The early hours of October 22nd, 1947, shattered the fragile dawn. Urgent dispatches, crackling over military wireless (British-origin wireless sets), confirmed the worst: Pakistan's tribal lashkars, swarming like angry hornets and stiffened by camouflaged regulars, had poured across the Jammu and Kashmir border in force. Muzaffarabad was already a scene of chaos, its defenders overwhelmed. The road to Baramulla, and then Srinagar, lay open.
In the War Room, the atmosphere was electric. Arjun, flanked by a grim-faced Patel and a stoic Cariappa, listened to the field reports. "The Maharaja's accession is our legal casus belli," Arjun stated, his voice cutting through the tension. "General Cariappa, the first wave of the airlift to Srinagar must commence within the hour. Hold the valley. That is your primary objective on this front."
Cariappa nodded. "The First Sikh are ready, Prime Minister. They'll be airborne as soon as the fog lifts over Palam."
[A/N : The First Sikh : 1st Battalion, Sikh Regiment]
But even as the first Dakotas were being readied, another storm was brewing, not on the Himalayan frontier, but within the hallowed halls of power in Delhi. Whispers of Arjun's audacious military preparations – the mass mobilization of the PVC, the commandeering of industries, the sheer scale of the forces being quietly positioned – had finally coalesced into a wave of alarm among certain senior Congress leaders. This was not the measured, cautious India they had envisioned.
Later that morning, a delegation, their faces a mixture of bewilderment and indignation, demanded an audience. Leading them was Jawaharlal Nehru, his brow furrowed with a mixture of disbelief and intellectual affront. His usually immaculate attire seemed slightly disheveled, as if he'd spent a sleepless night pacing. Beside him, Maulana Azad's usual thoughtful composure was replaced by a troubled frown, and several other prominent ministers, known for their adherence to Gandhian pacifism or their anxieties about international opinion, flanked them, their expressions ranging from nervous to openly hostile.
Arjun received them in his office. Patel was already present, a silent, granite-like figure by the window, his presence an unspoken endorsement of Arjun's authority. The air was thick with unspoken accusations, heavy as a monsoon cloud.
"Arjun!" Nehru began, his voice quivering with barely suppressed rage, dispensing with all formalities. He advanced towards the desk, a sheaf of papers clutched in his hand. "What is the meaning of this insanity? We are hearing… it's beyond belief! A general mobilization! Offensive deployments! Are you insane? Have you completely taken leave of your senses and any semblance of democratic process?"
Maulana Azad stepped forward, his tone more sorrowful but no less firm. "Prime Minister, this is not the path of Gandhi, not the path of peace we promised our people. To initiate such a conflict… it is to betray everything we fought for. Pakistan, whatever its faults, is a new nation too. Surely dialogue, mediation…"
"Dialogue?" another minister, a noted economist, interjected, his voice shrill. "While our treasury is being emptied for a war machine we cannot sustain? While our international credit will be ruined? This is fiscal suicide, Prime Minister, driven by…by some reckless militarism!"
A younger minister, known for his fiery speeches, practically spat his words. "This isn't defense, this is naked aggression! We look like imperialists ourselves! And for what? Some romantic notion of Akhand Bharat? The people will not stand for this! We will take this to the Congress Working Committee! We will expose this… this coup against our principles!"
Arjun listened, his expression unreadable, letting their fury and fear crash against him like waves against a cliff. He remained seated, a faint, almost pitying smile playing on his lips. When a momentary lull fell, as they paused for breath, he spoke, his voice deceptively soft, a calm pool in their storm.
"Gentlemen, your passion is commendable. Your commitment to certain ideals is admirable, if perhaps misplaced in the current geopolitical reality. Pakistan, let me be unequivocally clear, has initiated this war. They have shed the first blood on what is now sovereign Indian territory. Their hands are stained."
His voice hardened, the velvet glove slipping to reveal cold, unyielding steel. "My response, therefore, will not be a timid, apologetic defense of one valley while the rest of our frontiers remain vulnerable. My response will be a lesson, gentlemen, a lesson etched in fire and blood, ensuring that Pakistan, and any other power that dreams of dismembering India, will rue the day they even conceived the thought. Yes, we are preparing for a general war. A decisive war. A war to cauterize this wound on our body politic permanently."
Nehru slammed the papers down on Arjun's desk. "This is tyranny, Mehra! You are acting like a dictator! There has been no Cabinet approval for such a sweeping escalation! No sanction! This is a betrayal of the trust placed in you! Lord Mountbatten himself warned against such rash actions! He believes, as do I, that this is a matter for the United Nations, for reasoned international arbitration! These tribal incursions…they are likely rogue elements, not state policy! Pakistan would not be so foolish!"
Arjun's smile widened, but it was a smile devoid of warmth, sharp as a shard of glass. "Rogue elements, Jawaharlal-ji? Armed with modern weaponry, supported by artillery, guided by uniformed officers whose accents are distinctly not Pashtun? Your optimism regarding Pakistan's intentions is touching, if dangerously naive. Perhaps you believe Mr. Jinnah is merely misunderstood?" He scoffed. "As for Lord Mountbatten, his primary concern is washing Britain's hands of the subcontinent with minimal fuss. His advice is noted, and respectfully disregarded when it conflicts with India's vital security interests. And the UN," he added, his eyes like chips of ice, "will be informed of the consequences of Pakistan's aggression, not invited to mediate our sovereign right to self-defense."
"This is unacceptable!" shouted the fiery young minister. "We will not stand for it! We will resign! We will go to the press! We will rally the party against you! We will expose this dangerous warmongering to the nation! You will be removed, Mehra, before you drag us all into ruin!"
The air crackled with the threat. Nehru nodded grimly in assent. "He is right, Arjun. You are overreaching. This dangerous adventure needs to be stopped. The Congress party will not be led down this path of autocratic warmongering. We still hold sway."
Arjun slowly rose from his chair, his six-foot frame seeming to tower over them. The shift in his demeanor was palpable – the last vestiges of polite discourse vanished, replaced by an aura of absolute, chilling authority. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.
"Your sway, gentlemen," he said, his voice a low, dangerous purr that sent shivers down their spines, "is an illusion you cling to. The 'people' you claim to represent are currently looking to their government for protection, for decisive leadership, not for your philosophical hand-wringing and apologies for our aggressors. And you…" his gaze swept over them, lingering on Nehru with an unnerving intensity, "will NOT undermine that leadership. You will NOT sow dissent when unity is paramount. And you will NOT give aid and comfort to India's enemies, even inadvertently through your… principled foolishness."
He pressed a concealed button on his desk. The door opened instantly, and Colonel Ravi Sharma, his face an impassive mask of lethality, entered, flanked by four heavily armed military police officers, their Sten guns held at a low, but undeniably ready, position. Their eyes were cold, professional.
Nehru, Azad, and the others stared, their bluster faltering as the stark reality of the situation crashed down upon them. This wasn't a political debate society; this was a seizure of control.
"Colonel Sharma," Arjun said, his voice now devoid of any warmth, flat and final as a death knell. "Our esteemed colleagues here, in their… passionate concern for an alternative perspective, seem to have forgotten their primary duty to national security in a time of active invasion. Their judgment is clearly compromised by an excess of emotion and, dare I say, a rather touching naivety regarding the nature of our enemy. They require immediate and complete rest, to prevent them from making any rash statements or decisions that could inadvertently aid Pakistan or demoralize our own people."
He paused, letting the chilling words hang in the air. "Please escort Mr. Nehru, Maulana Azad, and their associates to their official residences. They are to be strictly confined. For their own well-being, of course, and to ensure they are not troubled by the burdens of state during this… exceptionally delicate period. No visitors. No telephone calls. No communications of any kind, internal or external. Their households will be managed entirely by your men. Impress upon them, Colonel, with utmost clarity, that any attempt to circumvent these… health precautions… any attempt to incite public disorder or party rebellion, will be viewed not as political dissent, but as sedition in wartime. The consequences," his eyes met Nehru's, a cold, challenging stare that promised retribution, "will be swift, severe, and exemplary. Not just for them, but for anyone, anyone at all, foolish enough to heed their misguided calls."
His gaze hardened further. "Their future service to India, in whatever capacity may be deemed appropriate when this crisis is successfully concluded, depends entirely on their silent contemplation, their complete acquiescence, and their demonstrated understanding that the India of yesterday is gone. A new, stronger India is being forged, and it has no patience for those who would try to blunt its steel."
Nehru, his face a mask of shocked fury and dawning impotence, finally found his voice, though it was hoarse. "You…you wouldn't dare! This is an affront to democracy! To everything we stand for! The party…the people…they will not accept this!"
Arjun merely smiled, a terrifyingly serene expression. "The party, Jawaharlal-ji, will follow strength. The people will follow victory. And democracy, in times of existential threat, must sometimes be guided by a firm, unwavering hand. Consider this your sabbatical. Reflect on the new realities."
One by one, under the silent, unwavering muzzles of Sharma's men, the protesting, threatening, and ultimately helpless leaders were escorted out, their cries of outrage and threats of political reprisal echoing briefly before being swallowed by the closing door.
When the room was finally clear, Arjun turned to Patel, who had watched the entire scene unfold with his customary impassivity, though a flicker of something – perhaps grim approval – had touched his eyes.
"A necessary, if theatrical, pruning, Sardar-ji," Arjun remarked, walking to the window. "Their particular brand of idealism, untempered by pragmatism, had become a clear and present danger to our war effort. They were about to make themselves appear as apologists for Pakistan's aggression. Better they contemplate their misjudgments in quiet solitude."
Patel finally spoke, his voice a low rumble. "Mountbatten won't like this. He considers Nehru the future of India."
Arjun waved a dismissive hand. "Lord Mountbatten is the outgoing Governor-General of a fading empire. His eruptions are like summer thunder – loud, but ultimately passing. He will soon be a footnote in our history. We, Sardar-ji, are writing the main text. And that text requires a singular, unshakeable vision." He looked at the grand map, no longer just a representation of land, but a canvas for his grand, ruthless design. "The war has begun. The home front is now secure. Let us prosecute this conflict without the drag anchor of wavering wills and misplaced sympathies."
The price of dissent, even from the most luminous figures of the independence movement, had been unequivocally set and brutally exacted. Arjun's India was being forged in a crucible where loyalty was absolute, and opposition, however principled or historically significant, was swiftly and silently extinguished if it threatened the grand design. The revolution was devouring its own, or at least, those children who refused to grow with it.