15 September 1947 – Delhi, Central Hall of the Constituent Assembly
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I. Between Two Thrones
The morning air over Delhi shimmered with dust and early autumn heat.
Inside the sandstone dome of the Constituent Assembly, the hum of hundreds of voices sounded less like debate and more like the rattle of a locomotive about to derail.
Saraswati Devi sat in her seat, spine straight, expression unreadable.
Her plain cream sari—bordered in deep maroon—stood out amid the sea of khadi whites.
She had spent the last fortnight moving between Delhi and Hyderabad, signing, sealing, and steadying the empire that had almost fallen apart.
And somehow, she had become what no one had imagined only weeks ago:
Nizam Saraswati Sinha of Hyderabad, the people's ruler, owner of the Nizam's immense wealth—diamonds, palaces, factories, land—all now redirected toward India's future.
She pressed her pencil gently against the notepad before her, letting her thoughts flow in silence.
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II. Inner Monologue — The Aftermath of Hyderabad
Because of Hyderabad, she thought, the dominoes began to fall.
By mid-September, two dozen princely states had already begun quiet negotiations with Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel.
A few accepted the deal entirely—keep their personal fortunes, accept a privy purse, and let the new Union handle the business of ruling.
Better to be rich commoners than poor kings.
Even Pakistan had been caught off-guard.
Its envoys had only just begun drafting papers to annex Hyderabad when the news arrived that Saraswati herself had signed the Instrument of Accession to India.
They were bamboozled, she mused with faint amusement. They thought they'd play chess. Instead, they walked into checkmate.
Patel was free now—his long battle over Hyderabad had ended.
He had just taken on a new role as Deputy Chairman of the Constitution Drafting Committee, assisting Ambedkar in shaping the republic's spine.
Saraswati, though invited, had declined.
I cannot sit there, she thought. Not when I must manage Delhi, Hyderabad, the Gurukuls, the Kendriya Vidyalayas, the CSIR and it's Three Secret Divisions… Let the lawyers debate theory. I'll handle reality.
Still, she had submitted her own draft constitution to the committee: short, precise, sharp as a blade.
Perhaps arrogant, she admitted to herself, but contradictions need pruning, not polishing.
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III. Parliament's Noise
The chamber roared suddenly.
A dozen MPs shouted over one another, accusing, defending, declaiming about land, religion, and refugees.
She rubbed her temple.
Her patience—already worn thin by the sleepless nights in Hyderabad—was evaporating.
This is supposed to be the founding parliament of a nation, she thought bitterly. And they sound like fishmongers at dawn.
Her hand tightened around her pencil until it snapped in two.
A thin splinter of wood landed on her notebook.
> "This damned Bastards," she muttered under her breath.
Across the aisle, Prime Minister Anirban Sen sat next to Sardar Patel, both watching the uproar with unnerving calm.
Patel's lips twitched in what might have been a smirk; Anirban leaned back in his chair as if watching a particularly entertaining Live Drama.
Even Nehru's own circle seemed disoriented—shouting without purpose, gesturing without coherence.
It is a circus masquerading as democracy.
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IV. The Oddball with the Schoolbag
Saraswati sighed and opened the one object that always drew curious glances—her canvas schoolbag.
It was compact, practical, and could hold more than any leather briefcase the bureaucrats carried.
Inside lay neatly stacked folders, a fountain pen, a steel ruler, and a small cloth pouch tied with a red string.
A few MPs nearby exchanged smirks.
To them, the new Nizam of Hyderabad rummaging through a schoolbag looked ridiculous.
She noticed—and smiled faintly.
Let them laugh. My bag contains more future than all their speeches combined.
The Speaker tried to restore order with the gavel.
The echo bounced off the marble and vanished uselessly.
She turned to her assistant seated a row behind—Rohini Deshmukh, a young engineer from her university days.
> "Rohini, make copies of these files and distribute them to the MPs and the Speaker," Saraswati said quietly.
Rohini nodded, gathering the documents.
As the assistant left, several MPs leaned forward, eyeing the sleek gray metal box Rohini ran towards.
Within minutes, faint whirs and flashes of light came from the corner room outside the chamber.
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V. The Birth of Xerox
Saraswati's mind drifted briefly.
The "machine" had been her pet project—a crude photocopying apparatus built by her team of electrical engineers at Indraprasth University.
They had struggled for years with paper adhesion and static charge, finally producing clean reproductions of documents.
Xerox, she had named the enterprise—a fusion of xeros (dry) and graphos (writing).
In the chaos of Partition, no one had time to notice that she had just invented the future of printing.
Sometimes invention comes not from inspiration, but desperation, she mused. If bureaucracy moves like a glacier, give it a machine that outruns glaciers.
The copies arrived swiftly—warm to the touch, crisp with fresh toner.
Even the Speaker looked mildly impressed.
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VI. Rising to Speak
She pressed the microphone button.
> "Mr Speaker," she said firmly, "I need to address the House on the settlement of refugees and the issue of properties left behind by those who migrated to Pakistan."
The noise subsided a little.
Curiosity replaced hostility.
She rose, holding the file with both hands, and began.
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VII. Saraswati's Address
> "As you are aware," she began, voice steady, "many citizens who chose to leave for Pakistan or other British territory have abandoned vast properties across Delhi, Bombay, Calcutta, Madras, and other cities.
Conversely, thousands who have fled persecution there now crowd our streets, living in tents and railway platforms.
> "The Interim Government, in its duty, has taken over these empty estates to provide temporary shelters.
Yet, petitions from Waqf Boards and Church authorities have halted this effort.
The High Courts of Delhi, Calcutta, Bombay, Madras, Allahabad, Lahore, and Nagpur have all issued orders preventing any permanent use of such lands—though they allow temporary shelter."
She paused, letting her words echo.
> "I respect the judiciary," she continued, "but I question its priorities.
Cases that took decades under the British are now opened overnight when religion or privilege is touched.
Yet the people, who bleed and starve, must wait for mercy."
A murmur spread.
Some MPs nodded; others fidgeted uneasily.
> "My legal team has reviewed the documents of these claimants," Saraswati went on, tapping the folder.
"I think my MP friends who are lawyers themselves already check those documents and know that Eighty percent of the so-called ownership papers are undocumented or forged. And remaining 20% of the land that is documented 16% of those land are donated after killing the original owner of those lands by Rulers of that time. So the Lands 'in the name of God' are taken by the institutes that cannot remain sacred forever."
She exhaled softly, her temper in check.
> "The judges must remember—they are not 'Milords.'
They are public servants.
Their robes do not make them kings."
The chamber froze.
A few gasps escaped from the British-educated benches.
But Saraswati didn't care.
> "Delhi will undergo a complete land redistribution.Hyderabad will follow.
We must make land tradable for infrastructure—roads, railways, schools, hospitals.
With safeguards for forests and fragile hills, yes—but everything else must serve the living, not the dead."
Her words struck like iron on anvil.
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VIII. The Spark of Resistance
From the left row, Nehru's supporters whispered furiously.
Then Nehru himself rose, face composed but voice edged with disapproval.
> "Saraswati-ji," he began, "I understand your intent.But confiscating or purchasing lands from religious trusts may appear hostile to minority rights.We cannot endanger the faith of communities already anxious in this new republic."
Saraswati closed her eyes briefly, inhaled, and then turned to him.
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IX. The Lioness Unleashed
>"You are an idiot, because only an idiot will think like that.Many of these plots of land need to be absolutely under government control, with no third party.The current railway tracks are the bare minimum for just freight. For a bare minimum railway system, and many parts of the railway system got damaged because of riots we need at least 10 times more tracks than what we have right now.
Many plots are necessary for security, and other transportation, like airport, major roads that should be able to be used for airforce planes usage as well in need of emergency.
And most importantly, we need to create an entire Local Trains system that doesn't connect to the regular lines. It will require a lot of land, in every nook and corner of Delhi.
The same thing with Hyderabad city and same thing with other major cities like Calcutta, Bombay, Madras city and many other cities that will be developed in future.
If the government can't buy land that is necessary, the people will suffer because of it."
"Minority rights?" she repeated, almost gently.
"Tell me, who are the minorities now?
The Sikhs fleeing Lahore?
The Hindus crossing rivers of blood from Sindh?
Or the few nobles who kept their palaces while the poor die outside their gates?"
Her tone hardened.
> "You speak of communalism, Pandit-ji, yet every word you utter smells of it.
Why must policy bow before religion at every step?"
A rustle swept through the hall.
Anirban Sen leaned forward, elbows on the table, watching with quiet amusement.
Patel's eyes glimmered behind his spectacles.
Saraswati pressed on.
> "Pakistan was created precisely to give a home to those who wanted religion above reason.
Let them have it.
Here, we build a nation—not a congregation."
Her voice rose, clear and furious.
> "You call yourselves secularists, yet you follow Britain—the least secular of nations!
The UK is a Christian State. Its monarch must swear by Christ.It's anthem invokes God. It jails people for blasphemy!Is that your model of secularism?"
Nehru's face paled.
> "France is secular," she thundered. "One law for all citizens.
No special rights, no divine intermediaries between state and people.
That is secularism."
The hall erupted.
Some cheered; others shouted protests.
The Speaker's gavel banged in vain.
Saraswati pointed toward Nehru's bench.
> "You studied in that grey island of thieves," she said, voice dripping with contempt.
"You brought back its illusions.
Britain—the land that looted our temples, stole the jewels of the Taj, melted the gold of the Golden Temple, and still dares to lecture us on morality!
And you want to imitate them?"
The silence that followed was electric.
> "I am tired," she said quietly, "of seeing our leaders blinded by borrowed ideals.
India's soul does not need imitation—it needs integrity.This House must remember: Secularism means equality before law. Nothing more, nothing less."
Her gaze swept the chamber.
> "If you cannot rise above your divisions, then at least do not drag the nation down with you.Go form your ummah elsewhere.
This House belongs to those whose only god is Bharat Mata."
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X. Collapse
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then her hand trembled.
The hours of travel, hunger, and sleepless nights crashed upon her at once.
The edges of her vision blurred; the hall's colors swirled.
She managed one last wry thought—
They won't listen to reason. Perhaps drama will reach them instead.
Then the world tilted.
The microphone clattered as she fell backward.
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XI. The Rescue
Gasps filled the chamber.
Chairs scraped; papers flew.
Anirban Sen was the first to move.
In two long strides he reached her, catching her before she hit the floor.
He lifted her effortlessly—one arm beneath her knees, the other behind her shoulders—carrying her like a princess from an old Epic.
Her head rested against his chest, a loose strand of hair brushing his collar.
The sight silenced even the loudest critics.
Behind him, Rajkumari Amrit Kaur, Sardar Patel, T. T. Krishnamachari, and C. Rajagopalachari followed quickly.
Chetty and Rao and many other hurried ahead to clear a path.
Outside the chamber, the marble corridor glowed with the afternoon sun filtering through stained glass.
Every step echoed like a drumbeat.
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XII.The Hall After
Inside, the Speaker still stood frozen.
Nehru remained seated, eyes downcast, fingers tracing the rim of his spectacles.
No one dared resume debate.
On the desk before Saraswati's empty seat lay her open notebook.
At the top of the page, in quick neat handwriting, was her last unfinished line:
> "A nation is not born in speeches, but in courage."
The ink was still wet.
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XIII. Corridor Scene
Anirban carried her past the central rotunda, where the Tricolour hung motionless in the still air.
Reporters waiting outside fell silent as the doors swung open.
Patel's deep voice broke the hush.
> "Clear the way."
The crowd parted instantly.
Saraswati stirred faintly, eyes fluttering open.
She looked up at Anirban's face—half-smiling, half-worried.
> "You should stop saving me like a damsel," she whispered weakly.
He chuckled.
> "Then stop fainting like one, Saraswati-ji."
Rajkumariji, walking beside them, said gruffly,
> "Let her rest. Tomorrow the same fools will praise her speech and pretend they never opposed it."
Anirban nodded.
> "And the press will call it 'The Day the Lioness Roared.'"
They stepped out into the courtyard.
The setting sun painted the domes of Delhi red-gold, and the flag above the Assembly fluttered gently in the evening wind.
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XIV. Closing Lines
By nightfall, every newspaper office in Delhi hummed with the same headline draft:
> "HYDERABAD'S NIZAM CHALLENGES DELHI — SARASWATI COLLAPSES AFTER FIERY SPEECH"
But beyond the drama, history had quietly shifted again.
Her speech—recorded and transcribed—would circulate through refugee camps and princely capitals alike.
For many, it became the first real declaration that India would belong to all her citizens equally, without feudalism or favour.
And somewhere in her temporary residence on York Road, Saraswati slept soundly, unaware that the machines of her fledgling company, Xerox Inc, were still running—printing her words into thousands of copies before dawn.