emperor when he could be the invisible hand guiding democracy itself.
But first, before any of that, he had to survive. Change, especially radical change, always bred resistance.
And in the corridors of power, resistance did not always come in the form of honest disagreement. Sometimes it came as betrayal. Sometimes it came as assassination. Sometimes it came as carefully orchestrated accidents that looked perfectly natural.
The irony was almost delicious enough to laugh at. He had spent his previous life, his real life, exposing the Congress party's failures, tearing them apart in books and lectures and academic papers. He had made a career out of hating them for their incompetence and their anti national decisions.
And now he was going to use them. Use them as a vehicle, as a tool, as a stepping stone to something far greater than they could imagine.
The party he had despised would unknowingly facilitate the rise of true nationalism under his guidance. Many Congress members, he knew from his historical research, actually harbored nationalist sentiments deep down.
They just lacked the courage to act on them, lacked the vision to see beyond immediate political calculations. He would identify these hidden allies and slowly, carefully, replace the idealistic fools with pragmatic patriots.
The real test was just beginning. But unlike the fumbling, uncertain leaders of the original timeline, he had one massive advantage.
He knew exactly which moves would lead to checkmate.
He just had to survive long enough to make them.