Karachi Naval Headquarters — January 8th, 1948 — 7:00 AM
The dawn over Karachi should have been beautiful.
A thin golden edge had formed over the Arabian Sea, casting a soft glow on the anchored freighters, the rust-red cranes, the line of destroyers sitting still and silent like chained beasts waiting for release. Dock workers were beginning their morning routines, lighting cigarettes, stretching, exchanging curses or jokes in half-sleep.
It should have been another ordinary January morning.
Instead, at 7:00 AM, the world ended.
The first explosion tore through the harbor with a sound that shook every window from Clifton to Saddar. A column of seawater and flame erupted skyward as the Indian Navy's bombers descended from the low morning haze, sunlight glinting off their wings like executioner blades.
For a second, nobody in the Karachi Naval Headquarters understood what they were seeing.
Then came the second explosion—closer, louder, violently rippling through the office floors—and the entire eastern fuel depot blossomed into a fireball so large it could be seen from miles inland.
Sirens wailed across the port.
Another explosion.
And another.
And another.
The bombardment had begun.
Inside the Naval Headquarters, Vice Admiral Mustafa Rahmani, Chief of Pakistan Navy, stumbled from behind his desk so violently that he nearly overturned a map table.
"What—what in God's name—?!"
His operations officer ran to the window, flinched, and immediately ducked as another blast lit the sky orange.
"Sir! Sir! It's the Indian Navy! They're— they're bombing the port!"
For one brief, breathless moment, the admiral simply stared, unable to comprehend what he was hearing. Then he rushed to the window and froze.
Across the harbor, the Pakistani destroyer PNS Shamsheer had been hit—its midsection engulfed in flames, listing rapidly, sailors scrambling like ants across its deck. Columns of smoke were rising from the fuel tanks. The shore installations were erupting one by one.
It was carnage.
"Impossible…" Rahmani whispered. "Impossible… we were planning the strike today. How—how did they attack first?"
His voice trembled with disbelief and a strange flicker of fear.
The Indian Navy had moved before Pakistan.
Before his navy.
Before his plan.
"Did—did they learn of our operation?" he murmured, more to himself than anyone in the room.
The unspoken implications knifed through him.
If India knew…
If India pre-empted…
Then the game was already lost.
But then—slowly—another thought emerged in his mind, creeping in like a serpent wrapped in silk.
Maybe this could work.
Maybe this could be turned around.
Maybe—
He exhaled, and a small smile—thin, bitter, opportunistic—tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"If India attacked first…" he whispered, "…then the world will see them as the aggressors."
Some of his officers turned toward him, startled.
"Sir?"
He straightened his uniform, forcing calm into his voice.
"Don't you see? Western nations are already nervous about India. If they fired first, we can frame this as unprovoked aggression. We can—"
A thunderous blast cut him off as the munitions warehouse detonated, shaking the entire HQ building. Dust rained from the ceiling. The lights flickered. Someone screamed from the corridor.
Still, Rahmani continued, his voice rising:
"This may save us. We can show the world photographs—our burning ships—our wounded sailors. India will look like the warmonger, not us. This—this could turn the diplomatic tide. This could—"
The door crashed open.
An aide sprinted inside, breathless, pale, sweat pouring down his face.
"Sir—sir—sir!"
Rahmani turned, annoyed at the interruption.
"What now? Speak!"
The aide's mouth opened and closed like he was drowning.
"Sir… Delhi… there has been an attack…"
"Attack?" Rahmani snapped, irritated. "Yes, I can see that! They're bombing our damn coast—"
"No, sir."
The aide shook his head violently.
"No sir—Delhi. The Indian capital. Last night."
Rahmani blinked.
"What are you babbling about?"
The aide held out a piece of teletype paper—his hand shaking uncontrollably.
"It's all over All India Radio. Repeated by BBC World Service. Confirmed by Reuters. Confirmed by… by Washington and London."
A strange coldness spread through the room.
Rahmani felt something twist deep in his stomach.
"What has been confirmed?" he whispered.
The aide swallowed hard.
Then uttered the words that shattered the admiral's brief, delusional hope:
"Sir… a Pakistani operative killed Jawaharlal Nehru."
Everything inside the admiral turned to stone.
His fleeting smile evaporated.
His legs almost buckled.
"What… what did you just say?"
The aide stepped forward, voice cracking with terror.
"Sir—All India Radio says the assassin was a Pakistani military operative. The BBC is repeating it word for word. The Americans… the British… they are all confirming it. Nehru is—"
He broke off, unable to finish.
The admiral snatched the paper from his hand.
His eyes raked across the printed lines.
And for a moment, he forgot how to breathe.
ALL INDIA RADIO — SPECIAL BULLETIN
REPEATED BY BBC WORLD SERVICE
DEPUTY PRIME MINISTER JAWAHARLAL NEHRU ASSASSINATED INSIDE HIS HOUSE EARLIER HOURS THIS DAY. MAULANA ABUL KALAM AZAD ALSO CONFIRMED DEAD.
MAHATMA GANDHI AND KHAN ABDUL GHAFFAR KHAN AND OTHER MODERATE LEADERS ARE IN CRITICAL CONDITION.
PERPETRATOR IDENTIFIED AS PAKISTANI OPERATIVE.
ASSAILANT KILLED AT SCENE.
The letters swam in front of Rahmani's eyes.
"No… no… no…"
He staggered back, gripping the edge of a table so hard his knuckles turned white.
The aide continued, his voice barely audible:
"Sir… Gandhi is still alive but fighting for his life. Doctors say the next hours are critical. The world is… sir, the world is collapsing."
Rahmani felt a chill run through his spine, as if all warmth had been stripped from the air.
His brief hope—his plan to paint India as the aggressor—was crushed under the weight of a far greater catastrophe.
He sank into his chair, numb.
"The Americans confirmed it…?" he asked quietly.
"Yes, sir. President Truman issued a statement twenty minutes ago:
'Evidence provided by Delhi and all other circumstantial evidences indicates the killer was a Pakistani military operative acting under our direction.'"
"And… and Britain?"
The aide swallowed.
"Prime Minister Attlee addressed Parliament at dawn. He said…"
His voice cracked.
"He said Pakistan has committed an 'unforgivable act of barbarism.'"
Rahmani pressed a trembling hand to his forehead.
The bombardment outside continued, each explosion punctuating the hopelessness settling over him.
His dream of flipping the narrative—
Gone.
Destroyed in a single sentence from All India Radio.
He looked back at the paper, forcing himself to read it again, hoping—praying—it might say something different the second time.
It didn't.
Another explosion shook the building.
His officers were shouting commands, calling the docks, coordinating emergency responses—but none of it mattered.
Not anymore.
Because something far worse than military defeat had descended upon Pakistan.
The aide spoke again, voice softer now, like he was delivering a death sentence.
"Sir… there is more. The RAWALPINDI GHQ has been informed. General Akbar Khan is reading the BBC transcript right now."
Rahmani stiffened.
"The… the GENERAL?"
The aide nodded.
"Yes, and sir. BBC is reporting the assassin's name… as Pakistan Military's Operative who under Pakistan leadership and General Akbar Khan direct Oversight went into India."
That hit like a knife to the gut.
Rahmani closed his eyes.
"God help us…"
He whispered it without thinking.
Because there was no other force left that could.
The naval bombardment raged outside, but the true disaster was happening inside their borders, inside their politics, inside the soul of the newborn nation.
Rahmani had, minutes ago, believed he had a weapon.
Now he understood:
India possessed the real and most lethal one.
A weapon stronger than bombs, stronger than ships—
a weapon made of images,
martyrs,
and moral fury.
And Pakistan stood in the center of a global courtroom with no defense, no allies, no hope.
Rahmani looked again at the BBC line.
"Perpetrator identified as Pakistani Military's operative...."
He felt the floor tilt.
The room swam.
For the first time in his life, he felt something he had never allowed himself to feel:
Pure, unfiltered, helpless fear.
The aide spoke again, voice barely above a whisper:
"Sir… Gandhi may die."
Rahmani inhaled sharply.
A coldness spread through him that no fire from the bombardment could counter.
"That will be the end," he murmured.
"Not of the war."
His voice softened, trembling.
"But of Pakistan."
The building shook again as another bomb fell—this one close enough that glass shattered across the room.
Officers ducked, screamed, crawled, shouted into radios.
But Rahmani remained still, staring at the bulletin.
Because the worst explosion of the morning
had not come from the Indian Navy.
It had come from Delhi.
And its shockwave was only beginning.
_____
Rawalpindi GHQ — 8:30 AM
The ticking of the wall clock in the operations room felt louder than artillery.
It was 8:29 AM.
The room was crowded, suffocatingly so—uniforms pressed against the walls, aides rushing with telegrams, British, American, Pashtun, Punjabi officers all speaking in fragments, half-sentences, broken spirals of panic. Cigarette smoke curled thick in the air. The lights above flickered slightly with every tremor.
The bombardment in Karachi had been going on for over an hour while Pakistan's western border is under attack by Indian Army, it's northern boarder is now also under attack by Indian Air Force.
Everyone in Rawalpindi could feel the war turning.
Leaking.
Rotting.
Collapsing.
General Akbar Khan stood at the center of the war room, gripping the teletype paper with trembling hands. His own name—his own name—was stamped on the world's most damning accusation: the assassin of Nehru, the murderer of Azad, the man whose "operative" had almost killed Gandhi.
He had read the line ten times.
Ten times it said the same thing.
"Perpetrator identified as Pakistani operative —who was working under the direct oversight of Major General Akbar Khan."
His breath came unevenly, as if the air itself refused to enter his lungs.
A few feet away, Liaquat Ali Khan, the Prime Minister of Pakistan, looked hollow, like a man whose soul was leaking from his body. He had been crying on and off since dawn—openly, unashamedly, the tears tracing lines down his cheeks as telegram after telegram confirmed the truth of their doom.
Jinnah…
The Quaid-e-Azam sat in his chair like a shadow of himself, his face gaunt, his hands trembling slightly on the cane he held. He hadn't spoken in the last five minutes—not because he didn't want to, but because he was trying to gather a voice that kept breaking.
British General Douglas Gracey and his deputy, General Messervy, stood by the map table. Messervy looked like a statue carved out of grief and fury. Gracey was ghost-pale—his razor-sharp British confidence had melted away into something like disbelief, like a teacher watching a bright student commit suicide for no reason at all.
Telegrams lay scattered across the central table.
From London:
"Britain condemns Pakistan's barbaric assassination of Indian leaders. Aid and military support suspended indefinitely."
From Washington:
"White House views the assassination as an act of state-sponsored terrorism. All cooperation halted pending further investigation."
From Cairo, Mecca, Tehran, Kabul:
Statements of condemnation.
Disgust.
Distancing.
No one was standing with Pakistan anymore.
Not even their imagined friends or Brothers.
The room was a mausoleum, full of men waiting to hear the final prayer.
At 8:30 AM, a signal officer—eyes red, voice shaking—said softly:
"Sir… All India Radio is about to begin a national broadcast. They say Anirban Sen himself will speak."
The entire room stiffened.
Anirban Sen.
The man they had underestimated.
The man they thought was a politician.
The man who had turned into a storm.
"Put it on," Jinnah whispered, the first words he'd spoken in what felt like an hour.
The radio crackled, hissed, then cleared.
There was a hushed silence—tangible, oppressive—before a voice emerged:
"This is All India Radio. Prime Minister Anirban Sen addressing the nation."
Akbar Khan felt his heart slam once, painfully hard.
Anirban's voice came through like a blade.
Calm.
Measured.
But choked at the edges with grief.
"My fellow Indians…
It is with a shattered heart that I inform you…
Bapu is no more.
Gandhiji has passed away."
The war room fell still.
Even the electrical hum of the radio seemed to fade into nothingness.
Liaquat Ali Khan's breath hitched—he covered his mouth with both hands, tears spilling over. His shoulders shook in silent sobs. The man who had fought so hard to create Pakistan now looked like a child lost in a storm.
Jinnah's face tightened, the muscles trembling. His cane slipped slightly from his grasp. His lips parted—but no words emerged.
Gracey bowed his head.
Messervy closed his eyes, jaw clenched as though holding back a roar of frustration, of rage at the sheer stupidity of what had transpired.
And Akbar Khan…
Akbar Khan felt like he had been stabbed straight through the spine.
He felt cold.
So cold.
Colder than Karachi's burning port, colder than the Himalayan snows.
He whispered, "Gandhi… dead… oh God…"
On the radio, Anirban continued—his voice breaking so softly it cut deeper than any scream.
"This nation has lost its Teacher
Humanity has lost its greatest apostle of peace."
He drew in a ragged breath.
"And the world has lost the man who proved that truth and compassion were stronger than empires."
Everyone in GHQ felt the room tightening around them.
Anirban's voice hardened.
"But Gandhi-ji did not fall to illness.
He did not fall to age.
He was murdered.
Assassinated.
Struck down by cowards who feared the light he carried."
The words were daggers.
Deadly.
Precise.
Undeniable.
An aide in the corner whispered shakily:
"Sir… this is… this is the end…"
But Anirban was not done.
"These Bastards," he said, voice dipped in cold steel,
"have crossed a line that must never be crossed."
The sentence felt like thunder.
"Gandhiji thought they will understand so he left them on their own, even after they provoked hatred and violence against Sikhs and Hindus in 1946, be it their open proclamation of direct Action day or giving direct orders to initiate riots in Nohakhali . Even now after gaining independence,they planned the genocide of Hindus,sikhs,jains, Buddist in Kashmir, Hydrabad,Sindh,Punjab, Balochistan. And Specially East Bengal, yes East Bengal not East pakistan because they do the refferendum at the time when 80% percent of East bengal is suffering from flood and natural disaster. Many lost their lives at that time and technically this refferendum should be scrap, But Bapu tells us to give away the East Bengal to Pakistan so in future peace can be maintained in subcontinent.
And now… they have launched an open terror attack on Same Bapu and India's most moderate, most peaceful leaders. My Brother and Sister who are civilian of Pakistan this war not against you it's against your Leadership who cross the every line.."
Jinnah closed his eyes, pained.
He knew every word was a nail in their coffin.
Anirban's tone grew even harsher.
"They thought they tried to slaughter the conscience of humanity…
But they have only awakened the fury of a billion hearts."
A deep breath.
One that trembled.
"For Gandhi-ji, for Nehru, for Maulana Azad, for Khan Abdul Ghaffar Khan…
I say this:
I will not stop until those responsible stand before the world and apologize.
For their crimes.
For their provocations.
For their plan to cleanse Kashmir and other places of its people.
And for this unspeakable attack."
The microphone crackled.
And then, with devastating clarity:
"Pakistan will answer for this."
Silence.
A silence so deep it felt like the world had paused.
Then Anirban closed with a final line, soft yet seismic:
"May God give us the strength to endure… and the courage to bring justice. And you guys the civilian of Pakistan should also take a safe shelters, because we will search for every one of them who are responsible for this, bring infront of the world to punish them"
The broadcast cut.
The radio fell silent.
The war room breathed out, if breathing could describe that sound—a shudder, a collapse, a collective gasp of men who now knew, fully, completely, that their nation had just died even before the bombs finished their work.
Liaquat Ali Khan's grief spilled over.
He leaned back against the wall, waistcoat soaked with tears, whispering:
"We are finished…
We are damned…
Why… why did this happen…?"
Jinnah placed a trembling hand over his eyes.
His voice, when it came, was ancient.
"Because the men who struck Gandhi did not merely kill an Indian leader.
They struck at the soul of the world."
Messervy stepped forward, slamming both hands on the map table.
"This is madness! Absolute madness! You have handed India the greatest propaganda victory in modern history! Gandhi's death will be a rallying cry—FOREVER."
His voice cracked on the last word.
Akbar Khan staggered toward the table, dropping the teletype paper. It fluttered to the floor, landing face up.
His name on it glared at him like a curse.
He whispered:
"Why… why would they frame me?
Why use my identity…?"
Then one answered.
"Because, Sir he is really our Operative, whose work is to give us indian military intelligence. And if they really use him then we are the one who gave them ready-made weapon to use against us"
And then Silence follows and no one speak after this...
Because the truth was irrelevant.
The world had decided.
And the room felt it.
A death sentence had just been delivered—
Not only to them, but to the nation their fathers had carved from the partition lines just months earlier.
A colonel burst through the door, gasping.
"Sirs—new cables from London and Washington!"
Gracey's face twisted.
"Let me guess. More condemnation?"
"Worse, sir!" the colonel cried.
"MI6 and CIA headquarters are furious—furious with Pakistan!"
The room turned sharply.
"Furious?" Jinnah asked, voice barely a whisper.
"Yes, sir—they are saying—sir, they are saying Pakistan has ruined everything!"
Another colonel rushed in behind him, clutching another sheet.
"They are saying this assassination has undone every strategic plan the West had for the region!"
"Read it," Messervy ordered through gritted teeth.
The colonel read, voice shaking.
"MI6 Field Report #1023
To London Station
Subject: Pakistan situation
Text: 'Why did they kill Gandhi now? They have destroyed our entire strategy. India now holds absolute moral ground. Britain cannot protect Pakistan after this.'"
The room turned colder.
Another sheet.
"CIA Karachi Station
To Langley
'Pakistani operatives have detonated the subcontinent. For God's sake, why Gandhi? This is uncontrollable. We're are already losing India completely, and now this!'"
Another.
"CIA Field Officer (Unnamed)
'This is the end. No one will forgive them for Gandhi. We can't cover this. We can't justify it. They've doomed themselves.'"
The colonel swallowed.
"One agent wrote… that he… he cried, sir. He said he cried when he heard Gandhi died, because his death reconfigure the entire Geo-politics in this region."
Gracey ran a hand across his face.
Messervy whispered, "Christ…"
Jinnah, voice quivering:
"So even the West mourns Gandhi more than it stands with us."
No one corrected him.
Because it was true.
Gandhi was the one man the world trusted.
The one moral compass of a planet recovering from fascism.
And Pakistan had been framed—conclusively, unmistakably—as the hand that shot him.
Gandhi's death had sealed their fate more ruthlessly than any Indian bomber.
Akbar Khan exhaled shakily, voice cracking:
"What… what do we do now?"
The question hung in the air like a noose.
Liaquat Ali Khan wiped his eyes, swallowed hard.
"There are only two choices," he said, voice hollow.
"Fight to the last man…"
"Or… surrender," Jinnah finished for him.
No one dared speak.
Finally Jinnah said:
"If we fight to the last man… Pakistan will be wiped off the map. Burned out of existence."
Messervy nodded grimly.
"If you surrender… you may survive. But only as a humiliated protectorate."
Liaquat slammed his fist weakly against the wall.
"Then what choice do we have?!"
No one answered.
Because the truth was shameful, simple, devastating:
There was no choice.
The colonel at the door hesitated.
"There is… one more telegram. From Karachi."
Rahmani.
It had to be Rahmani.
"Read it," Jinnah whispered.
The colonel swallowed.
"Sir… Karachi Port is destroyed.
Half the navy is burning.
The fuel reserves are gone.
Civilians are fleeing inland.
And… and Admiral Rahmani is pleading for orders."
Akbar Khan sank into a chair.
Jinnah closed his eyes.
Liaquat let out a sob so deep it sounded like something breaking.
Messervy whispered, "This… is the end."
A silence fell.
A silence thick and cold as a grave.
Then, from the corridor, faint but unmistakable, more radio static—another broadcast from Delhi.
A reporter's voice:
"…crowds across India mourning Gandhi…"
"…world leaders in shock…"
"…calls for Pakistan's complete isolation…"
"…Prime Minister Anirban Sen has vowed that the killers will face justice—Pakistan must answer."
And then:
"…the funeral procession is expected to be the largest in human history."
Jinnah opened his eyes.
They glistened—not with tears, but with the horrible clarity of a dying man who finally understands the fate of the nation he birthed.
"We cannot win," he whispered.
"We cannot surrender."
He looked at the map of Pakistan.
"And we cannot survive."
No one spoke for a long time.
Outside, the winter sun rose higher, indifferent to the death of a nation.
Inside, Pakistan's leaders sat in the cold glow of daylight, each man broken in a different way:
Jinnah: silent, trembling, devastated.
Liaquat: sobbing, gasping, praying under his breath.
Akbar Khan: staring at his own name on the BBC report, shaking uncontrollably.
Messervy: whispering "This is the end."
MI6/CIA: sending cables filled with curses and tears, mourning Gandhi, mourning their failed plans.
And somewhere far away,
in Delhi,
the funeral bells began to ring