The screams from the Red Fort's basement had ceased an hour earlier, but silence had a way of carrying its own menace. In the temporary office—one of several hastily appropriated rooms in the older wing—Anirban Sen sat hunched over a spread of maps, the soft lamplight picking out the precise pencil marks he had made over weeks of restless study. The maps were detailed: contour lines, rail hubs, telegraph routes, nodes of supply and communication. On the table lay telegrams, ciphered dispatches, and a thick folder marked "Operational — Restricted." Outside, the old fort's stone walls absorbed the night and exhaled a cold draft that made Anirban's collar lift.
The interrogation had provided a grim soundtrack to the planning: a low, methodical cadence of questions and answers, punctuated by something far quieter and crueler. At first the noises had been a raw, animal thing—yells, muffled curses, the impact of flesh on wood. Later it had become more surgical: the interrogator's voice calm, the captive's replies ragged and infrequent. To their credit, no one in the room pretended the methods were pleasant. They were not. They were necessary, Anirban had decided, and necessity had sharpened him.
A knock at the door broke his concentration. "Enter," he said without looking up.
Colonel Ravi Sharma stepped in, his uniform stained with fresh blood that he had not bothered to scrub away. Two NCOs followed, dragging between them a hunched, broken figure who might once have been called Khan. Now he was little more than a human outline: a face swollen beyond recognition, several fingers bent at cruel angles, bruises like maps of violence across his body. His breathing was shallow and quick; every inhale and exhale sounded like an effort.
"Prime Minister," Colonel Sharma said with the professional detachment that had become a second skin to men who had to execute orders without flinching. He held a small, soaked notebook in one hand. "The subject has been—cooperative. We have managed to obtain wide-ranging intelligence about Pakistani operations."
Anirban finally glanced up. The expression that crossed his face was neither pleasure nor revulsion. It was a clinician's regard: what mattered was the information, the raw data, not the human cost at which it had been extracted.
"Excellent," he said. "What did we learn?"
Sharma opened the notebook and flicked through pages stained with blood and sweat. "The invasion plan is more extensive than we initially believed. They have three waves planned. First, tribal militias—irregulars and raiders—are to be pushed across the frontier starting October twenty-second. They will be followed by regular Pakistani forces disguised as volunteers and relief columns. If that is insufficient, there is a contingency for full open military intervention. Our subject—Khan—was tasked to provide real-time intelligence on our defensive positions and to sabotage our communication lines in the initial days."
Anirban listened, tracing the border on the map with a fingertip as if the line were a wound he could press and feel. "And his handler?"
"Colonel Sher Klian," Sharma replied. "Operating out of Rawalpindi. We've identified a network of at least a dozen deep-cover agents—embedded within our military and civil administration. They were meant to coordinate the disruptions when the tribal militia crossed."
Sharma's voice carried a note of reluctant respect. "Sir, this is the most sophisticated intelligence operation we've encountered."
Anirban's gaze flicked back to the map, to the jagged line of the Northwest Frontier. "This is not simply a border dispute," he said quietly. His voice flowed now into the room, steady and low. "Pakistan was created as a dagger aimed at India's heart. Its very existence rests on proving the two-nation theory—that Hindus and Muslims cannot coexist. Each time India proves the opposite—by thriving as a secular, unified nation—that ideology is denied. That denial is an existential wound to them."
"Sir," Colonel Sharma offered, cautious, "shouldn't we focus on the immediate military threat? Reinforce the passes, secure the lines—"
"The immediate military threat is what I am addressing," Anirban interrupted, and there was steel under the civility of his words. "But defense alone will only put out fires. When the invasion begins in Kashmir, we will not simply repel it and return to the old status quo. We will use their aggression as the justification for an operation that ends this threat permanently."
The office door opened again. Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel entered, followed by General K.M. Cariappa. The two men were different kinds of authority: Patel's presence carried the moral and political gravity of the country, while Cariappa's carried the practical certainty of command. Cariappa, who in another life had been entrusted with the Union's defence, surveyed the scene with a soldier's quick eyes and a civilian's cautiousness.
"Prime Minister," Patel said, soft but exact in his words. "General Cariappa has completed his assessment of our readiness."
Anirban inclined his head. "General, I'd like your frank assessment."
Cariappa's face did not betray surprise, only that slow, professional weighing of risks and resources. "Sir: for defensive operations in Kashmir, our forces are adequate. For an extended campaign, especially simultaneous offensives, we are stretched thin. We have equipment shortages, ammunition constraints, and a logistics network still adapting from British control to our own. If you are proposing simultaneous operations in Kashmir, East Bengal, and the Balochistān coast, that is an extraordinarily ambitious plan."
"How long for such readiness?" Anirban asked, voice even.
"Six months, minimum," Cariappa replied without hesitation. "Perhaps longer if supply lines must be rebuilt and coordination between commands improved."
Anirban stared at him, then stepped closer to the map until the lamplight threw his shadow long across the terrain of the Punjab. There was a quality about him in that moment—a quiet certainty that unsettled even seasoned men. "You have six weeks," he said. "I'm authorising unlimited emergency powers for procurement and deployment. Requisition civilian transport. Commandeer factories for immediate ammunition production. Recruit every able-bodied man who can hold a rifle. Expand the rail capacity. Secure our airlifting capability. If it takes the entire country, make it so."
The room inhaled as one. Cariappa's jaw tightened; Patel's expression deepened into lines of concern.
"Sardar Patel," Anirban continued, addressing the elder statesman with the heavy courtesy that masked uncompromising intent, "I recognise the constitutional pathways. But when the choice is between constitutional slow-going and decisive action to defend the nation, I will act. Others will bless my actions when they see the threat in its totality."
Patel said nothing at first. He had always been measured, a man who balanced ideals with the weight of reality. Finally: "Such measures will require broader approval, Sir. From the Parliament, the Cabinet—"
"Others will approve whatever I present to them," Anirban replied with absolute confidence. "Especially when I present incontrovertible proof of infiltration and imminent invasion. Necessity has a way of concentrating power."
General Cariappa pressed his hands together. "Prime Minister, if we strike on the scale you are suggesting, there will be significant casualties. Military and civilian. We must be prepared for that cost."
"War invariably requires sacrifices," Anirban acknowledged. "The question is whether we accept a temporary peace that allows our enemies to regroup, or we pay the price for permanent victory. Restraint begets further aggression. History has shown that pity, in war, can be an invitation."
Colonel Sharma, who had been listening with the fixed attention of an officer who understood both the stakes and the machinery, asked aloud what others were thinking. "Prime Minister — international reaction? The British? The Americans? The Soviets?"
Anirban's answers were measured and devoid of flinch. "They will not act in time. Britain is consumed by imperial decline. The Americans are focused on Europe and the early contours of the Cold War. The Soviets will be pleased to see Western influence diminish in South Asia. By the time they organise themselves, there will be a fait accompli."
He reached for a thick folder and pulled it across the table. The cover was stamped with the name of Mountbatten — correspondence, notes, and an upcoming meeting regarding India's place in the emerging world order and our bid for recognition on the global stage.
"Lord Mountbatten has agreed to a meeting in a week or two," Patel said. "But I doubt the present permanent members of any international council would accept our case if they see us as aggressors."
"They will accept it when the facts are laid before them and the map looks different," Anirban said. "India deserves permanent status, not solely for its present military showings but for years of contribution in the Great Wars and our enduring geopolitical importance. When we present them with a new reality—one that is stable, unified and unambiguous—they will adapt. Great powers always bend to fait accompli when the cost of reversing it is too great."
The telephone on the desk shrilled, a bright, almost obscene sound in the somber room. Anirban picked it up, his other hand steady on the map. He listened, the faintest movement of his jaw betraying concentration. The call ended, and a grim smile touched his face—a private thing, brief and almost imperceptible.
"Gentlemen," he said, voice delivering the small, explosive report with the same calm as before, "Maharaja Hari Singh has reported increased raider activity near Muzaffarabad. The invasion is imminent."
Cariappa was already moving into the mental geometry of response. "Sir, our forces need time to reach Kashmir. And there is the question—will the Maharaja allow Indian troops?"
"You will not worry about the Maharaja," Anirban said. "I will ensure his immediate and unconditional accession. Convince him, cajole him, and if necessary, remove any obstacle. For now, prepare the soldiers. Airlift capacity will be stood ready. Mobilise the reserves. Let Pakistan commit their forces and believe they are succeeding. When their columns stretch, we will strike—not merely to push them back but to push them far enough that their ability to strike again is destroyed."
He tapped the map where the passes constricted and where railheads clustered. "We will permit a controlled advance by the irregulars so they become entangled, then we will hit their staging points and supply lines. While their attention is fixed in the north, we will open operations in Khyber, Lahore, and Karachi—if the moment allows. We will move on East Bengal and seize the Balochistan littoral. This will not be a piecemeal defence. This will be a war that reshapes the subcontinent."
Patel's face was grave. "Sir, such an outcome—if achieved—will reshape more than borders. It will rewrite history."
"That is the point," Anirban said softly. "Gandhi's moral crusades were noble and necessary. But principle without power is a vulnerability. This time we shall use power to ensure the moral aims can actually be realised, permanent and unchallengeable."
The officers dispersed, a flurry of orders and curt goodbyes. Men moved to fulfil what had been said; men with a lifetime of training in immediacy and obedience. Anirban remained. The lamplight painted the map in warm tones as if to soften its brutality. He sat alone with the contours of nations, the notations of rail capacity, and the slowly increasing red ink indicating troop movements.
Once, in another life, he had studied the 1947–48 conflict with the detached curiosity of the academic, cataloguing mistakes and missed opportunities. The original war had dragged on, bleeding both sides until an uneasy stalemate formed—Kashmir split, bitterness sown. This time he had neither patience for that stalemate nor appetite for half-measures.
He picked up the phone and dialled the Maharaja's number. When the distant voice picked up, Anirban's tone was different—calm, persuasive, almost intimate. "Your Highness," he said, "tell me exactly what you have found."
There was a pause at the other end, the rustling of paper, a voice that tried to steady itself. "Sir, the raiders are gathering. They are coming from the Muzaffarabad side. Our scouts have seen caravans moving, and there are reports of columns of men moving at night."
"Keep me informed," Anirban said. "Allow no panic. Seal the lines. I will see to the rest." He watched the inked borders on the map as if they were thoughts being drawn into the firm lines of destiny.
Outside, the night felt colder. Inside the fort, plans were being reshaped like clay on a wheel—moulded, pressed, hardened. Anirban Sen set the telephone down and breathed, not relief but the deep, steady breath of a man who had decided a difficult thing and would now bear whatever consequences followed.
The screams had stopped, but the violence they presaged was only beginning. Anirban had no illusions about the cost. He had consented to a ledger balanced in blood and iron. For him, it was simple: the future of a unified, secular India would not be left to chance or timidity. If fate demanded violence to secure that future, then he would do what was necessary.
Tonight, the map would be folded and sealed into dispatches. Troops would be moved. Factories would be repurposed. Men and women would be called to arms. When the dust settled, Anirban believed, the subcontinent would look very different—and in the quiet hours, when he closed his eyes, he imagined a single flag flying over vast territories, a single capital holding together a tangled, finally unified nation.
He did not pretend the road to that destiny would be clean. It would be raw, and it would be stained. But he was ready. The basement's silence was a prelude; now the real symphony of violence and strategy began, composed by a nation determined to author its own fate.