Chapter 70: The Bureaucratic Vertigo
20 December 1971 — 10:00 Hours — South Block, New Delhi
Inside the wood-paneled sanctum of South Block, the air was thick with the scent of government-issue tea and the heavy, suffocating weight of genuine confusion. On the mahogany table sat the same photographs that had terrified the Pentagon and the Kremlin, but here, in the heart of the Indian government, they were being handled with the suspicion one might reserve for a forged currency.
"I don't understand," one senior Joint Secretary muttered, peering through his bifocals at the image of the S-27 Pinaka. "We didn't authorize this. The Ministry of Defence has no record of a 'Super-Sonic Interceptor' program with these specifications. We were supposed to be using the MiG-21s we bought from the Soviets. This... this looks far too expensive. Who is going to pay for the fuel?"
Beside him, a prominent idealistic advisor to the Prime Minister—a man who spent his evenings writing essays on the moral superiority of "Small-Scale Cottage Industries"—looked at the report of the Chittagong Annexation with visible distaste.
"This 'Sovereign Realignment' is a diplomatic nightmare," the Advisor lamented, resting his forehead in his palm. "We had a beautiful, moral narrative. We were the victims of a refugee crisis. We were the peaceful neighbors. And now? Now we have annexed territory? We have humiliated the Americans? How are we supposed to ask for World Bank loans for our handloom sectors if we are busy looking like a continental hegemon? It's... it's vulgar. It's too much winning."
The Director of Military Intelligence cleared his throat, hiding a smirk behind a file folder. "The world is calling it an 'Indian Masterstroke,' Sir. The New York Times thinks the Prime Minister has been planning this for a decade. Kissinger thinks we've been running a secret aerospace program since the mid-60s. They think we're geniuses of the highest order."
"Geniuses?" a senior bureaucrat from the Ministry of External Affairs scoffed. "We're terrified! I had to tell the Soviet Ambassador that our 'technical staff' was unavailable for comment because, quite frankly, I don't even know which room they work in. This wasn't a masterstroke; it was an industrial hijacking. We've won too fast, and we've won too much."
The table fell silent as the Prime Minister's Principal Secretary entered, holding a heavy cream-colored envelope embossed with the seal of the French Republic.
"The French have broken rank with the Americans," the Secretary announced, a note of disbelief in his voice. "They've sent a high-level communique. President Pompidou isn't just recognizing the Dhaka Protocol—he's offering a comprehensive partnership for the 'Modernization and Civil Engineering' of the Chittagong Sovereign Zone. They want to send engineers, heavy dredging equipment, and urban planners. They're treating Chittagong like the new Marseille."
"Dredging equipment?" the Idealist Advisor cried out, genuinely pained. "What happened to our focus on rural electrification through biogas? Why are we building deep-water ports with the French when we should be focusing on the non-aligned spirit of poverty and dignity? This win is going to ruin our reputation as a humble nation. The Americans won't give us wheat anymore out of pity. They'll expect us to buy it. And the Gorakhpur plant—Karan Shergill's ISMC facility—is already pumping out chips that we don't even know how to use! We are becoming too complex for our own good."
In the corner, a junior officer who had actually seen the Pinaka fly suppressed a laugh. He realized the central irony: while the world was trembling at the feet of a "New Indian Empire," the men actually running the country were currently trying to figure out how to apologize for being too strong. They didn't want the Chittagong port; it was too much paperwork. They didn't want the Pinaka; it made the Soviet officials—their favorite hosts in Moscow—uncomfortable.
"The Americans think we played a deep game," the Secretary concluded, looking at the ceiling. "They think we are cold-blooded strategists. If only they knew that we spent four hours this morning debating if the new uniforms for the Chittagong Port Authority should be Khadi or Polyester."
"Khadi is more sustainable," the Advisor whispered, his eyes brightening for the first time. "It sends a message of peace, even if we are currently blockading the entire Bay of Bengal."
"Yes," the Secretary sighed. "A very peaceful blockade. God help us, we've become a superpower by accident, and the Cabinet is worried about the laundry."