December 15, 1947 – 3:40 PM
South Block, New Delhi
The winter sun had begun its descent, casting long golden bars through the high windows of the Prime Minister's office. The light turned the teak floors to warm amber and threw a soft halo over the stacked files waiting for Anirban's scrutiny.
But the calm was deceptive.
Delhi itself felt like a coiled spring—its streets humming with rumors, its ministries operating on adrenaline, its military corridors vibrating with the weight of the coming storm.
Inside the room, the air was colder.
Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel stood by the window, shawl wrapped around his shoulders, the faint tremor in his fingers betraying tension he would never admit aloud. A sealed cipher telegram lay open on the large mahogany table. The red stamp "TOP SECRET – PRIORITY" gleamed sharply under the lamplight.
Anirban Sen read the telegram once more, slowly, his eyes moving with the detachment of a surgeon examining an X-ray before deciding where to cut.
Patel watched him.
The silence stretched.
Finally, Anirban set the paper down.
He didn't speak, didn't sigh, didn't smile.
He simply tapped the telegram with the tip of his finger.
Patel broke the silence first.
"They blinked."
Anirban finally allowed himself the smallest hint of amusement.
Not a smile—just the faintest shift around the eyes.
"Blink?" he said. "Patelji… they flinched."
Patel exhaled, a breath somewhere between incredulity and grim satisfaction. "The British government agreeing—formally—to open negotiations on the sterling balance. And UNSC permanent seat discussions. They've swallowed their pride whole."
Anirban folded the telegram. "Pride is a luxury of the solvent."
Patel let out a low chuckle. "They will call you a devil in Parliament today. Mark my words."
"Today?" Anirban tilted his head. "They already have."
He tapped the telegram again. "Mountbatten has sent me their mood."
He glanced at Patel, eyes glinting.
"And I think," he said softly, "we have just won the third war."
Patel blinked, momentarily confused—before understanding dawned.
The three wars.
War One – The Princely State Front.
War Two – The Foreign Colonies Front.
War Three – The Global Front.
India's three simultaneous battles for survival and sovereignty.
Patel let out a dry breath. "Hmm. Yes. The third war indeed. And if the British knew the full extent of what you've done…" He hesitated. "They would lose sleep for a century."
Anirban smiled faintly. "Then let us spare them the nightmares—for now."
A knock came at the door.
Patel straightened as V. P. Menon entered, followed by Saraswati Sinha—the new Nizam of Hyderabad, Minister of Education & Science, and one of Anirban's most dangerous diplomatic assets.
Saraswati entered with quiet poise, her orchid-colored saree brushing softly against the floor, her expression serene yet razor-alert. Menon looked brisk and sharp as always, a folder under his arm.
Anirban gestured for them to take their seats.
As soon as they settled, he lifted the telegram.
"I suppose we should welcome the victors of the day," he said lightly. "Patelji and I were just noting—we seem to have won the third war without even stepping outside this room."
Menon cracked a small grin. "It seems the British Empire doesn't handle pressure the way it once did."
Patel waved a dismissive hand. "My office is drowning in paperwork. The last of the problematic princes have decided to see reason. Documents of accession are being drafted as we speak."
He looked at Saraswati. "Your diplomacy helped. More than you acknowledge."
She smiled modestly. "I only spoke to them as one who understands royalty. The world changes, and those who do not change with it fade."
Menon placed his folder on the table. "Foreign colonies front—there is progress."
Anirban nodded. "Go on."
"Goa is under blockade," Menon reported, flipping a page. "The blueprint provided by Lady Saraswati was… elegant. Precise. And implemented flawlessly by Patelji's team."
Patel's eyes twinkled. "They won't last long. Their supplies are choking. No passage in or out. Even Lisbon is confused—they weren't expecting resistance of this type."
Saraswati waved her hand lightly. "I only suggested the approach. The actual execution belongs to the Home Ministry."
Menon continued, "French pockets are already negotiating. Chandernagore is practically ours. Pondicherry is wobbling. Mahe and Yanam are surrounded by Indian sentiment."
Patel added, "And Junagadh, Travancore, Bhopal—it's all falling into place. By year's end, we will have a unified India in reality, not just on paper."
Anirban leaned back, fingers steepled under his chin.
"The first war," he murmured, "is almost finished."
Menon nodded. "Second one too."
Saraswati looked thoughtful. "And the third seems to have ended in your favor today, Pradhan Mantriji."
Anirban raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And how do you know that?"
She gestured delicately toward the folded telegram. "The British tone changed. I can guess what it contains."
Anirban gave her a small approving nod.
Patel added with a dry laugh, "They've accepted talks on the sterling debt and UNSC seat. They've run out of bluster."
Saraswati blinked once, then gave a small smile.
"Well then," she said, "it seems I should contribute as well."
Menon turned to her. "What update do you have?"
Her next words dropped like a thunderbolt in the silent room.
"I believe Sikkim, Nepal, and Bhutan will join the Indian Union."
Menon froze.
Patel's head snapped up.
Even Anirban's fingers stopped mid-tap.
Saraswati continued calmly, as though discussing the weather.
"All three have indicated willingness to sign formal integration agreements by December 25th."
The room became utterly still.
It felt as though even the ticking clock paused to listen.
Menon opened his mouth, closed it, then whispered, "That… would redraw the entire Himalayan frontier."
Patel stared at her. "Saraswati… those kingdoms—"
"Yes," she said softly. "They trust me. They fear instability. They see India rising. They want security, not uncertainty."
Anirban watched her carefully.
His eyes softened—just slightly.
"You have done well," he said quietly. "Very well."
Saraswati bowed her head. "I serve the Union."
Menon slowly exhaled. "If this completes, then the map of India by the end of 1947 will be… unprecedented."
But Anirban was no longer looking at the map.
He was looking beyond it.
As though seeing something years away.
Saraswati and Menon stood and excused themselves.
Patel remained seated.
He waited until the door clicked shut.
---
The door had barely shut when Patel leaned back in his chair with a long exhale, rubbing his forehead.
"Do you ever sleep, Anirban?" he muttered.
Anirban allowed a faint smile. "Only when the enemy sleeps."
Patel snorted. "Then you should be awake for many years."
He reached for the telegram again but didn't read it. He simply held it between his fingers, staring at the crisp paper like it carried the ghost of an empire.
"You've shaken London today," Patel said quietly. "Mountbatten must be pacing holes into the carpets of Viceroy Bhavan."
Anirban gave a small, amused shrug. "He will recover. They always do."
Patel stood, walked slowly toward the window, pushing aside the heavy curtain. From there, the winter haze softened the city—distant domes, white rooftops, people moving like shadows across Rajpath. Everything looked serene.
But his voice was not serene.
"Anirban," he said without turning, "tell me something."
Anirban looked up.
Patel said slowly, " I know that Subhash is in East Bengal , East Bengal is under the INA. That he succeeded where Pakistan and the British least expected. And after that I never contact Subhash, and you only contact him in early September"
"I did," Anirban said.
Patel finally turned around. His face was expressionless, but his eyes were searching—unusually vulnerable, stripped of all iron.
"I have never asked for information about what you talk with him. Not because I trust lightly, but because…"
He paused.
"…because I know secrecy is a weapon sharper than any sword."
For the first time in the entire evening, Anirban softened visibly.
Respectfully.
"Thank you," he said.
Patel nodded once, almost curtly, but the gesture carried weight.
"I have not attempted to contact Subhash after that," Patel continued. "Even though… every instinct in me wants to speak to him. To hear his voice. To know his mind. But if he is operating in the shadows, if INA is building something there…"
His voice lowered.
"…then I know better than to disturb a tiger mid-hunt."
Anirban's lips curved.
"That is why I told you," he said quietly, "and no one else."
Patel stepped closer, his eyes fixed on Anirban with a rare seriousness.
"But now," he said, "I need you to tell me more. Not everything—just enough for me to prepare the country for what comes next."
Anirban rose from his chair.
He didn't walk to the window.
He didn't pace.
He simply stood straight, hands clasped behind him, his silhouette framed by the pale sun.
"What do you want to know, Patelji?" he asked softly.
Patel hesitated, then spoke with the blunt honesty he was known for.
"What exactly is happening in the East?"
The question hung between them.
The simple question that carried the weight of a continent.
Anirban answered with deliberate calm.
"East Bengal is stable, secured, and functioning under the INA civilian administration. Their networks have reconnected old Indian officers, local leaders, and community heads. There has been no resistance."
Patel nodded slowly.
"But," Anirban continued, "there is something you do not know."
Patel frowned. "Go on."
Anirban said it plainly.
"Netaji has already left East Bengal."
Patel's breath caught.
"Left?" he whispered. "To where?"
"To Burma."
Patel staggered back half a step and had to steady himself against the chair.
"To… Burma?" His voice was hoarse.
Anirban's face remained calm, though his eyes carried the fire of a man playing a game ten moves ahead.
"Yes," he said quietly. "Burma. He is already moving."
Patel sank into the chair.
"By… by God…" he muttered. "That means…"
Anirban finished for him.
"Yes. It means Burma will be integrated into India by mid–1948. Silently. Without the world realizing how it happened."
Patel stared at him.
No anger.
No fear.
Just disbelief.
The kind of disbelief that borders on awe—and terror.
"This is…" Patel swallowed. "Anirban, if the British even suspected this—if Attlee got a hint—he would…"
He struggled for words.
"…he would fear you more than death itself."
"Which is why," Anirban said quietly, "he must not know."
Patel nodded slowly.
He whispered. "Not yet. Not today. Not after the sterling and UNSC meltdown. But if he ever learns what you are doing…"
Anirban finished calmly:
"Then Britain will truly wake up to the dawn of a new India."
Patel looked down at his hands.
"Three wars," he murmured. "You said we've won the third today."
Anirban placed a hand on Patel's shoulder.
"No, Patelji," he said softly. "The third war was only the beginning."
Patel looked up, confused.
Anirban's eyes glowed with something vast, relentless, and terrifyingly certain.
"The real war," he said, "has not begun yet."
Patel understood.
Pakistan.
January 1948.
The war that Pakistan believes India knows nothing about.
The war that India is prepared to turn into Pakistan's final mistake.
___
The silence between the two men stretched, heavy with revelation and unspoken calculations. Outside the window, Delhi's evening traffic pulsed faintly, unaware that within this room, the subcontinent's fate was being rewritten, line by line, in the shadows.
Patel was the first to break the stillness.
"Anirban…" His voice carried the gravity of decades spent holding India together. "How long have you been planning this?"
Anirban did not turn away. "Since the moment I realized independence alone would not save India. Freedom without unity is a fragile ornament. We need foundations… granite ones… for what comes next."
Patel inhaled sharply. "And Netaji?"
"He understood even before I spoke a word," Anirban replied. "He knew what it meant for Bharat to be truly sovereign, not just independent on paper. The INA's return was not an accident. It was inevitable."
Patel nodded slowly. "He would see the world like you do. In arcs of decades, not months."
For a moment, both men saw the figure of Subhash Chandra Bose—not as the myth, the rallying cry, or the controversial revolutionary, but as the force of nature he had always been.
A man who refused to fit into the structures Britain built.
A man who refused to bow even to history.
Patel sighed, rubbing his temples. "East Bengal… Burma… the Himalayas… the princely states… Goa… Kashmir… Sterling balance… UNSC…"
He shook his head slowly.
"No leader in a thousand years has attempted so much in such little time."
Anirban's voice was quiet, almost gentle.
"Someone had to."
---
At That Very Moment — Lutyens' Delhi, British High Commission
The chandeliers were lit in pale golden arcs. Officials scurried with clipped steps. The air crackled with agitation.
Sir Archibald Kerr slammed a folder on a polished table.
"This is unacceptable. Preposterous. Bloody insubordination!"
His voice echoed through the hall.
Lady Mountbatten's secretary whispered, "Sir, with respect… the Foreign Office believes Prime Minister Sen has maneuvered us into a corner—"
"A corner!?" Kerr thundered. "He has turned us into spectators in a region we ruled for two hundred years!"
Another diplomat, face flushed, muttered, "It's sorcery. The House of Lords is saying he's bewitched us into giving away leverage."
Sir Archibald glared, breath heaving.
"It's not sorcery. It's cunning. Ruthless, calculated—devilish."
He spat the next words:
"And I fear we've underestimated the man even now."
---
Back in South Block
Anirban walked to his desk and gently placed the sterling telegram beside a thick folder marked TOP SECRET: TANDAV – PHASE II
Patel's eyes flickered to it.
"TANDAV…PHASE II?"
Anirban's face did not change.
"Pakistan believes they will surprise us in late January. They are unaware that our Intelligence Bureau, DESI units, and field operatives have mapped their entire mobilization."
Patel's jaw tightened and smirked. "Jinnah is gambling his entire country… thinking you are blind."
Anirban's smile was cold.
"Let him."
He turned a page in the folder.
Maps. Routes. Timelines.
Units of the 1st Armoured Division marked in crimson arrows.
Supply lines through Punjab.
Amphibious landings planned on coastal belts.
Coordinated strikes across West Pakistan.
Patel exhaled, barely audible.
"You intend to break them."
"Not break," Anirban corrected softly. "Render them unable to harm India ever again."
He tapped the map of Lahore lightly.
"History gave them two wings—separated by 1600 kilometers—hoping chaos would solve what diplomacy couldn't. But we shall solve it with something else."
"Unity?" Patel guessed.
"No," Anirban said. "Certainty. Eternal certainty."
Patel lowered himself into a chair, stunned but strangely calm.
"You want to erase the threat before it matures."
"Yes."
He paused.
"And give India a geographical future Britain never allowed."
---
Suddenly — A knock at the door.
A young aide entered, saluted, and handed Patel a packet.
"From Hyderabad House, sir. The last princely files."
Patel opened it.
One look was enough.
"The Nawab of Bhopal…" he whispered. "He has agreed."
Anirban lifted an eyebrow.
"Interesting."
Patel skimmed further.
"Travancore… Mysore… Jodhpur… They've accepted the final draft. Saraswati and Menon handled them like seasoned generals."
Anirban chuckled. "Patelji, you sound almost relieved."
"I am."
Patel exhaled deeply.
"But also… something else."
"What is that?" Anirban asked.
Patel met his eyes with the gravity of a statesman who had carried India on his shoulders.
"A very old fear."
Anirban tilted his head. "Of whom?"
Patel replied quietly:
"Of you."
Anirban blinked—surprised.
Patel continued before he could respond:
"You are not Nehru, to be swayed by ideals. You are not a British-trained bureaucrat. And you are not a man who waits for history to move—you seize it."
His voice lowered.
"You terrify the British. You bewilder the Americans. You impress the Soviets. And you leave me…"
He swallowed.
"…somewhere between admiration and dread."
Anirban leaned against the desk, arms folded.
"Should I take that as praise or warning?"
"Both," Patel said simply.
---
London, House of Commons
The debate had devolved into chaos.
MPs shouted across the chamber:
"Sen is manipulating us!"
"A cunning Bastard!"
"He holds the sterling balance to our throat like a knife,We should have negotiate about this even before we give them Independence !"
"Yes, we should not have fallen for Gandhi's words, now it's coming back as a shackle !"
"And now he wants a permanent UNSC seat—can we afford that!?"
They are now feeling guilty why they fell for Gandhi's word to sign the documents after independence, But they don't know it's Anirban who manipulate Gandhi to pressure the Britishers to sign the documents after independence. And that's why Anirban rescheduling the signing dates till now to use that as a Diplomatic tool.
Attlee stood, exhausted but steady.
"We cannot provoke India," he said.
"Unless we seek another colonial war—which we cannot afford."
Bevin rose next:
"Sen plays a long game. Longer than any Politician India has ever had. If we confront him, we lose. If we cooperate, we may yet preserve influence."
Opposition MP Churchill bellowed from the back:
"You speak of him as though he is Caesar!"
Bevin shot back:
"No. He is something far more dangerous than Caesar."
The chamber went silent.
"He is the man who understands exactly how weak we are."
---
Back in Delhi — Evening Deepens
Patel rubbed his temples again. "You said three wars. Today we won the third. The internal, the colonial, the external."
"Yes."
"But what you're planning in Burma… and what you intend for Pakistan… that is something else entirely."
Anirban nodded. "That is not a war, Patelji."
Patel frowned. "Then what is it?"
Anirban looked out the window at the fading light—Delhi glowing gold, unaware that history's axis was shifting under its feet.
"It is a correction," he said softly. "A correction of a mistake forced upon us by hurried borders and British politics."
He turned back to Patel.
"One we will remove. Quietly. Completely."
Patel stared at him—long, unblinking.
"And if the world intervenes?" he asked.
Anirban's voice hardened.
"They won't. Not when they do not know what is happening."
Patel swallowed.
"Not when Netaji moves in silence."
"Not when INA holds East Bengal."
"Not when the Himalayas join us voluntarily."
"Not when Goa is suffocating under blockade."
"Not when Britain is busy negotiating its debt."
"Not when America trusts the façade we show them."
"And not when Pakistan walks blindly into your trap."
Anirban's eyes glowed.
"Exactly."
---
Just Then — another knock
A messenger entered, saluted, and placed a sealed intelligence dispatch addressed to Anirban.
He opened it.
A faint smile touched his lips.
"What is it?" Patel demanded.
Anirban handed him the paper.
Patel read.
His eyes widened.
"Pakistan… mobilising troops near Sialkot and Lahore… artillery movements… supply trains…"
He looked up, stunned.
"They think the attack will surprise us…"
Anirban finished calmly:
"…on the fourth week of January."
Patel stared at him.
"You're smiling," he said in disbelief. "At a declaration of war."
"No," Anirban said.
"I'm smiling because the world believes we don't know."
He closed the file, sealing Pakistan's fate.
"But we know everything."
---
Patel left the room in silence,after discussing something with Anirban.
Anirban stood alone, looking at the map of the subcontinent pinned on the wall.
India glowed softly under the lamplight—unified, strengthened, stretching from the Himalayas to the southern seas.
He touched East Bengal lightly with his fingertip.
Then Burma.
Then Kashmir.
Then Lahore.
Then the Himalayan kingdoms.
A single quiet sentence escaped his lips.
"Now the real history begins."
Outside, the lights of Delhi shimmered—unaware that their Prime Minister had set the fate of nations into motion, and that the world was already far behind him.