The polished wooden door closed behind Anirban and Patel, leaving Lord Mountbatten standing in the center of his own study, frozen in a silence that felt sudden and alien. The echo of their footsteps faded into the vast corridors of Rashtrapati Bhavan, and for a moment he simply stared at the empty doorway, as if the air itself had turned against him.
He sank slowly into his chair.
Not in defeat—he told himself that—but in something far more unsettling: revelation.
India had slipped beyond the grasp of empire. Not gradually. Not politely. But with the ruthless precision of a surgeon cutting away dead flesh. A process that had begun long before he realized it.
He pressed the bridge of his nose.
"Good God…" he whispered.
A servant appeared at the door. "Your Excellency… the British High Commissioner awaits in the antechamber. He says it is urgent."
Mountbatten straightened, forcing calm. "Send him in."
Sir Archibald Fenwick entered briskly, cheeks flushed, tie askew—an undignified sight for a man who prided himself on diplomatic posture. He shut the door behind him with unnecessary force.
"Louis," he hissed, "London is in an uproar. They received Nehru's 'medical confinement' report. And now intelligence confirms the removal of Jefford and Elmhirst. They're demanding answers."
Mountbatten clasped his hands behind his back, staring at the portrait of Queen Victoria as if expecting counsel from a ghost.
"India is moving beyond our shadow," he murmured.
Fenwick sputtered. "Moving? They are not moving—they are shattering every post-colonial precedent! Sen has effectively neutralized the moderates in his cabinet, sidelined British military leadership, refused UN arbitration, and is directing an independent war without so much as a courtesy briefing to the Commonwealth!"
Mountbatten's jaw tightened. "I am aware."
"And Delhi is crawling with rumors," Fenwick continued breathlessly. "They say Sen has a secret intelligence unit answering only to him. They say he is preparing… something."
Mountbatten turned slowly.
"That," he said, "is the first accurate thing I've heard all day."
Outside, in the winter gardens of the palace, peacocks cried out—shrill, jarring calls that seemed to vibrate with the tension of a subcontinent on the verge of something catastrophic.
---
Across the city, in a modest building near North Block—unmarked, unremarkable, anonymous—India's most secretive intelligence cell convened.
The men inside did not wear uniforms. They wore shawls and simple coats. Their files were handwritten. Their maps were pinned to cork boards. Their methods belonged neither to the IB nor the military. This unit had been formed under Anirban's direct orders in late August 1947—weeks before anyone understood why.
Its unofficial name: The Directorate of External Strategic Intelligence, or DESI.
Its colloquial name among insiders: "The Room of the Unblinking Eye."
And it was here that the real storm was being tracked.
Senior analyst Harveer Narang spread Aerial reconnaissance sketches and intercepted radio transcripts across the table. The room smelled of ink and cigarette smoke.
"Gentlemen," Narang said, "we have confirmation. Pakistan is preparing for a second offensive."
A murmur rose.
"Date?" someone asked.
"Between January 20 and January 30. Full winter assault. Their GHQ believes India won't anticipate a major operation in deep snow."
Another voice: "And their leadership?"
Narang tapped a set of encrypted communiqués.
"Jinnah has approved preliminary plans. Liaquat Ali Khan is coordinating diplomatic cover. Their intelligence chiefs believe our government is fractured, our parliament leaderless, and our army exhausted."
A slow, grim smile spread across his face.
"They believe India is blind."
The room laughed softly—darkly.
Because they knew the truth.
India was not blind.
India was watching every move.
The analysts flipped through photographs—Pakistani troop camps near Mirpur, fuel dumps hidden in forested ridges, raiders being rearmed, British surplus rifles being smuggled through Bannu and Kohat. The evidence was unmistakable.
A second war was coming.
One of the younger analysts whispered, "Does the Prime Minister know?"
Narang chuckled. "He knew before we did."
---
Back in South Block, Anirban Sen received the intelligence file in silence.
He read every page slowly, deliberately. His face remained calm throughout—the calm not of ignorance but of someone reading the script of a play he himself wrote.
When he finished, he closed the folder gently. A soft exhale left his lips. And then—
He smiled.
A small, almost tender smile.
Yet there was nothing tender about it.
If any man in Delhi had seen that smile, he would have sworn the temperature in the room had dropped.
Patel entered moments later, shawl wrapped tight against the cold.
"You received the reports?" Patel asked.
Anirban nodded. "Yes."
"And?" Patel pushed gently.
Anirban leaned back, eyes distant, voice softer than a whisper yet sharper than steel.
"Pakistan is walking into my hands."
Patel froze.
Anirban continued.
"Let them begin their second war. Let them strike. Let them roar. Because this time, the world will not see them as victims of Partition or protectors of Muslims."
His eyes hardened.
"This time, the world will see them as warmongers."
He opened a small drawer and removed a leather-bound diary—his private war log.
"You know what Churchill called Pakistan?" he asked Patel. "A powder keg of poor governance and religious frenzy."
He tapped the diary.
"And now they are proving him right."
Patel watched him with growing awe. "You planned for this from the beginning."
Anirban nodded once, slowly.
"Jinnah believes war will break India. He believes our economy is fragile, our politics fragile, our army barely held together. He believes I'm desperate enough to seek peace."
A soft laugh escaped him.
"But he does not understand me. He does not understand India."
He walked to the window.
Beyond, Delhi lay quiet—streets empty, night thick, a deceptive peace wrapped around a city preparing for destiny.
"Pakistan thinks the world will sympathize with them," Anirban murmured. "Instead, the world will condemn them. Their civilians will condemn their government. Their army will split under pressure."
His fingers tightened on the window sill.
"And the two-nation theory will die—not by India's hand, but by Pakistan's own collapse."
He turned to Patel, eyes gleaming with a terrible clarity.
"You see, Sardar-ji… Pakistan thinks India does not know."
He opened the intelligence file again.
"But India knows everything."
He closed it.
"Everything."
---
Across the border, in Rawalpindi GHQ, generals pored over their own maps with grim satisfaction. They believed India was distracted by Kashmir, weakened by internal rifts, led by an unpredictable Prime Minister, and abandoned by British advisors. Their spies in Delhi falsely reported fractures in the Indian cabinet.
Confidence swelled.
One officer laughed, "After this strike, the Indians will be begging for ceasefire."
Another declared, "After this war, they will break."
Jinnah heard these words from his chair and closed his eyes. His breath was shallow. His lungs were failing. But his ambition remained intact.
"They must be shown strength…" he whispered. "India must be taught… that Pakistan will not be bullied."
The generals saluted.
They believed victory was within reach.
They had no idea they were marching into a carefully crafted illusion.
They had no idea the very intelligence they relied upon was subtly manipulated.
They had no idea the real war was not on the battlefield, but in the narrative.
They had no idea Anirban Sen had already decided how history would remember them.
---
That night, in the Prime Minister's residence, Anirban sat alone in his study, the war map illuminated by a single lamp. Snowline positions were marked in red. Enemy formations in blue. Logistics trails in green.
His fingers traced the line of control like a man reading a pulse.
This war would not break India.
This war would shape India.
He whispered into the dark:
"January… let them come."
Outside, the December wind howled through Delhi like a herald.
The next war was coming.
And both nations prepared—
but only one of them understood what was being prepared for.