DELHI & INTERNATIONAL ARENAS – MID JANUARY 1948
---
The world was screaming.
Not metaphorically, not diplomatically—no, this was the full-throated roar of a planet jolted awake by a war it had not expected, a war it did not understand, a war that India seemed to be winning with terrifying speed.
Operation Tandav Phase II had ripped through Pakistan's western and central command structures like a divine storm. Lahore had fallen. Sialkot was gone. Gujranwala and others were encircled. Karachi burned on radio frequencies before the flames even touched its docks.
And now the shockwaves were detonating far beyond the Subcontinent.
The United Nations Security Council chamber trembled with outrage, fear, and something uglier—panic that the carefully balanced post-war world order was unravelling before their eyes.
---
United Nations Headquarters — New York City
The Security Council Chamber thundered with voices.
Delegates shouted in Arabic, English, French, and accents heavy with centuries of history and humiliation. Paper files slammed onto polished mahogany. Translators nearly fainted keeping up.
"This is madness!"
The Egyptian delegate's palm smacked the table so hard pens jumped.
"Naked aggression! Expansionism wrapped in the flag of justice!"
The Saudi prince rose next, robes swirling like a desert storm, voice carrying the weight of Mecca itself:
"The ummah will NOT stand by as our brothers in Pakistan are slaughtered! This is naked genocide disguised as patriotism!"
Several diplomats flinched at the word genocide. It carried weight—dangerous weight—in this chamber.
Iran's ambassador, elegant as a Persian miniature painting, spoke with cutting precision:
"The world divided us. The world weakened us. And now India devours Pakistan while we watch in silence? We will not forget this betrayal."
Afghanistan—torn between hatred for Pakistan and dread for India's advance—sat in tortured silence. When its representative finally spoke, the room leaned forward.
"What India is doing," he said quietly, "will change the map of Asia forever."
A chill spread.
Maps were sacred.
Borders were sacred.
The last time borders had shifted this fast, the world had bled for six years.
Now India was doing it in a week.
At the center of the storm, V.K. Krishna Menon, India's controversial envoy, sat with a calm so infuriatingly serene that the Saudi prince nearly hurled a glass at him.
Menon's face revealed nothing.
But his mind raced.
Yes, we expected backlash.
But not this ferocity.
Not this early.
As accusations spiraled into chaos, Menon raised a single hand—palm outward, fingers relaxed.
He didn't even speak.
The chamber fell silent.
The man was a master of stillness.
Stillness that threatened.
When he finally rose, adjusting his coat, his voice cut through the tension like a blade honed on centuries of Indian diplomacy.
"India," he said softly, "did not start this war."
A wave of scoffs and protests erupted, but Menon's eyes flashed as he raised one finger.
"India finished what was forced upon it."
Gasps. Someone cursed in Arabic. The British delegate pressed fingertips to his temple.
Menon continued:
"You demand we stop? Very well. We ask only that Pakistan:
1.Withdraw every militant and irregular from Kashmir.
2.Apologize publicly for sponsoring violence, and murdering our Leaders.
3. Provide security guarantees verified by neutral observers."
Three simple demands—designed with surgical cruelty.
Impossible for Pakistan.
Irresistible diplomatically.
The trap closed around the Security Council like a noose.
Krishna Menon sat down.
And every diplomat realized that India had not come to defend itself.
India had come to win.
---
London — 10 Downing Street
Prime Minister Clement Attlee paced like a man trapped inside his own guilt.
A crumpled telegram hung in his fist.
"Insanity," he muttered. "Absolute bloody insanity…"
His aide stood stiff-backed, unsure whether to speak.
Attlee waved the telegram.
"Do you know what this is? Another cable from Mountbatten. Another plea. Another 'What the hell is happening in Delhi?'"
He threw it onto the desk.
"We created this mess with Partition," he snapped. "And now we're pretending we're shocked it's exploded?"
The King had called. Twice.
The Labour Party was bleeding support.
The Conservatives were sharpening knives.
British newspapers screamed that India's war was the direct result of a rushed, botched imperial withdrawal.
Attlee pressed his palms to his face.
"How does one tell an ally, 'Please stop conquering your neighbours while we figure out what to say to Parliament'?"
His aide cleared his throat gently.
"Sir… perhaps we could phrase it as urging restraint while expressing concern—"
"Restraint?" Attlee's laugh was bitter. "India is steamrolling an entire nation. Restraint is not on the menu."
He walked to the fireplace, staring into the flames.
"God help us," he whispered. "We handed a loaded gun to a country on the edge of civil war. And now it's pointed at the world."
---
Washington, D.C. — The White House
Harry S. Truman stood by the window overlooking the Potomac, jaw clenched so tightly it hurt.
Asia was a nightmare.
China collapsing into civil war.
Korea could be start boiling anytime.
The Soviet Union expanding like a shadow over Europe.
Now India—the new democracy Washington had hoped to cultivate—was obliterating Pakistan with frightening efficiency.
A file lay open on Truman's desk:
"INDIA-PAKISTAN CONFLICT: STRATEGIC ASSESSMENT."
Every page screamed that this war was destabilizing the entire Cold War balance.
His secretary entered hesitantly.
"Mr. President… Moscow has issued a statement blaming Western imperialism."
"Of course they did," Truman muttered. "Stalin's probably laughing himself sick in the Kremlin right now."
He paced.
"If India absorbs Pakistan, they become the dominant power in South Asia. Bigger. Richer. More dangerous. And more unpredictable."
He slammed a hand on the desk.
"Get me London. Get me the UN. Get me anyone who can put a leash on Delhi."
The secretary hesitated.
"Sir… Delhi isn't listening to anyone."
Truman froze.
That was the real problem.
The old order had lost its grip.
A new power was rising—and it did not care what Washington wanted.
---
New Delhi — Prime Minister's Office
Anirban Sen read every cable with the detached calm of a surgeon preparing for the next incision.
Protests from Cairo.
Threats from Riyadh.
Warnings from Washington.
Desperate pleas from London.
Soviet messages filled with quiet amusement.
The pile of diplomatic fury grew higher.
Anirban smiled faintly.
Predictable.
Inevitable.
And irrelevant.
He turned to the window, watching crowds swarm India Gate.
Victory banners snapped in the cold wind.
Students danced on the lawns.
Refugees cried openly, shouting the names of ancestral towns now reclaimed.
He whispered:
"People do not mourn weakness. They mourn strength."
A soft knock.
His secretary entered.
"Sir… the BBC is ready. They request an urgent address."
Anirban smoothed his achkan.
Checked the fall of the fabric.
Adjusted the cufflink crafted by a Kashmiri artisan.
Then he transformed—face shifting into a masterpiece of controlled sorrow.
When he stepped before the cameras, he looked like a man bearing the weight of a nation's suffering.
The radio crackled.
Across India, across Europe, across Arab capitals, people leaned closer.
"My fellow Indians. My fellow citizens of the world."
The weariness in his tone was not acted.
He was tired—tired from planning the next fifty moves ahead.
"India desires peace. We seek no land, no conquest, no glory. Only justice."
He paused.
"Pakistan chose this war. Their leaders rejected peace talks. They unleashed violence in Kashmir. They targeted our leaders. They challenged our sovereignty."
Another pause—longer.
Measured.
"What choice did we have?"
He softened his expression, a touch of agony crossing his features.
"But we remain open to dialogue. We ask only"—he raised one hand, fingers still—"that Pakistan withdraw all irregulars from Kashmir, apologize publicly, and provide verifiable guarantees of lasting peace."
The world blinked.
Impossible terms.
But beautifully presented.
Using Diplomacy as theater.
---
The Next Morning — North Block Corridor
Patel could hear the applause from outside.
He could hear the journalists whispering:
"He sounds reasonable."
"He sounds wounded."
"He sounds like the only adult in the room."
But when he saw Anirban walking toward him, Patel's eyes narrowed.
"Enjoying this, aren't you?" he asked quietly.
Anirban didn't bother pretending.
"Enjoy is not the word," he replied mildly. "Relief, perhaps."
"Relief?"
"Yes. Relief that India is no longer waiting to be killed."
Their footsteps echoed through the corridor.
Delhi was buzzing with war fever.
Radio broadcasts exalted the victories.
College students painted murals of tanks.
Merchants handed out sweets in Chandni Chowk.
Families lit diyas in honour of the fallen and the victorious alike.
Patel had lived through the worst days of Partition.
Through the fires.
The screams.
The trains filled with corpses.
And now the same people who had mourned six months ago were cheering as cities across the border fell like dominoes.
He finally said:
"The Muslim League leaders who stayed behind… they're terrified. Many are begging for asylum in the Middle East."
Anirban shrugged.
"Let them go."
"And the others? The RSS and Mahasabha workers we kept under 'protective security' even now?"
Anirban stopped walking.
Patel stopped beside him.
The Prime Minister turned, eyes glinting with cold logic that Patel recognized—and feared.
"Well, withdraw the protective security, because in future, Sardarji," Anirban said softly, "we will need more manpower than you think."
Patel stiffened.
"What are you planning, Anirban?"
"Work," he said simply. "Nation-building. Reconstruction. Integration. Administration."
A beat.
"And those men, for all their flaws, are patriots. They can help build. They can be shown a new direction."
Patel's voice dropped.
"Or they can become your army."
Anirban didn't flinch.
"They will become India's army," he corrected. "Not of soldiers—of workers. Of loyalists. Of people who understand that this new nation cannot survive on the fantasies of peace."
Patel felt something cold coil inside his chest.
This was no longer the boyish prodigy he had once mentored.
This was something else.
Something rising.
He thought:
My God… what have we created?
----
One the other hand the first storm hit in Cairo.
The Arab League headquarters erupted in a frenzy for a 2nd time after India present its terms in UN.
The Egyptian Foreign Minister slammed both palms on the polished cedar conference table.
"Brothers, listen to me—if Pakistan falls, every Muslim nation stands in danger. This is not war; this is erasure."
His words echoed through a hall filled with diplomats, generals, sheikhs, and clerics. Men who disagreed about nearly everything found themselves united in rage.
A Saudi prince rose, robes flowing like desert silk, expression cold and princely.
"They call it Operation Tandav." His voice crackled with contempt. "Fitting, perhaps. An act of destruction masquerading as righteousness."
A Jordanian officer muttered a fierce curse under his breath.
"They have toppled Lahore—a cultural capital of the Muslim world. How can we be silent? How will history judge us?"
The Syrian defence minister lifted a stack of telegrams.
"Our embassies report riots from Casablanca to Karachi. Protesters are burning Indian tricolours. They demand action."
"Action?" The Saudi prince's voice sharpened. "Or war?"
Silence fell.
The possibility hung in the air like smoke from a burning temple.
War.
India had become too large, too strong, too sudden.
The custodian of the Two Holy Mosques spoke next—not in the booming voice of a monarch, but in a tone thick with grief.
"If Pakistan falls," he said, "the world will lose a Muslim nation created in the name of Islam. A nation we supported. A nation we believed in."
He swallowed hard.
"We cannot let Delhi destroy it. But the Apology they demand will bury us all together"
So, a proposal was set on the table—an embargo on Indian goods, withdrawal of ambassadors, coordinated sanctions, religious edicts condemning the invasion.
But the Saudi prince leaned back, thoughtful.
"Sanctions?" he murmured. "Against the very nation that supplies us with cheap grain, medicine, engineers, and students?"
The Irony bit him as he said it.
India's rise was not merely military.
It was economic.
& Cultural.
Hurting India would hurt themselves.
He looked around the table.
"Still…" his voice hardened, "…we must respond."
Cairo agreed.
Riyadh agreed.
Amman agreed.
Tehran—furious, grief-stricken—agreed with thunder in its voice.
The Arab League issued a collective statement within the hour.
"India's aggression and demands threatens the Muslim world. We stand with Pakistan."
The world trembled.
But India did not.
----
JEDDAH
The Grand Mufti, a man who rarely waded into geopolitics, was persuaded to speak.
He stepped onto the balcony of Al-Masjid al-Haram, facing a sea of worshippers.
"Brothers," he cried, "pray for Pakistan! Pray for our wounded ummah!"
Tears streamed down the faces of pilgrims.
But prayer was not enough.
Not when one of the holiest men in Islam declared:
"Support Pakistan. Boycott India. Let every Muslim nation show solidarity."
Across the Islamic world, calls to boycott Indian goods spread like wildfire.
Indian Merchants in the Gulf already crossing back into India.
Traders panicked.
Muslim Merchants cursed the headlines.
Yet in Delhi, Anirban Sen read these reports with the calm of a man playing a long game.
"They will come around," he murmured to Saraswati.
"How can you be so sure?" she asked.
He smiled faintly.
"Because grief is temporary. Salt and rice are not."
She stared at him, equal parts awed and unnerved.
He was right.
He was terrifyingly right.
---
LONDON
At Downing Street, Clement Attlee called an emergency cabinet meeting or Damage Control Meeting
Ministers crowded around the long table, voices rising as papers flew.
"The Indian government has ignored every warning!"
"They're dismantling Pakistan city by city!"
"Lyallpur—Multan! —they've even taken Montgomery!"
"At this rate all of Pakistan will fall within weeks!"
One minister struck the table with a trembling fist.
"We cannot ignore this. India is a Commonwealth partner."
Another minister scoffed.
"So was Pakistan."
"Both are!" Attlee snapped back.
He turned to the Defence Secretary.
"If India reaches Karachi, our strategic map changes. The Royal Navy may loses access to key shipping lanes. The Middle East will be destabilized. Iran may collapse into Soviet hands."
Another minister whispered quietly:
"If Pakistan collapses completely… Britain loses all influence in South Asia now."
The room exhaled as if struck.
Attlee rubbed his face.
Where did Britain even stand?
Back India, who was ignoring them?
Or save Pakistan, which was slipping away?
The Foreign Secretary spoke at last.
"We must pressure Delhi. Use every diplomatic channel. And if that fails…"
He hesitated.
"…we must consider bringing the United States fully into this."
Attlee sighed.
"God help us if this becomes an American intervention."
----
WASHINGTON, D.C.
President Truman entered the Situation Room in Pentagon as generals stood to attention.
"Give it to me straight," he said.
The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs tapped a map.
"India now controls nearly all of East and West Punjab. Pakistani forces are collapsing. The civilian government is paralyzed. Communications are compromised. Jinnah's health is failing."
"And the Soviet angle?" Truman asked.
A CIA officer swallowed.
"Sir… Stalin is strangely quiet."
"That," Truman muttered, "is the most dangerous part."
The general added:
"If India permanently takes Karachi, they dominate the Arabian Sea. It alters naval power balances from Oman to Singapore."
"So?" Truman said sharply.
"So we can't let that happen."
Truman's eyes narrowed.
"What are you suggesting?"
"Pressure them. Threaten economic consequences. Send a fleet. Something."
Truman slammed his fist down.
"India won't listen to threats!"
The room fell silent.
Everyone knew the truth:
India was too big to sanction,
Too angry to be reasoned with,
And too victorious to be stopped at this moment.
----
MOSCOW – THE KREMLIN
In the heart of the Kremlin, Stalin smoked quietly as Molotov read the latest situation report.
"India continues to advance," Molotov announced. "Pakistan is losing territory at an unprecedented rate. The British and Americans are panicking."
Stalin exhaled a ring of smoke.
"Good."
Molotov blinked.
"Good?"
Stalin's eyes gleamed with cold satisfaction.
"This war weakens Britain. Weakens America. Weakens the Islamic monarchies aligned with the West. And strengthens a new state that is… how do we say… not obedient to either side."
Molotov hesitated.
"Should we support India?"
Stalin chuckled.
"No. Let them win on their own. It will embarrass the West even more."
He leaned back.
"And later… we will see which way Anirban Sen looks."
Stalin did not want a puppet.
He wanted a wild card.
An India that could destabilize the balance of power—with or without Moscow's help.
----
NEW DELHI
By now, every newspaper on earth screamed headlines:
INDIA TAKES LAHORE!
PAKISTAN ON BRINK OF COLLAPSE!
MASSIVE WAR IN SOUTH ASIA!
ARAB WORLD UNITES AGAINST INDIA!
BRITAIN DEMANDS RESTRAINT!
WASHINGTON FEARS NEW SUPERPOWER!
MOSCOW WATCHES IN SILENCE!
New York Times accused India of "reckless aggression."
Daily Mail called Anirban "the New Napoleon."
Al-Ahram labeled India "a Hindu empire reborn."
Izvestia praised India's "courageous anti-imperial victory."
CNN didn't exist yet, but if it had, it would have been having a meltdown.
Radio waves crackled from London to Lahore.
In the middle of this storm, India released photographs—of Indian soldiers giving water to Pakistani prisoners, of Sikh troops guarding mosques in Lahore, of Hindu officers protecting Muslim civilians in Amritsar.
It was propaganda.
Beautiful propaganda.
But effective.
Even Patel grudgingly admitted:
"You're winning the media war."
Anirban's expression didn't change.
"It's not a war, Sardarji. It's a narrative."
Patel frowned.
"What's the difference?"
"Wars end," Anirban murmured. "But Narratives don't."
On the other side of border in a dim room in Rawalpindi, the remnants of Pakistan's cabinet huddled around a radio, listening to Indian artillery roll through Gujranwala's outskirts.
A trembling minister whispered:
"Have the Americans replied?"
"Nothing."
"The British?"
"They demand we stop the war."
"HOW?" the minister sobbed. "Half our army has deserted!"
Another broke down entirely.
"Call the Saudis!"
"Call Egypt!"
"Call anyone!"
They called.
But the answer was always the same.
"We cannot intervene militarily."
"But we condemn India!"
"Stay strong!"
"We are praying for you."
Prayers did not stop tanks.
Pakistan was collapsing like a sandcastle punched by the sea.
Back in North Block, the tension between Patel and Anirban thickened by the hour.
Reports kept arriving:
One city surrounded.
Another district surrendered.
Refugees flooding Indian checkpoints.
Pakistani officers fleeing toward Afghanistan.
Patel paced in Anirban's office.
"The world is turning against us."
"They were never with us," Anirban corrected.
"Kashmir is not secure. Punjab is on fire. The Middle East hates us. The Americans suspect us. The British fear us. The world thinks we're building an empire—"
"That's because we are," Anirban replied calmly.
Patel froze.
"What did you say?"
Anirban turned to the window, where victory flags fluttered.
"Empires do not always look like empires. Some are built by conquest. Others by fear. Others by inevitability."
Patel stared, speechless.
Anirban continued:
"Look outside, Sardarji. India is no longer a poor, broken remnant of Empire. The people are roaring. The soldiers are advancing. Pakistan is collapsing."
His voice sharpened.
"Why stop now?"
Patel whispered, horrified:
"Because there must be a limit."
Anirban finally faced him.
"There is."
"What limit?"
"Whatever line guarantees India never fears Enemy again."
Patel stepped back, shaken.
He did not recognize this man.
----
But In Cairo, in Riyadh, in London, in Washington, in Moscow—the same realization spread like cold fire:
India was no longer a nation reacting to attack.
India was a nation rewriting the map.
And no one—no superpower, no alliance, no threat—could stop it.
The world had assumed that India would be another fragile democracy.
A moral nation.
A passive state.
Instead, they found a sleeping giant finally awake, guided by a Prime Minister who spoke like a saint but struck like a Predator.
Anirban Sen had become the most dangerous man on earth.
Because he was a man with a cause.
A man with overwhelming public support.
And a man who understood that the world respected power—nothing else.
That night, Anirban stood alone on the ramparts of the Red Fort.
Below him, Delhi glowed with celebration.
Above him, fireworks lit the sky.
From radios came the voice of a Pakistani general begging for ceasefire talks.
He closed his eyes.
The wind carried the faint sound of distant artillery—steady, rhythmic, unstoppable.
Saraswati approached quietly.
"The Arab League has issued sanctions," she said.
He nodded.
"The Americans want an immediate ceasefire."
He nodded again.
"The British are calling this reckless."
Another nod.
"Stalin is watching."
A faint smile.
"And Sardar Patel?" she asked.
Anirban opened his eyes, gaze hardening.
"He will fall in line. Or history will leave him behind."
The fireworks bloomed above them, painting the sky in saffron and white.
Saraswati looked at him for a long moment.
"What happens now?"
Anirban answered without hesitation.
"Now," he said softly, "we take what is ours."
The night wind shuddered.
Delhi held its breath.
And the world realized it was witnessing the birth of a new order.
A new India.
An unstoppable India.
A dangerous India.
And a Prime Minister who carried both destiny and destruction in the palm of his hand