Delhi—Mid-January 1948
The Yamuna's edge had never witnessed such a convergence of grief, power, and unspoken terror.
Three funeral platforms stood side by side, each draped in white, each surrounded by seas of flowers, incense smoke, and soldiers standing unnaturally still, as if a single shift might fracture the fragile order holding the country together. India was not just mourning one leader today—it was burying its conscience in triplicate.
Gandhi.
Jawaharlal Nehru.
Maulana Abul Kalam Azad.
Three pyres had burned on three different nights. Three riverside rites had drawn millions. Now came the united memorial, the ceremony to mark the end of an era and the beginning of something none of them could yet name.
The winter air lay thick with unburnt ghee, sandalwood, and the metallic undercurrent of weapon oil from the soldiers lining the avenue. The crowd was impossibly quiet—lakhs of people pressed together in absolute stillness, as though frightened to disturb the souls drifting upward.
Children were perched on their father's shoulders, old women clutched rosaries, Sikh farmers stood barefoot on the cold earth, Muslim artisans held Qurans wrapped in white cloth, Christians whispered prayers. All of them staring at the three raised platforms where wreaths piled like miniature mountains.
The country had not seen anything like this even during independence. This… this was something closer to civilizational shock.
And at the center of it all stood Anirban Sen.
White khadi from shoulder to ankle, but it did not soften him. If anything, it sharpened his presence—he looked less like a man in mourning and more like a general disguised as a saint. A figure carved from resolve and calculation. He carried the gravitas of tragedy the way a warrior carries a blade—close, familiar, useful.
As he stepped forward to place his wreath before Gandhi's urn, the crowd rippled—not in sound, but in movement, like a field bending in one direction under a sudden gust of wind. Heads bowed. Soldiers straightened. Photographers raised cameras with trembling hands.
It was not respect. It was recognition.
This is the man who would now shape their destiny.
Saraswati Sinha walked beside him, her sari plain white cotton, her expression composed in a way that was almost frightening. There were streaks of sleeplessness beneath her eyes, but no tears. Not here. Not in front of the world. She moved the way a regent moved—someone who understood that grief was a private luxury when the world was burning around her.
Behind them, Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel approached slower, as if carrying the weight of the entire republic on his back. For the first time since independence, even he looked unsteady, not in body but in spirit. His eyes lingered on the three urns like a man silently asking forgiveness.
We failed them. Or perhaps we failed the nation they dreamed of.
The thought gnawed at him, sharper with every breath. Gandhi's bullet wounds had not only ended a life—they had opened fissures inside Patel, exposing a hesitation he had never allowed before. He still believed in the dream of unity, but not in the path it had taken to reach this moment.
He had backed Anirban's policies. Had defended them. Had rationalized every harsh measure as necessary.
Yet standing before three dead giants, Patel felt the first tinges of doubt that could no longer be ignored.
Beyond them, under a canopy of white cloth embroidered with ashoka chakras, Indira Gandhi stood absolutely still.
Widow's white.
Hair tied tightly.
A face carved from grief and steel.
She had wept alone in her House—not in front of the cameras, not in front of the cabinet, and certainly not in front of Anirban Sen. But here, at the combined memorial of her father, her spiritual mentor, and her family's closest friend, she allowed no tears.
If she cried now, it would be taken as weakness.
If she remained cold, it would be interpreted as calculation.
So she chose stillness—something no one could interpret, a neutrality that concealed everything she was learning, everything she was becoming.
She watched Anirban place each wreath with ritualistic precision. Watched the way the generals looked at him with a new reverence. Watch how the Congress old guard flinched when he passed them, the same way prey animals respond when a predator enters the field.
And she thought:
This is not grief for you. This is coronation.
The foreign diplomats stood in a cluster nearby, their expressions somber but their eyes alert. The British High Commissioner held a handkerchief but had not used it. The American chargé d'affaires wore a look of quiet calculation. The Soviet envoy seemed to observe Anirban more than the memorial.
On the outer ring, photographers from Life Magazine, Reuters, AP, and Pravda clicked photos in desperate sequences, knowing this would be front-page history for decades. That in this moment three deaths were reshaping the balance of power not just in Delhi, but across the subcontinent.
And none of them could shake the suspicion—unspoken yet omnipresent—that the timing was too perfect, too convenient, too surgical.
Nehru freed from house arrest.
Exposure increased.
Security relaxed.
And then—
Three assassinations in three nights.
Whispers rustled through the crowd like cold wind:
"Someone wanted them gone."
"Someone benefited."
"Someone knew what was coming."
Some of those whispers dared to ask:
Who is left now, except him?
As the prayers began, a hush fell so absolute that even the Yamuna seemed to hold its flow.
Three clerics—one Hindu priest, one Muslim imam, one Christian bishop—stood at the front.
[•Well Gandhiji a avil believer of Christ, so I add Christians Bishop]
The priest began first, voice trembling but clear:
"Let there be peace upon their souls, who carried the weight of our awakening."
The imam followed, reciting verses that echoed across the crowd:
"From God we come, and to God we return."
The bishop read a passage on forgiveness, though his voice grew strained mid-sentence, as if unsure whether forgiveness was something possible anymore in a land soaked in blood.
While they spoke, Anirban remained utterly still. Only his jaw moved as he clenched and unclenched it. Patel noticed. So did Indira. So did Mountbatten.
It wasn't grief.
It was calculation interrupted by ritual.
When his turn came to speak, the nation leaned forward.
Anirban stepped before the microphones, the winter sun catching the edge of his profile. His voice came low at first, the kind that forced everyone to lean in.
"Today, India bids farewell to three lights that once guided our trembling steps into freedom."
He paused, letting silence fill with its own gravity.
"And today, we stand at a crossroads."
A murmur rippled. Even the wind seemed to stop.
"We may choose to be a nation of sorrow," he continued, "or we may choose to be a nation of strength. Our enemies believe we will collapse under the weight of our grief."
His eyes flicked, just for a fraction, toward the west.
Pakistan.
Several reporters scribbled furiously.
"They believe that by striking at our leaders, by attacking our soul, they can break us."
Indira's breath caught—in anger, not agreement. It was too convenient, too neatly framed. But she said nothing.
Anirban continued:
"But India does not break."
The crowd roared—not in sound, but in vibration, a trembling of a hundred thousand feet pressed into the earth.
"India remembers. India rises. And India answers."
The soldiers behind him stiffened. Patel inhaled sharply.
This was not a eulogy.
This was a declaration.
A declaration that the era of moral restraint, of gentle philosophies, of turning the other cheek died along with the three men whose urns rested before them.
Anirban raised one hand, the gesture impossibly controlled.
"For Gandhi, we will fight for justice.
For Nehru, we will defend our borders.
For Azad, we will guard our unity."
"And we will not rest."
His voice deepened.
"We will not rest until every threat to this newly-free nation has been extinguished."
Cameras clicked like gunfire.
Indira's fingers curled—she recognized a political masterclass when she heard one. This was how narratives were created. How nations were steered. And how enemies were chosen.
Anirban stepped back.
The silence he left behind was heavier than any applause.
Patel moved forward next, struggling to hold his own voice steady. He spoke of brotherhood, of dreams unfinished, of the India they had all believed they were building. But the words fell into a void, overshadowed by what had just been declared.
Something inside him recoiled as he spoke.
Something inside him whispered: We have crossed a line.
But he could not pull the nation back. Not now. Not with Lahore, Sialkot, and Kasur hanging in the balance. Not with armies already moving.
Saraswati Sinha spoke after him. Her speech was quieter, more philosophical, yet it carried an undercurrent of inevitability—as though she, too, recognized that the story of India was being rewritten today.
When she finished, the crowd parted as if compelled by something unseen.
Indira stepped forward.
Her presence was a disruption. A reminder. A challenge. The daughter of the man whose shadow had dominated India for decades.
She did not look at Anirban.
He did not look at her.
But every person present felt the electric thread between them.
Her voice came calm, steady, unnervingly composed.
"Today, we do not mourn only our leaders," she said. "We mourn the India they dreamed of. The India they believed we could become. Their deaths demand not vengeance, but vigilance."
Some eyebrows rose.
Patel inhaled sharply.
Mountbatten's eyes flickered.
Anirban's jaw ticked.
She continued:
"Let us not become the very darkness they fought against."
The challenge was unmistakable.
A direct contradiction to Anirban's tone—delivered with perfect grace, framed as homage.
The crowd did not cheer, but it listened.
Listened, and wondered if this young woman—this widow in white—would one day stand opposite the man who now held India's fate in his hands.
She stepped away, offering no glance, no acknowledgment.
Anirban watched her walk back to her place.
A disturbing calm passed behind his eyes.
I see you, it said silently.
And I will deal with you when the time comes.
The ritual flame was lit next, and three braziers were ignited together—symbolic pyres, one last visual unification of the men whose differences had once shaped the republic.
As the flames rose, saffron and gold against the gray sky, chants began—soft at first, then swelling:
"Omi…"
"…"
"Om Shanti Shanti Shanti…"
Never had India's religious diversity sounded so mournful. Or so fragile.
Mountbatten watched the flames and exhaled.
"So this is it," he murmured to his aide. "The moderates are gone."
His aide whispered, "And he"—eyes shifting toward Anirban—"is the one left standing."
At that moment, a pigeon fluttered down near Gandhi's urn, pecking at a fallen petal. A simple motion, yet the crowd gasped, reading omens into every breath of the day.
For a moment, all felt suspended—history holding its breath.
Then—
A runner.
An aide from Military Intelligence.
Sweat despite the cold.
Face pale.
Breath ragged.
He pushed through the first ring of troops, whispering urgently. The officer nodded sharply and guided him through the cordon toward Anirban.
Patel, Saraswati, and Indira all saw him approaching.
The moment cracked.
Something was about to shatter this funeral of saints, this carefully choreographed grief.
The aide reached Anirban.
Whispered.
Just three words.
Anirban's expression did not move.
Not even a millimeter.
But Patel watched the pulse jump in his throat.
Saraswati saw the slight tightening of fingers.
Indira saw the flicker—of triumph? fear? calculation?—behind his eyes.
The urgency of the aide's posture spread through the military ranks like electricity.
For a moment after the aide whispered to Anirban, nothing changed.
The prayers continued, the flames flickered, the flowers trembled softly in the cold breeze. Even the river seemed suspended, its surface holding the reflection of three drifting smoke trails from the ritual braziers.
But those who truly watched him—Patel, Saraswati, Indira, Mountbatten—felt the shift.
Subtle.
Lethal.
Like the way a tiger's muscles tighten before it springs.
Anirban Sen had just received news that would break the day in two.
Only when the aide stepped back, eyes lowered, did Anirban's lips move.
"Understood."
A single word.
Barely more than breath.
But Patel heard it. And fear traveled through his spine like cold metal.
"Anirban," Patel murmured, stepping closer, "What happened?"
Anirban did not answer immediately. Instead, he lifted his gaze to the horizon, toward the faint crimson glow smudging the western sky. It could have been sunset. It could have been a city burning.
Saraswati touched his arm. "Speak."
Only then did he exhale, slow, controlled, almost reverent.
"Lahore…" he said softly, as though delivering scripture. "…has fallen."
Patel froze.
Saraswati inhaled sharply.
Indira's eyes widened despite her iron composure.
Mountbatten stumbled a fraction of a step, his aristocratic mask cracking for the first time that day.
But the crowd—tens of thousands packed across the riverside—could not hear yet. The distance between the leaders and the masses insulated the moment like glass around a flame.
The generals heard.
Their faces hardened.
The cabinet ministers heard.
Their lungs emptied.
And India—symbolic India, grieving India—stood poised on the edge of transformation, from this very moment.
.
.
.
.
And the Ritual Shatters.
The ceremony could not continue. Not in the way it was meant to.
Not when the western border had just changed hands.
A murmur began at the edge of the crowd, soft and confused:
"What's happening?"
"Why are the soldiers moving?"
"Why is the Prime Minister surrounded?"
"Is there danger?"
Uniformed men, previously statues of discipline, snapped into motion. Communications officers rushed in. Runners darted between command clusters. Photographers were shoved back. Foreign diplomats were encircled by their security.
The stillness of mourning gave way to the panic of the unknowable.
A thousand people began whispering at once:
"What happened?"
"What happened?"
"What happened?"
In their uncertainty, the sound grew louder, swelling like a wave hitting a cliff.
That was when Anirban lifted his hand.
He raised it slowly, deliberately—his palm outward, fingers steady.
And the wave died.
As if every throat in the crowd turned to stone.
His voice rose just enough to carry:
"Remain calm. The memorial is not ended. But we have received urgent communication from the front."
The crowd tightened. A collective breath held. No one dared move.
Anirban slowly stepped onto the central platform, the one originally meant for Gandhi's memory. The fire behind him cast an orange halo across his features, turning his shadow into something enormous against the white canopy.
"This is a day of mourning."
His voice was low, grave.
"But it is also a day of destiny being rewritten."
The nation seemed to tremble in anticipation.
"Today, as we honor the souls of our greatest leaders… the Indian Army has brought us news."
Patel flinched.
Indira felt her stomach twist.
Saraswati closed her eyes for one heartbeat, then opened them again with clarity sharpened like a blade.
Anirban continued:
"Where they once marched beside us… they now march with us."
He paused.
"Today, India reclaims Lahore."
The silence that followed was earth-shaking.
Then came the eruption.
Not joy.
Not triumph.
Not outrage.
A raw, primal sound—part disbelief, part vindication, part instinctive fear.
"Lahore??"
"Did he say Lahore??"
"No—no—it cannot be—"
"It's ours?"
"It's ours again?"
"Lahore is Indian??"
The voices collided like storm winds.
The river birds scattered.
The diplomats paled.
And Indira closed her eyes.
She had known something was coming—everyone had. The pattern of the last month, the selective provocations, the mobilizations disguised as winter exercises… it was all pointing toward this moment.
But she had hoped—prayed—that it would not happen during the funeral. That Anirban wouldn't weaponize grief openly, this efficiently.
Yet here he was.
Crowning himself in ashes.
Patel Breaks, Quietly.
"Sardarji," Anirban said softly, turning just enough to meet Patel's eyes. "I need you beside me."
But Patel felt the ground drifting beneath him.
Lahore.
Lahore.
The word repeated in his head, accompanied by images of Punjab aflame during Partition. Of trains arriving with only refugee. Of refugees screaming. Of Gandhi pleading for peace. Of Nehru at the border yelling for sanity while the world tore itself apart.
And now…
the city was Indian again.
But not through diplomacy.
Not through ideals.
Not through the dream of peaceful coexistence.
Through war.
Through the very brutality Gandhi had given his life to oppose. Through the very ruthlessness Nehru had cautioned against. Through the very tactics Azad feared would divide India forever.
Patel felt specters gathering.
Was this justice?
Or was this vengeance?
He did not know anymore.
But he stepped forward. Because he had to. Because history did not allow him the luxury of doubt.
Indira stepped down from her platform and approached the cluster of leaders.
No one spoke to her.
No one touched her.
No one even acknowledged her.
But everyone felt her.
Anirban noticed her approach in his periphery—she saw the way his shoulders straightened, the slight raise of chin, the flicker of smugness he hid beneath solemnity.
He planned this, she realized.
He wanted the funeral and the conquest to merge into one narrative.
The narrative that Gandhi's death justified war.
That Nehru's death required retaliation.
That Azad's death demanded unity under a single, unyielding leadership.
Under him.
Indira's hands curled into fists.
She did not speak.
Not yet.
But her eyes said everything:
I see what you are doing.
And one day, I will break you for it.
Anirban held her gaze for a brief, charged moment.
Saraswati Sinha did not allow sentiment to cloud her mind.
Her gaze swept over the crowd, the soldiers, the diplomats, the camera crews.
She saw what Anirban saw:
A nation in shock, ready to be shaped.
She also saw what he didn't—or refused to notice:
The first signs of fracture in Indira Gandhi.
The first tremors of doubt in Sardar Patel.
The beginnings of a power axis that could one day oppose him.
But that was tomorrow's problem.
Today demanded steel.
She stepped forward, her voice calm, steady, far too composed for a woman who had just mourned three national icons.
"To all citizens," she projected, "remain peaceful. Remain united. Allow the armed forces to conduct necessary operations. The government will make a formal address shortly."
Her tone carried the authority of a queen mother.
The army responded instantly to her voice.
Anirban looked at her with gratitude—not emotional gratitude, but strategic acknowledgment.
She was the only one who could temper the chaos without diluting the momentum.
He needed her.
And she knew it.
Mountbatten Realizes What He Unleashed
Lord Mountbatten stood frozen, his breath forming faint clouds in the cold air.
"Good God," he whispered. "We've created something monstrous."
His aide blinked. "Sir?"
Mountbatten did not take his eyes off Anirban.
"He's using this. Using all of it. The deaths. The grief. The rituals. Every second of this ceremony has been turned into a weapon."
He swallowed.
"And now, with Lahore fallen—he has a myth to match ambition."
"Should we inform London?" his aide asked.
Mountbatten nodded slowly.
"Tell them… India is no longer the fragile, wounded nation they assumed even now."
A beat.
"Tell them we may have just witnessed the rise of a leader the Empire cannot control."
On the other hand The generals formed a tight semicircle around Anirban, shielding him from the crowd.
General Rajendrasinhji's voice came through a radio handset, crackling:
"Prime Minister, our forces hold Lahore Cantonment, Badami Bagh, and the Civil Lines. Resistance collapsed faster than expected."
A pause.
"Pakistani command appears in disarray."
Saraswati's eyes narrowed.
Patel clenched his jaw.
Indira stepped closer, just enough to listen.
"What about casualties?" Anirban asked.
"Moderate," came the reply. "Less than projected."
"And civilian damage?"
"Minimal, sir. The army held everything under discipline."
Patel exhaled softly. That mattered. Even he could feel relief.
Anirban tilted his head.
"What of General Ayub Khan? Akbar Khan? Any sign?"
"Unclear. Intelligence suggests a split. Some units fled. Some surrendered. Some are barricaded but disorganized."
"And the political leadership?"
Another pause.
A longer one.
"Rumors say Liaquat Ali Khan has collapsed. Jinnah is reported gravely ill. Cabinet… scattered."
The generals exchanged glances.
India had not just taken Lahore.
India had decapitated Pakistan without firing a bullet at its political leadership.
Pakistan wasn't losing a city.
Pakistan was dissolving.
The Crowd has already Transforms
Word spread fast.
Like sparks through dry grass.
"Lahore… India has taken Lahore!"
"They've taken it back!"
"Is the war over?"
"No! It's just begun!"
"Will we take Multan next?"
"Will Pakistan surrender?"
The same crowd that had been weeping now surged with adrenaline, fear, anger, hope—all tangled into a feverish electric storm.
Some shouted prayers.
Some shouted patriotic slogans.
Some simply stood, unsure if they were witnessing salvation or the first step into catastrophe.
Families clung together.
Refugees from Partition fell to their knees, sobbing with a release they had waited for since 1947.
Sikhs who had fled Lahore cried openly, shouting their ancestral street names through tears.
"Shah Alami!"
"Mochi Gate!"
"Anarkali!"
"Badshahi Masjid!"
Their voices trembled with memory.
India was reclaiming not just land but ghosts.
Anirban Takes the Command Mantle Fully
He stepped down from the rite and walked straight toward the military command tent set up behind the ceremonial grounds. His movements were fluid, purposeful—no hesitation, no doubt.
Patel and Saraswati followed.
Indira followed too, though at a distance.
Once inside, the world changed.
Maps everywhere.
Radios chattering.
Troops moving in coordinated lines.
This was no funeral space.
This was a war room.
General Thimayya saluted. "Prime Minister, awaiting your directive."
Anirban removed his shawl, folded it carefully, and placed it on the table beside the urns of the three leaders.
He was not the mourner anymore.
He was now Commander-in-Chief.
"First directive," he said, voice like iron. "Secure the territory completely. No retaliatory violence. Protect all civilians. No communal incidents. Every soldier who disobeys is court-martialed."
The generals nodded sharply.
"Second directive: Move to fortify Amritsar, Ferozepur, and Jammu. Prepare humanitarian corridors for refugees. Launch psychological operations in West Punjab."
"Third: Alert Eastern Command. Pakistan may attempt diversionary tactics in Bengal."
"Fourth: Seal the Kashmir passes."
Patel blinked. "You expect Pakistan to counterattack?"
"No," Anirban said.
"I expect Pakistan to collapse."
He lifted his eyes, meeting the gaze of every general.
"And when they do… we must be ready for what comes next."
As the tent cleared.
Indira Confronts Him
Only the two of them remained.
Indira stepped forward.
"You used their deaths," she said quietly. "You used today."
Anirban didn't argue.
"I used the moment," he corrected. "Because moments shape nations."
Her jaw clenched. "You're turning India into something my father warned about."
He stepped closer.
"And you think I did this? That Pakistan's hatred obeys my calculation? That assassins wait for my permission?"
She did not step back.
"You speak of unity," she said, "yet all I see is ambition."
He tilted his head.
"And all I see," he murmured, "is a young woman who thinks grief is strategy. One day, Indira, you might understand the weight of decisions made when the world tries to burn your home."
Her eyes flashed.
Not fear—defiance.
"This isn't over," she whispered.
"No," he agreed. "It's only beginning."
Outside, the crowd surged into chants:
"Bharat Mata ki Jai!"
"Vande Mataram!"
"Lahore! Lahore!"
The river wind carried the shouts like omens.
Saraswati joined Anirban at the tent entrance.
"History is moving faster than i thought," she said.
Anirban's gaze stayed fixed on the horizon.
"No," he replied softly. "History is finally catching up."
A motorcycle messenger raced toward the memorial grounds, brakes screeching as he skidded to a halt. Dust flew. Officers ran to him.
His shout echoed across the field:
"Sir! Sir—urgent telegram from GHQ! Sialkot has fallen! Gujranwala,Shekhpura, gujrat, Lyallpur,Montogomery, Multan, Bahawalpur are surrounded!"
The soldiers nearby inhaled sharply.
The diplomats exchanged horrified looks.
Indira felt her pulse stop for half a beat.
Patel's shoulders sagged under invisible weight.
Anirban Sen closed his eyes for one long, quiet moment.
When he opened them, they gleamed with a fire no prayer could extinguish.
The funeral was over.
And India—reborn in smoke and fire—was stepping into an age none of them were ready for.
The crowd sensed it.
The diplomats sensed it.
Even the river wind changed direction, and it is colder now.
And somewhere far to the west, cannons boomed in the distance.
[Well i already told in a comment before,but I will repeat it here, I will upload next chapters after a gap of a day, means after today next chapter will be upload After the day of Tommorow]