By the time Ram returned from Delhi station, the Secretariat no longer felt like a building.
It felt like a machine warming up—paper fed in one end, decisions forced out the other, heat rising from human panic.
The corridors were crowded now: clerks with ink-stained fingers, officers with sweat-darkened collars, runners moving in short bursts like messenger pigeons without wings. The fans overhead pushed warm air around without cooling anything. A nation had been born, and already it was demanding paperwork like blood.
Patel walked at Ram's right, exactly as promised. Not hovering. Not flattering. Just present—solid, watchful—making the chaos around them behave.
Kishan ran ahead to clear the room.
When they entered the crisis desk, it was already in motion. A Home Department man sat with a stack of telegrams. Railways had a timetable spread like a battlefield map. Relief scribbled lists—water, rice, blankets—numbers that looked too small. Intelligence, late as always, had arrived with a thin file and a thicker caution.
On the table, under a lamp, lay the slip Patel had received at the station:
VENDOR REPRESENTATIVE ARRIVED—REQUESTS IMMEDIATE SIGNATURE FOR 'EMERGENCY COMMUNICATIONS ACCESS.' CLAIMS GOVERNOR-GENERAL'S OFFICE SUPPORT.
Ram placed it in the center of the table as if it were evidence in court.
The Home officer—Sharma—cleared his throat. "Prime Minister Sahib, the representative is waiting outside. He insists it is urgent. He says the equipment will fail without—"
Patel's eyes narrowed. "Without what?"
Sharma hesitated. "Without 'service access' for their technical team."
Ram looked at the Intelligence representative, a thin man with a careful face. "Name."
"Raghavan, Sahib."
"Raghavan," Ram said, "tell me what 'service access' means in plain language."
Raghavan didn't glance at the paper; he spoke as if he'd seen this trap before. "It means a foreign team wants unsupervised access to our communications infrastructure—installation, maintenance, and control points. Once granted, it is difficult to revoke without disruption. It creates dependency."
Patel's jaw tightened. "And they are asking for the Prime Minister's signature."
"Yes," Raghavan said. "Because signatures create legitimacy."
Ram's fingers found the official seal in his pocket and held it—not in fear, in refusal. In 2025, he had signed frameworks that "accelerated rollout." He had watched those signatures become chains.
He looked at Sharma. "Who asked for this tender?"
Sharma glanced at his notes. "The advisory group attached to Communications. British technical consultants are recommending it. They claim the transition requires 'continuity of expertise.' The representative says the Governor-General's office—"
Patel cut him off. "Do not repeat that like it is sacred scripture."
Sharma swallowed. "Yes, Sardar Sahib."
Ram spoke calmly. "Bring him in."
Sharma blinked. "Prime Minister Sahib—"
"Bring him," Ram repeated.
Patel added, almost casually, "And keep two constables outside the door. Quietly."
A minute later, the vendor representative entered.
He was dressed like a man who wanted to look indispensable: crisp suit despite the heat, leather folder held close, hair combed as if the night had been gentle. He smiled too quickly, as if he believed charm was an instrument of state.
"Prime Minister," he began, "congratulations on this historic—"
Ram didn't return the greeting. "Your name."
"Douglas," the man said, still smiling. "Mr. Douglas. I represent—"
"Sit," Patel said, and the word landed like an order that had been obeyed for decades.
Douglas sat.
Ram leaned forward slightly. "You have requested an emergency signature granting proprietary access to communications equipment. Explain why that access cannot be supervised by Indian officers."
Douglas's smile tightened. "Prime Minister, with respect, this equipment is complex. The training of local personnel will take time. Without our engineers having full access, there may be—"
"Delays," Patel supplied, voice flat.
Douglas nodded eagerly. "Yes. And disruptions. We cannot guarantee performance if—"
Ram lifted a hand. "Performance is not the subject. Control is."
Douglas blinked. "Control? Prime Minister, these are technical details. Maintenance protocols."
Raghavan spoke, quiet as a scalpel. "Maintenance protocols do not require unilateral access. They require oversight."
Douglas's gaze flicked to Raghavan, then back to Ram. "Sir, the Governor-General's office—"
Patel's voice cut in, sharp. "Stop invoking offices as if they are blessings. Speak to the Prime Minister."
Douglas's smile faltered for the first time. "Very well. The reality is simple. Without this arrangement, the installation timeline will slip. Communications coordination will suffer. In the current unrest—"
"In the current unrest," Ram repeated, and his tone was mild enough to be dangerous, "you believe urgency is a lever."
Douglas's throat moved. "Prime Minister, I am trying to help."
Ram nodded once, as if acknowledging sincerity. "Then help properly."
He reached into his pocket and placed the official seal on the table. The metal clicked softly, and the room's energy shifted. The seal was not a threat. It was a boundary.
"This seal," Ram said, "turns ink into authority. That is why you want it."
Douglas looked at it, then back at Ram. "It is standard procedure."
"It is colonial procedure," Patel corrected, coldly. "And we are done with it."
Douglas took a breath, trying again. "Prime Minister, you are inheriting systems. The fastest way to stabilize them is to keep the experts in control until—"
"Until when?" Ram asked.
Douglas hesitated. "Until local capability is developed."
Ram's eyes didn't move. "Define 'developed.' Six months? One year? Five? Or 'developed' the way a patient is 'stable' when he remains on life support?"
Douglas opened his mouth.
No answer came.
Patel leaned forward slightly. "Now you understand why this will not be signed."
Douglas's voice hardened, a thin edge appearing beneath the polish. "If you refuse, Prime Minister, you risk communications failures at a time of violence. Responsibility will be—"
Ram interrupted, calm. "Responsibility will be mine whether I sign or refuse. The difference is what kind of country I leave behind."
He gestured to Sharma. "Draft a counter-proposal."
Sharma blinked. "Prime Minister Sahib?"
Ram spoke with clipped clarity. "Any foreign technical team may access equipment only under joint supervision: one Home officer, one Intelligence officer, and one Indian engineer. Access logs must be written and signed daily. No private keys, no exclusive toolkits, no sealed 'proprietary' compartments. If something must be opened, it is opened in front of us."
Douglas looked stunned. "That will slow us considerably."
Patel's response was immediate. "Good."
Douglas turned to Mountbatten's name again like a drowning man reaching for a rope. "But the Governor-General's office—"
Ram's eyes sharpened. "I will speak to the Governor-General's office myself. You will not."
Douglas stood abruptly. "Prime Minister, this is—"
Patel rose as well, just enough. The room went quiet in a way that made Douglas remember where he was.
"Sit," Patel said.
Douglas sat.
Ram's voice dropped slightly. "You will deliver your written technical requirements to Sharma. You will not seek signatures from junior officers. You will not use unrest to force concessions. And you will not return to this room until you understand that 'help' does not come with ownership."
Douglas swallowed. "Understood."
"Good," Ram said. "Now leave."
Douglas gathered his folder with hands that were less steady than when he entered and walked out.
When the door closed, the crisis desk exhaled.
Patel looked at Ram, not praising, not disapproving—measuring. "You chose the hard path. That is correct."
Raghavan added, "They will push again. Different vendor. Different face. Same request."
Ram nodded. "Then we make the request illegal."
He turned to Sharma. "Where is Ambedkar?"
"Dr. Ambedkar Sahib is at his residence," Sharma said. "He said he would draft emergency provisions by morning."
"Send a runner," Ram said. "Tell him I want language that makes unsupervised access to state communications a criminal offense during emergency. Not a policy. A law."
Sharma hesitated. "Prime Minister Sahib, legislation—"
Patel answered, anchoring the practical reality. "Ordinance if required. Emergency provisions can be issued. We will not let paperwork be used against us."
Ram looked at Patel. "Thank you."
Patel's mouth tightened. "Don't thank me. Just keep your line steady."
A runner arrived with fresh telegrams. The Home man sorted them rapidly, reading headings aloud.
"Punjab—reports of clashes near refugee camps."
"Delhi—crowd thinning at station. Police holding."
"Food—grain stocks strained in Old Delhi."
"Railways—requests for armed escorts increasing."
Ram listened, then pointed to the rail timetable. "Prioritize escort segments based on last reported violence. Not on who shouts loudest."
Basu, the rail liaison, nodded quickly. "Yes, Sahib."
Patel leaned toward Basu. "And rotate the escorts. Men who stand in fear too long begin to behave like beasts."
Basu swallowed. "Yes, Sardar Sahib."
The crisis desk began to feel like something real: not a room with papers, but a nervous system forming under pressure.
Then another slip arrived—smaller, carried by a man whose face suggested he'd run without stopping.
He handed it to Raghavan.
Raghavan read it once, and his eyes changed.
He passed it to Ram without a word.
It was a procurement note, not a telegram—typed, official format, with a stamp that looked too new.
EMERGENCY COMMUNICATIONS ACCESS—ALTERNATE AUTHORIZATION ROUTE IDENTIFIED. REQUESTING SIGNATURE FROM MINISTERIAL SECRETARY.
Patel's voice was quiet. "They are attempting to bypass you."
Ram stared at the paper. In 2025, the betrayal had moved exactly like this: denied at the top, rerouted through "urgent" channels, signed by someone who didn't understand the consequence.
He folded the note carefully.
"No one signs," Ram said. "Not me. Not a secretary. Not a deputy. No signature without crisis desk review."
Patel nodded once. "And we make sure they cannot forge one."
He turned to Sharma. "Seal custody. From this moment: only two people touch the seal—Prime Minister and designated custodian. Every use logged. Witnessed."
Sharma's eyes widened. "Yes, Sardar Sahib."
Ram looked at Patel. The anchor wasn't only asking questions; he was building guardrails around Ram's own power so it could not be stolen.
Patel met his gaze. "This is how corruption enters—through convenience."
Ram's voice was low. "And how it kills—through legitimacy."
A telephone on the side table rang—rare, abrupt. Kishan answered, listened, then looked at Ram.
"Prime Minister Sahib. Pandit Nehru is on the line."
Ram took the receiver. "Panditji."
Nehru's voice came through controlled but tense. "My broadcast has gone out. The station crowd is calmer. But you are moving toward emergency powers with alarming speed."
Ram kept his tone neutral. "Alarming speed is better than alarming delay."
Nehru exhaled sharply. "Do not turn this Republic into a fortress on its first night."
Ram's eyes drifted to the folded procurement note. Fortress. Capture. Those weren't opposites; they were two different failures.
"I am not building a fortress," Ram said. "I am building a lock. There is a difference."
Nehru paused. "A lock can also keep people out who deserve to enter."
Ram answered carefully. "Then help me decide who deserves the key."
Nehru's silence was the silence of a man unused to being invited into someone else's design.
Finally, Nehru said, "I will come in the morning. We must discuss the tone of the state you are creating."
"Come," Ram replied. "We will discuss tone after the city stops bleeding."
He replaced the receiver.
Patel watched him. "He will resist you."
"He should," Ram said. "Resistance keeps me honest."
Patel's mouth tightened faintly—approval that wasn't praise.
Another message arrived—this one in Gandhi's handwriting, delivered by a volunteer whose eyes were red with exhaustion.
Kishan read aloud softly: "Bapu says he has spoken to community leaders. Volunteers are organizing water distribution at relief clusters. He requests that police refrain from harshness and that leaders speak with one voice for calm."
Patel spoke first. "Tell Bapu we will refrain from harshness. But we will not refrain from arresting men who want blood."
Ram nodded. "Send that reply."
Kishan bowed and hurried out.
The night deepened. Telegrams came in waves, then lulls, then waves again. Each lull was worse, because it meant something had failed to report.
Sometime past midnight, Sharma leaned close to Ram. "Prime Minister Sahib, the Governor-General's office has sent a message. They request a meeting at first light regarding 'communications arrangements' and 'continuity.'"
Patel's eyes hardened. "As expected."
Ram's fingers found the seal again, through cloth, as if checking it was still real.
"First light," Ram repeated. "Good. We will be ready."
Patel asked the question that mattered, the one no one else would voice.
"What will you say to Mountbatten when he insists?"
Ram didn't answer immediately. He looked at the map on the wall—clean lines trying to represent a dirty reality. He looked at the stacks of papers—human misery organized into categories.
And he thought of 2025, of smiling men calling capture "collaboration."
"I will say," Ram replied, "that India will accept help, not ownership."
Patel nodded. "And if he pushes?"
Ram's voice was calm, but there was steel beneath it. "Then we remind him politely that the empire has ended. And we do it with paperwork."
Patel's mouth twitched, almost amused. "You are learning my language."
Raghavan spoke, quietly. "Prime Minister Sahib—permission to begin discreet inquiries into the advisory group pushing these tenders."
Patel's head turned instantly. "Discreet. Legal. No hunting without proof."
Ram met Raghavan's eyes. "Yes. Identify who is pushing. Identify who benefits. And identify who is willing to bypass authority."
Raghavan nodded. "Understood."
Patel added, "And keep it contained. If rumours spread that the government is 'purging' on the first night, it will feed fear."
Ram's gaze flicked to Patel. "Agreed."
For a moment, the room was almost quiet—only fans, distant shouting, a clerk's pen scratching. Then, from far away, a train whistle sounded—long, mournful, like a question the country didn't know how to answer.
A runner burst in again, breathless, and handed Basu a telegram. Basu read and paled.
"What?" Patel demanded.
Basu swallowed. "Ambala line reports… another crowd forming at a station. They say a train of refugees is delayed and there are armed men nearby."
Patel turned to Sharma. "Dispatch escort."
Sharma nodded.
Ram looked at the telegram and felt the pattern tightening. Violence was not a single fire. It was sparks in ten places at once.
He stood.
Patel's voice came immediately—anchor, not obstruction. "Where are you going now?"
"To see the Governor-General at first light," Ram said. "And to ensure no one signs away our throat in the dark."
Patel rose as well. "Then I will be there."
Ram looked around the room—at clerks who had become soldiers of paper, at officers trying to invent procedure while the nation burned, at the seal on the table like a small, hard heart.
He spoke quietly, more to them than to himself.
"Tonight," Ram said, "we did not win peace. We only prevented collapse."
Patel nodded once. "That is enough for a first night."
Ram picked up the seal, tucked it away, and walked toward the corridor.
Behind him, the crisis desk kept moving. Ahead of him, dawn waited—bringing not relief, but the next test: an empire's polite pressure and a new nation's fragile spine.
And in the dark, somewhere between urgency and paperwork, someone was still trying to get a signature.