Timeline : 7-8 January, 1948
Delhi wore an odd, uneasy stillness on the night of January 7th, 1948—a stillness that felt less like calm and more like a city instinctively holding its breath. The cold wind that swept through the wide Lutyens avenues carried a faint whisper of fear, the kind that came not from rumour but from the collective intuition of a people who sensed that something had shifted beneath their feet.
In tea shops, in the lounges of old Congress veterans, in the smoky corners of newspaper offices, one question was being asked with a kind of breathless disbelief:
Why had Anirban Sen suddenly released Nehru, Azad, and the other moderate leaders?
Nobody believed the official explanation. "Protective confinement lifted," the newspapers declared blandly, with neat, polite phrasing. But Delhi was not fooled.
"This is not a man who bows to British pressure," whispered one senior bureaucrat at Connaught Place.
"Then why?" asked another.
Whispers crept through the capital like murmurings of ghosts.
"Mountbatten must have insisted. The British want Nehru back in the political arena."
"Or perhaps Sen is preparing another move entirely."
"And the Pakistan submarine incident… the troop carrier… this is not a coincidence."
"Sen is building a narrative. A very dangerous one.That needs to be created, after Pakistan blunder"
In the hushed corridors of Parliament House, where only hours earlier ministers had strode confidently during the day, the tone was reverent and fearful at night.
"Whatever he is doing," an MP muttered to a colleague, "he is ten steps ahead of all of us."
"He released the moderates," another whispered. "But why only after Pakistan's vessels were caught inside our waters?"
"Because now he doesn't need them. He has the people."
"And he has the perfect justification for what comes next."
The capital was beginning to understand the terrifying truth:
Anirban Sen never did anything without a purpose.
And somewhere in the city, in a quiet, modest home on 17 York Road, 12 men who had once shaped the dreams of India sat in a room lit by soft lamplight, lamenting their fall from grace.
---
17 York Road
11:00 PM
Jawaharlal Nehru sat in his favourite armchair, his long fingers wrapped around a porcelain cup whose tea had long gone cold. His posture was straight but fatigued, the exhaustion of confinement still clinging to his eyes. Across from him, Maulana Abul Kalam Azad leaned heavily on his walking stick, his breath coming in small, laboured puffs. They looked much older tonight than they had even a month ago.
The soft murmur of Delhi traffic drifted through the curtained windows. Yet inside the room, the air was thick with the weight of unspoken truths.
They were free now—released after being confined under the guise of "security protection"—but it did not feel like freedom.
"We are ghosts in our own party," Azad murmured quietly. "Ghosts watching our legacy dismantled before our very eyes."
Nehru exhaled shakily.
"Do you think… he released us because of Mountbatten's letters?"
Azad tilted his head, studying him.
"Perhaps. But more likely, he released us because he no longer considers us a threat."
Nehru stiffened.
Azad's gaze softened. "My friend, look around us. While we were locked away, the country changed."
Nehru looked down at his trembling hands.
"How did it happen so quickly?" he whispered. "We—who fought for unity, democracy, secularism… now we stand on the margins of our own nation."
"We spoke of peace while others spilled blood," Azad said quietly. "Whether we intended to or not, we looked like men who refused to act while India burned."
Nehru winced.
Azad's voice trembled, not from age but from truth.
"People do not follow philosophers in times of war. They follow warriors."
A long silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the ticking of a brass table clock.
At last Nehru spoke, his voice a whisper.
"When did I lose them, Maulana? When did the people stop believing in me?"
"When they saw someone willing to bleed for them," Azad replied softly. "Someone who answered aggression with resolve, not hesitation."
Nehru swallowed hard.
"Is this… our failure?"
Azad closed his eyes.
"It is. We mistook moral righteousness for effective leadership."
There was no bitterness in his voice. Only sorrow.
They sat in silence, surrounded by books, paintings, memories—the relics of a world that had felt certain only six months ago.
A gentle knock at the door interrupted their thoughts.
The house attendant entered quietly.
"Sahib," he said, "your guests have arrived."
Nehru exchanged a baffled look with Azad.
"Guests?"
The attendant stepped aside.
And into the room stepped the frail, unmistakable figure of Mahatma Gandhi.
His white shawl fluttered slightly from the cold, his walking stick tapping softly against the wooden floor. His presence filled the room with an aura that felt both comforting and crushing.
"Bapu," Nehru whispered, rising so quickly his chair scraped against the floor.
Gandhi raised a hand, smiling gently.
"Sit, Jawahar. I am not here as the head of a movement. I am here as a concerned friend."
Azad's eyes filled with tears.
"You should be resting," he said softly, "not walking across the city at this hour."
Gandhi shook his head.
"How can I rest when my children are wounded? When my nation bleeds? Tonight, we must speak honestly."
He lowered himself onto a cushion on the floor, wincing slightly as his joints protested.
Nehru sat back down, folding his hands tightly.
For a moment, Gandhi simply looked at both of them, his gaze tender and piercing all at once.
"You both know why you were released," Gandhi said softly.
Nehru looked up sharply.
" Bapu?"
"Because the new India has no room for us anymore," Gandhi replied.
Azad closed his eyes, the words cutting deeper than any accusation.
Gandhi continued gently.
"You believed India could be shaped by soft hands, by persuasion, by ideals alone. But a different India is being born. One of iron. One of fire."
Nehru whispered:
"A terrible India."
"Perhaps,A necessary India," Azad murmured.
Gandhi sighed.
"Perhaps. But necessary things are not always good. And good things are not always necessary."
Nehru bowed his head into his hands.
"I feel as if we have failed."
Gandhi touched his shoulder lightly.
"We failed to see the world as it truly is. We saw what we wished it to be."
Another silence settled. Heavy. Painful.
Then Gandhi said, almost in a whisper:
"And now, the world will test the India that has been forged without us."
Before either man could answer—
The lights flickered.
Somewhere outside, a dog barked.
A street lamp buzzed sharply.
And a strange, hollow silence descended.
---
Outside the Residence
11:45 PM
DESI operatives took their positions, their dark silhouettes blending into the garden shadows. Their mission was simple: observe Major General Akbar Khan. Do not interfere. Let history unfold.
They did not know Gandhi was inside.
They did not know all moderates were gathered in one room.
They did not know tonight would become a turning point of the century.
They only watched as Khan staggered up the pathway, half-limping, half-crawling, driven by poison, rage, and a fading mind.
He was muttering to himself, delirious.
"They… killed my country… they… broke us… they… will… pay…"
The DESI men listened, breath held, fingers hovering over wireless triggers—but they did not intervene.
Orders were absolute.
Let him reach the door.
Khan reached the threshold.
His hand shook violently as he pushed it open.
---
Inside
11:47 PM
The French doors burst open with a violent crash.
Gandhi, Nehru, Azad, and the assembled moderates froze in shock.
Major General Akbar Khan stood framed in the doorway, a gaunt specter of death. His skin hung loosely on his bones, his uniform torn, his face contorted by pain and fury. Foamy spit clung to his beard.
In his hand, the pistol trembled—yet remained deadly.
"BASTARDS!" he roared, his voice barely human. "YOU DESTROYED MY COUNTRY!"
Nehru rose instinctively, hands raised.
"Sahib—please—put down the—"
The first shot split the air like a thunderclap.
Nehru jerked violently as the bullet tore through his chest. His body twisted in midair, collapsing onto the carpet, blood spreading across the Persian weave like ink from a shattered bottle.
"PANDIT-JI!" Azad screamed, leaping forward.
The second shot struck him in the abdomen.
The third pierced his temple.
His turban tumbled off as he crashed backward into a bookshelf, volumes of poetry cascading down around him like the debris of a collapsing nation.
Ghaffar Khan, the towering Frontier Gandhi, moved instinctively to stop the carnage.
"BROTHER, STOP—!"
The fourth bullet smashed into his shoulder.
The fifth grazed his skull, sending him spinning to the floor.
He slid down the wall, leaving a smear of dark blood behind him.
And then—
Silence.
Not the silence of peace.
The silence before the anchor drops on a body sinking into the ocean.
Gandhi rose slowly.
Deliberately.
As if the trembling of his legs did not matter.
He took a single step forward.
"Beta," he whispered, "what have they done to you?"
Those words—tender, heartbreaking—cut through the madness for a split second.
Khan's wild eyes flickered.
"You… LET them… destroy everything!"
Gandhi's voice remained calm. "Put down the gun, beta. We will talk. Even now, we can talk."
The sixth shot rang out.
Gandhi staggered, clutching his chest, blood staining his white khadi.
But he stayed standing.
His voice was barely audible.
"I… forgive you… my son…"
Something broke inside Khan—some last thread of sanity.
He screamed, firing wildly—
Seventh shot.
Eighth shot.
Ninth shot.
Glass shattered. Books exploded into fragments. A lamp burst into flame.
And then his knees buckled.
The poison finished its grim work.
Major General Akbar Khan collapsed face-first onto the floor, the gun skittering out of his hand, his final breath a rattling sob.
---
The massacre was complete.
The drawing room, moments earlier a chamber of moral debate, was now soaked in blood, bodies sprawled across floor and furniture, windows shattered, carpets drenched, books torn.
The moderators had died inside that room.
---
Outside, DESI operatives froze as the echo of gunfire faded into the Delhi night.
One whispered into the radio:
"Sharma-sir… target entered.
Shots fired.
Multiple casualties."
Another closed his eyes.
A third whispered a prayer.
Inside, the clock ticked softly.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
The night had changed India forever.
---
After Few Minutes...
The screaming on the secure phone sounded almost inhuman.
Colonel H.S. Sharma had been dozing at his desk in South Block—boots still on, coat still buttoned, a half-empty mug of cold tea forgotten beside classified reports. The emergency line on his desk had not rung in weeks, and its shrill cry sliced the room open like a blade across taut skin.
He snatched the receiver.
"Constable Kumar?" Sharma barked.
All he heard was breath—harsh, shaking, ragged.
"Sir… sir… you need to come. You need to—oh god—sir—"
"Speak clearly!"
"It's—" The constable's voice cracked into a wet sob. "It's a massacre, sir."
Sharma's spine straightened.
"What location?"
"17 York Road… sir…"
Sharma froze mid-breath.
"…Nehru's residence."
His heart thudded once—heavy, slow, and cold. "What happened?"
There was a whimper, a sound Sharma would never forget.
"Mah… Mahatma Gandhi… he was shot."
Sharma's blood ran ice-cold.
"What—?"
"Pandit Nehru is dead, sir. Maulana Azad also… I think… he's gone. Frontier Gandhi is down. The assassin is—he's dead. The room is—" The constable gagged. "There's blood everywhere. Sir. Please. Come."
Sharma's hand tightened around the receiver until his knuckles blanched white.
He did not reply.
He simply placed the receiver down with trembling fingers—and stood. His chair toppled behind him without a sound.
He sprinted out of his office.
---
South Block – Corridor Outside PM's Office
12:04 AM
The corridors at night usually belonged to the cleaning staff and the silent hum of teleprinters. But tonight, they rang with hurried boots and startled voices as soldiers snapped to attention watching the Colonel storm past them like a man possessed.
Sharma burst into the Prime Minister's outer office.
The lone aide on duty, startled but disciplined, stood immediately.
"Colonel—sir?"
"Wake him," Sharma said through clenched teeth.
The aide nodded once, urgent.
Sharma didn't wait. He strode to the PM's door himself—and knocked once, sharply.
No answer.
He knocked again, louder.
Still no response.
He opened the door.
Inside, Prime Minister Anirban Sen sat by the window, fully awake, fully dressed, as if waiting for precisely this moment.
His face was calm. Almost too calm.
"Sir…" Sharma managed, breathless. "There's—there's been an incident."
Sen turned slowly, his eyes sharp and unreadable. "Where?"
"York Road."
A beat.
Sharma swallowed.
"Nehru is dead."
Sen's expression did not change.
"Maulana Azad is dead."
Still no reaction.
"Gandhi-ji has been shot."
For a fraction of a second—just one—Anirban's eyes flickered. Something like a spark passed through them. Shock? Calculation? Something darker?
But then—stillness.
"Tell me everything," Sen said quietly.
And Sharma did.
The words broke out of him like a confession:
"Khan. Major General Akbar Khan. He burst into the residence. Opened fire. Multiple casualties. Gandhi-ji is stable but critical. Khan is deceased; poison had finished him."
A long silence pooled between them.
Sharma's throat tightened.
"Prime Minister… Gandhi being there… this was not part of our plan."
Sen's jaw tightened imperceptibly.
"No," he said softly. "But perhaps… the gods have arranged the pieces more efficiently than we imagined."
Sharma's skin prickled.
Sen stood, straightened his coat, and walked to the door. "I must go to the hospital. Alert the press secretary. Prepare a national broadcast for dawn."
As Sen passed him, Sharma couldn't help asking:
"Sir… is this… still under control?"
Anirban paused—only briefly—then placed a hand on Sharma's shoulder.
"Colonel," he said softly, "everything is exactly where it needs to be."
And he walked away.
Sharma watched him go with a chill crawling up his spine.
For the first time since this new India began to rise from the ashes, he understood that he was serving a man who could look at the assassinations of the nation's greatest idealists—and see opportunity at the same time.
---
17 York Road – 12:35 AM
Sharma arrived at the house to a scene that looked less like a political meeting and more like a battlefield.
Blood smeared across the once-elegant carpet. Books lay scattered like corpses, pages soaked crimson. A shattered lamp hissed faintly. The bodies… God, the bodies…
Nehru's face had frozen mid-shock, his glasses shattered beside him.
Azad's limbs lay twisted, his turban askew, his once-scholarly dignity shattered.
Ghaffar Khan's blood trailed down the wall.
Gandhi was already gone—medical staff had taken him to the ambulance minutes before Sharma arrived. The blood from his chest wound still glistened on the floor where he had stood.
And there—face down in the grotesque tableau—lay Major General Akbar Khan, fingers still curled as if around an invisible gun.
Sharma walked among the corpses with the mechanical steps of a man witnessing prophecy.
One of the DESI operatives approached, helmet tucked under his arm.
"We kept distance, Colonel," he said rigidly. "Your orders were clear."
Sharma nodded numbly. "Who called it in?"
"That constable, Rajesh, sir. He survived because he was on perimeter duty."
Sharma crouched by Khan's body.
The smell of vomit and poison lingered. The eyes were glassy. The tongue discoloured.
Just as planned.
Yet—
Gandhi…
That was not planned.
That could ruin everything—
—or make everything possible.
Sharma whispered under his breath:
"What have we unleashed?"
---
Willingdon Hospital – 4:30 AM
The hospital corridors buzzed with a kind of desperate frenzy. Survivors. Reporters. Police officers in khaki rushing up and down. Doctors flinging orders. Nurses wiping sweat from brows.
And outside, thousands of Indians held candles, chanting prayers, crying, whispering the same question to one another:
"Is Bapu alive?"
Inside the ICU, Gandhi lay on a narrow bed, chest bound in bandages, breath shallow but steady. Doctors hovered like anxious bees.
Outside the room, Anirban Sen walked slowly down the corridor, flanked by generals and aides, yet somehow entirely alone.
He had not slept.
He would not sleep.
He needed to see Gandhi.
He needed to see the last obstacle.
Dr. Sitaraman, his white coat streaked with blood, approached him.
"Prime Minister," he said, fatigue tugging at every syllable. "He survived the night. The bullet missed the heart by centimeters."
"And?" Sen asked quietly.
"And he has been asking for you."
Sen nodded.
"Take me to him."
Inside the room, the air felt unnaturally heavy. Gandhi looked impossibly small. Tubes ran from his thin arms. His chest rose and fell gently.
But his eyes…
His eyes were open.
Still bright.
Still impossibly kind.
When Sen entered, Gandhi smiled faintly.
"Anirban beta," he whispered, voice like parchment. "You came."
Sen inhaled sharply and knelt beside him, mastering the tremor in his hands.
"I am here, Bapuji."
Gandhi's fingers brushed his palm.
"The young man… he was so broken," Gandhi said softly. "So full of pain. Pain we failed to heal."
---
There it was. Even lying shot and broken, the old man was still speaking about understanding the enemy—about shared responsibility.
Anirban felt a small, buried part of himself, the part that had once believed in Gandhi, twist with something that might have been shame. But that feeling was quickly smothered by cold pragmatism.
Gandhi continued:
"You must remember, beta… even those who would kill us… they too are our brothers."
Sen swallowed hard
Ah,Brothers.
The word almost made Anirban laugh.
Brothers who massacred trains full of refugees.Brothers who raped women and threw children down wells, Brothers who during direct action day killed people, raped girls in their own college campus, hostel,school and then hanging them in front of the window to show the world.—in his previous life, and even now, if he did not intervene they would do the same.Those same Barbaric bastards according to him, is our Brothers?, Even now who had just put bullets into the three greatest moderate leaders of independent India in this life…haa
But Gandhi's eyes—those damned, knowing eyes—seemed to see straight through him. And Anirban genuinely wondered: did the old man actually know that he would be the very reason that Subcontinent would under go through 'Suddhi' of Pakistan, the radicals, the power-hungry beasts who had tried to destroy the subcontinent in his previous life, even after seventy-eight years of independence?
Sen's eyes flickered—but he said nothing.
"Of course, Bapuji," he said gently. His voice was perfect. Controlled. Heartbroken. Convincing.
Gandhi squeezed his hand.
"Do not answer hatred with hatred."
"I promise," Sen said, and it was a lie smooth as silk.
Gandhi closed his eyes.
"Good… good…"
Sen stood slowly, watching the frail chest rise and fall.
A part of him hoped Gandhi would survive.
Another part hoped the old man would slip quietly into eternity.
In either case—
Gandhi's blood had already achieved more for Sen's cause than Gandhi's words ever could,The marching banner for our Moral High Ground — the very reason that will convince the world why INDIA went to war against Pakistan and Radicals, — was the very War he painstakingly tried to stop.
---
All India Radio – 6:30 AM
The broadcasting room was cold enough to make breath visible.
Anirban Sen sat before the microphone, flanked by officers who watched him with awe, fear, and unspoken reverence. Outside the studio doors, a nation waited.
The red light blinked.
The producer's trembling hand signaled.
Silence.
Then—
Anirban's voice filled the subcontinent.
"My Brothers and Sisters of India…"
Every home, every shop, every barrack room stilled.
"I think you already know the incidents from last night, darkness visited our beloved nation.Shadows crept into the house of our great leaders.And those shadows carried guns."
The words were soft, measured. Like a surgeon cutting flesh with a delicate blade.
"Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru, the man who led India into the light of freedom… is no more."
The nation gasped.
"Moulana Abul Kalam Azad, scholar of Islam, pillar of unity… is no more."
Silence. Horrified. Devastated.
"And our Mahatma… was struck by bullets aimed at the heart of India itself. He fights for his life even at this very hour."
A wave of anguished cries rose across the continent.
Sen continued:
"They came not for soldiers. Not for politicians. They came for men of peace. Men who believed in dialogue."
His voice dropped.
"And in doing so, they have revealed who they truly are."
He inhaled.
"When they saw the apostle of non-violence himself… they raised their guns."
He let the words hang like smoke.
"We did not seek war. We sought peace, even when our enemies plotted our destruction."
He paused.
Then the transformation,his voice began to rise, the emotion precise yet controlled:
"Some of you may ask: How should we respond to this? Should we turn the other cheek, as our Mahatma taught us? Should we seek dialogue with those who answer peace with bullets?
I say to you — there comes a time when even the most peaceful must defend the sacred. There comes a time when ahimsa itself demands that we stop those who would destroy all that is good and holy in this world.
Our enemies understand only the language of force. They have shown us that. When faced with the apostle of non-violence himself, they reached for their guns. When confronted with teachers, poets, and men of God, they chose murder.
We did not seek this war. We accepted partition — painful as it was — to end the cycle of bloodshed. We sought peace, even as they plotted to destroy the peace of ours. We extended the hand of brotherhood, and they answered with assassination.
No more.
His fist came down on the desk, the sound echoing across radio speakers throughout the subcontinent.
"From Today, we will not fight for territory or political gain. We will fight for the very soul of civilization. We fight so that never again will a son or daughter of India lie bleeding because of Pakistani and radical brutality. We fight so that the sacrifice of Nehru and Azad will not be in vain.
A crackle of static filled the silence before Anirban's voice returned, softer now, almost tender:
"Go now to your temples, your mosques, your gurudwaras.Pray for our fallen.Pray for Bapu, that he may yet return to us.And pray that we may find the strength to finish what has begun by them.
Let Pakistan's rulers and their radical allies know — let the world know — that India's patience has limits. We are the children of ahimsa, yes. But we are also the children of Parshurama, who lifted his weapon to protect the peace.
India's heart has been wounded.Yes, they are using the same tactics,like how during the invasion by them in the past they killed the leaders so the soldiers became leaderless and the subject of that Rulers became Hopeless ,so they can make the opponents so weak from inside. But they forget about wounded lions are the most dangerous of all, and we have so many wound from them,
And my brothers and sisters,let me say this plainly: if there are any sympathizers who still believe Pakistan can be 'talked to,' you are mistaken. Mountbatten himself attempted to coordinate with Pakistan through Nehru so they could reclaim their naval assets from here— even when their army is clearly marching towards our Western Boarders clearly in an assault position at this very moment.
The crisis in Kashmir was created because of those power-hungry fanatics who believe every Muslim must fall under Pakistan's rule. These men planned an attack on Jammu and Kashmir through tribal lashkars — yes, even though Kashmir is our sovereign territory. Those same forces plotting massacres in Hyderabad of Hindus and Jains, in Punjab of Sikhs, and in East Bengal of Hindus at the hands of radicals.
I will not tolerate sympathies for such brutality.
If anyone feels compassion for these butchers, then I say this: you are free to leave India and go to the UK or any other Commonwealth nation,as technically we are Still citizen of British empire.
Because from this moment forward, I will severely crack down on radical elements in this country. I will not allow a single traitor to raise his head in this holy land.And this will be your last chance.
Jai Hind. Vande Mataram."
The microphone clicked off.
Anirban stepped away from the broadcasting Room, exhaled once, and turned to his aide.
"Inform General Cariappa," he said quietly. "Tandav — Phase Two begins now."
---
Outside, in the rising sun of January 8th, a wounded nation cried.
Inside, Anirban Sen watching the Map of Indian Subcontinent.
The war for India's soul has begun.
And he intended to win.