"Do you consider Nehru a formidable man?"
Baring's fingers were laced neatly, his tone almost casual — but Alan knew better. Questions like this were probes, not pleasantries.
"Yes, Sir Baring," Alan said with measured certainty. "Compared to Gandhi's romanticism about pastoral life, Nehru's ambitions are… more worthy of attention."
His voice was calm, deliberate.
In truth, both Jawaharlal Nehru of the Congress and Muhammad Ali Jinnah of the Muslim League were men to be reckoned with — political tacticians who could bend history to their will.
Nehru was no crowd-pleasing populist. He was a man who would reform land, reclaim Goa from the Portuguese, defeat Pakistan in war, and overturn the notion that Hindus were unfit for soldiering. His respect for Indian culture never stopped him from using force when required.
Jinnah, by contrast, was a man of the West in both dress and thought — secular to the bone, treating religion as a tool rather than a creed. Yet as leader of a minority bloc, he could never escape its shadow. Ill health would one day see his Pakistan slide into the very religious politics he once kept at bay.
Alan's mind, sharp with the memory of a future no one else knew, linked threads that others would only see in hindsight. Nehru's formative visit to the fledgling Soviet Union had left an imprint that would later guide his governance — borrowing socialist methods for Indian problems. Without the storms of war, Nehru might have built India into something truly formidable.
Baring regarded him with a faint, almost reluctant nod, as though still weighing how such an assessment could come from a man barely past twenty.
"These are wartime days," Baring said, leaning back slightly. "Departments are short of capable men. During the Battle of Imphal, your father's work in Calcutta was noticed — in the war office, in the Viceroy's House, and in the Colonial Office. Service counts for something."
Alan kept his expression neutral. Every word here mattered.
"Given your age, Bombay, Calcutta, and even Delhi would be… too visible," Baring continued. "The seventeen provinces are not where you should begin. But in light of your father's record, I can place you somewhere less exposed — and still significant."
He paused for effect.
"How would you feel about serving as Resident in Hyderabad?"
Alan allowed himself the smallest beat of silence before replying, "Thank you, Sir Baring."
British India was two-thirds directly ruled provinces; the rest — over five hundred princely states — were governed by their own rulers under British suzerainty. Some were no more than landed estates; others commanded wealth and armies that made London treat them like foreign sovereigns.
Hyderabad was the greatest of them all. Larger than many European nations, richer than any other Indian state, and far stronger than Kashmir — whose future troubles Alan knew all too well.
"Hyderabad is not under our direct rule," Baring explained, perhaps mistaking Alan's measured tone for disappointment. "But its importance is equal to any province. Among the princely states, it is a bellwether. Where Hyderabad leans, many will follow. The current ruler, His Highness Mir Osman Ali Khan, is respected in London. Negotiating with him is no less weighty than administering a province."
Alan understood. The posting was a compromise: less politically dangerous for someone so young, yet close to the real currents of power.
"In wartime," Baring went on, "rules bend. But they do not break entirely. A high-profile provincial seat would raise questions — and the wrong kind of attention. Hyderabad offers influence without spectacle."
"I'm grateful for the trust," Alan said, and meant it. In the great chessboard of empire, this was not the back rank.
Baring's gaze sharpened. "Your father helped me keep Calcutta steady during Imphal. I don't forget such debts."
Alan inclined his head. His father had rebuilt a place for himself in the colonial bureaucracy after fleeing Hong Kong, securing a foothold in Calcutta — the old imperial capital, still the second city of India. There, he had kept the machinery running under the shadow of the Japanese advance.
But the real bond between Baring and the elder Wilson was darker: the Bengal Famine, two years past, when over three million had died. Both men had emerged politically intact — but neither without stain.
That stain, Alan suspected, was one more reason Baring was willing to open a door for him.
"You should know," Baring added, "I can only recommend you. The final word rests with Viceroy Wavell. If all goes well, you'll have confirmation soon."
Alan reached into his pocket and produced a gold coin, setting it on the desk. "A token I acquired from a trader. I'd prefer you value it not for its metal, but for the history stamped into it — as one might value the East for its depth, not just its wealth."
Baring took the coin, turning it toward the window so the light caught the intricate markings. His expression didn't change, but Alan saw the recognition there.
"Yes," Baring said quietly. "History is the most precious metal of all."