The roar at Lal Qila followed Ram down the steps like a tide that refused to recede.
"Jai Hind" rolled over the ramparts and poured into Delhi's streets—joy braided with panic so tightly he couldn't separate them. Firecrackers cracked in the distance. Somewhere a conch sounded again, thin and insistent, as if ritual alone could keep the night from unraveling.
Ram kept his face still. In crowds, fear was a contagion; authority had to look immune.
Kishan hovered near his elbow, clutching a leather folder. "The car is ready, Prime Minister Sahib. The Secretariat is expecting you. They've been waiting since evening."
Waiting. Not celebrating—waiting.
At the foot of the ramparts, the leaders stood gathered like a council of different futures. Mountbatten—Governor-General now, not Viceroy—wore a courteous expression that never quite became warmth. Nehru stood rigid, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the dispersing crowd as if it were a jury. Gandhi was barefoot, quiet, his presence calming and accusing at once. And Patel—Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel—looked like a man already counting how many things would break before dawn.
Patel stepped close enough that only Ram could hear him.
"This noise," Patel said, eyes on the dispersing crowd, "is not only happiness. It is expectation. And expectation turns poisonous when it isn't met."
Ram's fingers closed around the cold seal in his pocket. The small weight steadied him more than the slogans outside. "Then we meet it with discipline."
Patel's gaze shifted to Ram—approval held back by caution. "Discipline, yes. But listen to me carefully: no vengeance in uniform. No punishment by rumor. In these first days, every order teaches the country what kind of state it has been born into. If we lose restraint now, we won't frighten criminals—we'll frighten ordinary people into desperation."
Ram let the warning settle. He gave one deliberate nod. "That's why I want you beside me tonight."
Patel didn't hesitate. "Then I am with you."
Ram turned toward the waiting car, and Patel fell into step at his right, as if the night itself had already assigned him that place.
Delhi at night was not one city. It was several, stacked on top of each other.
In some lanes people danced, singing to the flag as if singing could make hunger irrelevant. In others shutters were down, lamps snuffed, families pressing themselves into corners of rooms as though walls could protect them. They passed knots of men arguing around tea stalls, voices too sharp for celebration. They passed refugees on foot—bundles on heads, children asleep on shoulders, eyes staring forward with the blankness of those who had already lost the right to look back.
In 2025, suffering had been numbers until it became headlines. In 1947, suffering walked beside the car.
The Secretariat building smelled of ink, sweat, and old stone. Clerks moved quickly, shoulders hunched, as if speed itself could create authority. Files lay in stacks tied with string. On the walls, portraits of British officials had been removed so recently that pale rectangles remained like ghosts.
Inside a room that tried to look neutral—long table, rotating fans, uneven lamplight—Kishan set down the folder.
"Overnight dispatches," Kishan said. "Punjab, Delhi, and the provinces. The telegraph lines are congested."
Ram placed the official seal on the table with a soft click. A small sound. A large meaning: decisions would now become orders, not suggestions.
He opened the folder and read.
PUNJAB—CROWDS GATHERING NEAR STATIONS. TENSION BETWEEN COMMUNITIES. POLICE REQUEST GUIDANCE.
DELHI—REFUGEE INFLOW EXCEEDS ESTIMATES. WATER AND FOOD STRAINED. RUMOURS OF ATTACKED TRAINS.
AMRITSAR—TRAVEL DISRUPTED. STATION MASTER REQUESTS ARMED PROTECTION.
PANIPAT—UNCONFIRMED REPORT OF VIOLENCE NEAR TRACKS.
Then a procurement note, typed, with an underline pressed so hard it nearly tore the paper:
FOREIGN COMMUNICATIONS EQUIPMENT—ADVISERS INSISTING ON PROPRIETARY ACCESS. URGENT.
Patel's gaze flicked to it. "That line troubles you."
"It should," Ram said. "It is dependency dressed as expertise."
Before Patel could respond, footsteps approached. The door opened.
Nehru entered first, composed and sleepless, the control in his face strained at the edges. Gandhi followed, quiet, eyes tired but clear. Mountbatten arrived with an aide, bringing protocol into the room like a draft.
For a moment the air tightened.
Ram didn't stand for ceremony. He didn't invite debate.
"We've had our speeches," he said. "Now we have our night."
Nehru's voice was controlled. "And in our first night of freedom, you intend to begin with coercion?"
Gandhi's tone was gentle but firm. "Peace is not weakness, Ram. It is strength."
Patel didn't speak yet. He watched Ram the way a good second-in-command watches a commander at the start of a battle: for speed, yes, but also for recklessness.
Ram slid the Punjab telegram to the center.
"Trains," he said. "If trains stop, people don't simply wait. They panic. They loot. They kill. Or they are killed. By morning, stations will become slaughterhouses unless we impose order."
Mountbatten cleared his throat. "The Punjab Boundary Force has been established to maintain order along the routes."
Patel's reply was immediate, flat. "It is stretched and new. It won't be everywhere. And violence does not wait for bureaucracy."
Ram nodded once. "So we build a procedure that does not depend on hope."
Nehru leaned forward. "A procedure built overnight is often a trap. Centralization becomes habit."
Patel finally spoke, anchoring the argument without letting it drift into philosophy.
"Centralization in a riot is not tyranny," Patel said. "It is sanitation. The danger is if it remains after the riot."
He turned his head slightly toward Ram. Not deference—reminder.
Ram accepted the constraint openly. "It will not remain. But tonight it must exist."
Gandhi watched him carefully. "And what is it you propose?"
Ram raised a finger.
"First: a crisis desk—here—linking Home, Railways, Food, and Intelligence. Every telegram comes to one place. Every response is logged. No contradictory orders. No 'I thought someone else was handling it.'"
He raised a second finger.
"Second: rail protection on prioritized corridors. Not everywhere. Where risk is credible. Station masters will send hourly codes—calm, tension, violence, line cut. Silence is treated as danger."
Mountbatten's eyebrows rose. "Hourly? That is… ambitious."
"It is simple," Ram said. "Simple is how you survive when systems are weak."
He raised a third finger.
"Third: Delhi. Refugees are arriving faster than we can feed them. Rumours will turn hunger into mobs. We prepare curfew powers for railheads and sensitive markets—prepared, not announced—while we coordinate quietly with community leaders."
Nehru's voice sharpened. "Curfew on the first night? You will make Delhi feel occupied."
Patel cut in—not to support Ram blindly, but to force precision.
"Ram," Patel said, "define limits. No collective punishment. No indiscriminate firing. And every order must be written and recorded. If we act, we act clean."
Ram met Patel's eyes. "Agreed. No firing unless attacked. No raids without cause. And every order logged."
Gandhi's expression softened slightly—still worried, but hearing the restraint.
"And peace?" Gandhi asked. "Do you intend to leave it only to the police?"
Ram's voice lowered. "No. But peace requires two things tonight: truth and order. Without them, appeals become noise."
He turned to Nehru.
"Panditji, All India Radio reaches homes that will not read notices. Within the hour I want you on radio. Calm. Clear. No poetry, no slogans. Tell them rumours are poison. Tell them violence will be punished. Tell them relief camps are being organized."
Nehru bristled at being directed—then Gandhi's gaze held him, and the bristle became reluctant acceptance.
"I will speak," Nehru said. "But my words will not be used to excuse brutality."
"They won't," Ram said. "And if they are, Patel will stop it."
Patel didn't smile. He only said, "I will."
Ram turned to Gandhi.
"Bapu," he said, "I need you away from crowds tonight. Not because you are weak—because you are irreplaceable. Speak to leaders. Volunteers. Religious heads. Ask them to restrain men who will listen to them more than they listen to us."
Gandhi nodded slowly. "I will ask. But remember: restraint cannot be demanded only from one side."
"It will not be," Ram said.
Kishan returned with two exhausted officers—Home Department and Railways—faces drained by the speed of the day.
Ram stood. "Names."
"Basu, Railways liaison, Sahib."
"Sharma, Home Department, Sahib."
"Basu," Ram said, "implement hourly station codes on the Punjab corridors immediately. Calm, tension, violence, line cut. If the telegraph fails, send a runner to the nearest functioning line. No improvisation."
Basu blinked. Patel stepped in, making the order feel like a certainty rather than a suggestion.
"This is procedure now," Patel said. "It will save lives. Execute."
Basu swallowed. "Yes, Sardar Sahib."
Ram turned to Sharma. "Establish the crisis desk within the hour. One representative each from Home, Railways, Food, Intelligence, Health, and Relief. Log decisions. If an officer refuses responsibility, replace him."
Sharma began to mention constraints.
Patel lifted a hand—quiet authority.
"Not constraints," Patel said. "Solutions. Go."
They left quickly.
The room had begun to move—men turning into machinery, ideals turning into directives.
Then Kishan returned again, this time with fear he could not hide. He held out a telegram slip as if it were burning him.
"Prime Minister Sahib… just arrived."
Ram took it. Read once. Then again. Then placed it in the center of the table.
TRAIN ATTACKED NEAR PANIPAT. CASUALTIES REPORTED. CROWD MOVING TOWARD DELHI STATION. REQUEST IMMEDIATE SUPPORT.
The words did what bullets do: they changed the room.
Nehru's face drained. Gandhi's shoulders sagged. Mountbatten inhaled sharply. Patel's jaw tightened like stone—not surprise, but anger at inevitability.
Ram stood. Not for effect. Because sitting suddenly felt like waiting.
"Kishan—curfew notices drafted for railhead areas only," Ram said. "Not city-wide. Coordinate with Sharma. And write the rules: no firing unless attacked."
Kishan ran.
Ram looked at Patel. "Sardarji—police and troops to Delhi station and choke points. Visible. Disciplined. No provocation. The crowd cannot reach the platforms."
Patel was already moving. "I will handle it."
Ram turned to Nehru. "Radio. Now."
Nehru's jaw tightened. "I will speak for calm."
"And consequences," Ram said. "Without consequences, calm is a request. Tonight it must be a warning."
Nehru held his gaze, then nodded once and left.
Gandhi rose. "I will speak to leaders. I will ask for restraint."
Ram's throat tightened. "Thank you."
Mountbatten lingered. "Prime Minister, British units can be requested—"
"No," Ram said immediately.
Patel supplied the anchor, making the refusal feel like statecraft, not pride.
"Not on the first night," Patel said. "India begins today. It will not begin by borrowing its spine."
Mountbatten's expression tightened, then smoothed. "As you wish."
At the doorway Patel paused and looked back at Ram.
"Ram," he said quietly, so only Ram could hear, "I will stand to your right. But do not let urgency make you arrogant. You want to hunt shadows—fine. But do not turn suspicion into policy. We must be feared by criminals, not by citizens."
Ram didn't bristle. "Then you will tell me when I cross the line."
Patel held his gaze for a beat. "I will. That is my job."
He left.
Ram stared at the map. Borders were lines. The consequences were bodies.
On the table, the procurement note sat under the seal—proprietary access—like a warning carved into paper.
The backdoor did not begin with code.
It began with dependency.
Kishan returned breathless. "Prime Minister Sahib—the crowd at Delhi station is growing."
Ram picked up the seal. Cold metal. Blunt authority. The tool that made hesitation illegal.
"Then we go," Ram said.
Kishan blinked. "You will go personally?"
"In 1947," Ram said softly, "authority does not always travel by paper."
He walked into the corridor. The building seemed to narrow as if it understood what the night demanded.
Outside, Delhi trembled—half celebration, half warning.
And somewhere in the dark, a train whistle sounded long and mournful, like a nation trying to remember whether freedom was supposed to feel like this.