Awakening of India - 1947

Delhi – Late January 1948

The chosen venue for what Arjun Mehra deliberately called "discussions", a term wielded to strip away any pretense of equality, was the oak-paneled conference room of a minor European embassy.

The building sat in the diplomatic quarter like a neutral island in a sea of imperial consequence, its very blandness making it suitable for proceedings that would reshape the subcontinent's future.

The atmosphere inside was suffocating, thick with the metallic taste of defeat and the electric tension of predators circling wounded prey. Dust motes danced in the pale winter sunlight streaming through tall windows, but even the light seemed muted, as if reluctant to illuminate what was about to unfold.

The Pakistani delegation entered like mourners at their own funeral. Chaudhry Muhammad Ali, Secretary-General of what remained of Pakistan, led the procession with the hollow-eyed dignity of a man who had seen his nation's dreams incinerated.

His usually immaculate beard was unkempt, his tailored suit hanging loose on a frame diminished by weeks of sleepless nights and impossible decisions.

Behind him shuffled a handful of military advisors and diplomats, their faces carrying the thousand-yard stare of men who had witnessed the systematic destruction of everything they'd fought to build.

Brigadier Nazir Ahmed, his uniform still bearing the creases of hasty travel from the chaos of Rawalpindi, whispered urgently to his companion as they took their seats. "Allah preserve us, look at them. They sit like judges at the final reckoning."

"Because that's exactly what they are," replied the Foreign Secretary grimly, adjusting papers with trembling hands. "We're not here to negotiate. We're here to receive our sentence."

Opposite them, the Indian delegation radiated the serene confidence of absolute victory. Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel anchored one end of the table like a granite monument, his weathered face carved from stone, his presence filling the room with uncompromising authority.

Every line of his body spoke of a man who had broken empires and would not be moved by pleading or desperation.

V.K. Krishna Menon sat with the coiled elegance of a serpent, his sharp intellect visible in the calculating gleam of his eyes.

His fingers drummed silently against his leather portfolio, a nervous habit that somehow made him appear more dangerous rather than less. He had crafted the legal architecture of this moment, and he was eager to watch it deployed.

At the head of the table sat Prime Minister Arjun Mehra, and it was his very calmness that proved most unnerving.

He observed the Pakistani delegation with the detached interest of a scholar studying specimens, his dark eyes missing nothing, the way Muhammad Ali's hands shook slightly, the sweat beading on the Brigadier's forehead despite the winter chill, and the desperate glances the Pakistani team exchanged like drowning men seeking lifelines that weren't there.

An embassy attendant, a nervous young man with wire-rimmed spectacles, entered with a silver tea service. The delicate china dish clinked against the tray, a sound that seemed unnaturally loud in the tense room. Steam rose from the ornate teapot, carrying the familiar scent of Earl Grey, a reminder of the colonial past that had shaped them all.

"Gentlemen, some refreshment," the attendant said quietly, moving around the table with practiced efficiency. He poured the amber liquid into delicate cups, the sound of tea streaming from pot to porcelain the only noise breaking the oppressive silence.

The Pakistani delegation accepted their cups with automatic politeness, their diplomatic training overriding their emotional turmoil.

The attendant finished his service and retreated, leaving behind the subtle fragrance of bergamot and the weight of unspoken tension.

Each man held his cup, but none drank, the simple act of refreshment somehow seeming inappropriate given the gravity of what was about to unfold.

Then Arjun leaned forward slightly, his movement drawing every eye in the room. A smile touched the corner of his lips, not warm, not cruel, but something infinitely more unsettling: utterly indifferent to the suffering it might cause.

"How's the tea?" he asked conversationally.

[A/N: Hehe]

The words fell into the silence like stones into still water, sending ripples of shock through the Pakistani delegation. Chaudhry Muhammad Ali's eyes widened in bewildered confusion before a subtle dawning washed over his features.

The other delegates exchanged panicked glances, the question's surface innocence making its true meaning all the more devastating.

It was the casual cruelty of absolute power, the kind of psychological warfare that reminded defeated enemies that even their basic comforts existed at the victor's sufferance.

Every Pakistani in that room understood instinctively that they were no longer equals in this conversation, no longer diplomats engaged in statecraft, but supplicants hoping for mercy from a conqueror who might or might not be inclined to grant it.

The question hung in the air like a blade poised to fall. Muhammad Ali glanced down at his untouched cup, the tea growing cold in his trembling hands.

The innocent refreshment had been transformed into a symbol of their powerlessness, they could be served tea, but only at India's pleasure, only when India deemed them worthy of such basic courtesies.

"It's...it's fine, Prime Minister," Muhammad Ali managed, his voice barely a whisper. The words felt like ash in his mouth.

"Good," Arjun replied, his tone unchanged. "It's important to appreciate hospitality when it's offered. One never knows when it might be withdrawn."

Patel's expression remained granite, but something flickered deep in his eyes, acknowledgment of the psychological blade his Prime Minister had just twisted. Krishna Menon allowed himself the faintest upturn of his lips, appreciating the surgical precision of the moment.

The silence stretched until it became unbearable, a living thing that pressed against the walls and squeezed the breath from Pakistani lungs.

When Arjun finally continued, his voice shifted to cold formality, as if the previous exchange had been merely a momentary lapse into casual conversation.

"Gentlemen, let us dispense with diplomatic preamble. The time for such courtesies died with your armies in the field. The military situation is unambiguous.

The Government of India is prepared to offer terms for cessation of hostilities, contingent upon your immediate and unconditional acceptance of the following conditions."

He slid a single document across the polished mahogany table with the deliberate care of a chess master making a final, decisive move. The papers whispered against the wood, a sound that seemed to echo in the room long after it should have faded.

Muhammad Ali's hands trembled as he lifted the document. The official seal of the Government of India seemed to burn against the white paper, its very presence a reminder of how completely the balance of power had shifted.

As he read, his face transformed from pale to ashen to a ghastly shade of grey that spoke of a man watching his nation's death warrant being signed.

"Territorial readjustments," he read aloud, his voice barely a whisper. Around him, his colleagues leaned forward, straining to hear words that would reshape their world.

The document began with: The entirety of East Pakistan was to be ceded to India, its future to be determined solely by Delhi.

The breadbasket of the Pakistani economy, the populous delta that had been their nation's beating heart, would simply cease to exist as Pakistani territory.

In West Pakistan, the occupation of Lahore, their cultural capital, their jewel, was to be recognized as permanent.

But even that wasn't the cruelest cut. A strategic buffer zone, 30-50 kilometers deep, would be carved from Pakistani territory along the entire length of the new international border.

This zone would be demilitarized and subject to Indian monitoring, effectively creating a cordon sanitaire that would render Pakistan's remaining territory perpetually vulnerable to Indian surveillance and control.

That wasn't all, according to the demands, Pakistan would be required to take back all the Pakistani population that were left in the captured areas of West Pakistan and the voluntary ones from the East Pakistan, now under Indian control.

With only Hindus and Sikh minorities as exception in West Pakistan. In addition, India is willing to give a one-time monetary package of 10 Cr Rupees, if they were to accept the Muslims who might be willing to leave India for Pakistan.

"They're creating a prison," whispered the Foreign Secretary, his voice cracking. "They're building walls around what's left of us."

But the geographical amputation was only the beginning. The coastal provisions were equally devastating: Karachi, Pakistan's sole major port and economic lifeline, would become Indian territory.

The entire Sindh coastal strip would be severed, leaving Pakistan effectively landlocked except for whatever access India might graciously permit through the newly "autonomous" Balochistan under Indian protection.

Regarding Kashmir, the document was brutally simple: immediate withdrawal of all Pakistani forces, regular and irregular, from every inch of the princely state of Jammu and Kashmir along with Khyber Pakhtunkhwa.

The entirety of Jammu & Kashmir, including the areas Pakistan had briefly controlled, would be recognized as integral to India. The northern gateway to the subcontinent would be sealed shut against Pakistani ambitions forever.

The next section detailed severe 'Military Limitations' on what remained of West Pakistan, particularly within its truncated borders beyond the Indian-controlled buffer zone.

Its armed forces would be drastically reduced in size and capability, with no more than 1000 armed personnel and with strict prohibitions on offensive weaponry like armor and combat aircraft and navy vessels since they won't be needing it.

Only civilian aircrafts are allowed. An Indian-led inspection team would verify compliance. Furthermore, no foreign military bases or alliances deemed threatening to India would be permitted on West Pakistani soil.

Muhammad Ali looked up from the document, his eyes carrying the weight of catastrophic comprehension. "Prime Minister... this buffer zone, combined with the other territorial losses... this isn't a peace proposal. This is the strategic imprisonment of Pakistan. This is dismemberment."

Arjun's expression remained unchanged, his voice carrying the patient tone of a teacher explaining simple arithmetic to a slow student.

"Mr. Ali, these are the consequences of a war that Pakistan initiated and comprehensively lost. The buffer zone is a necessary security measure to prevent future adventures.

These terms provide the foundation for lasting peace, not built on hope or goodwill, but on the unshakeable reality of India's strength and its absolute determination to secure its borders."

Brigadier Ahmed finally erupted, his military training warring with desperation. "We cannot sign away our nation's sovereignty! A permanent buffer zone under your control makes a mockery of our independence!"

Sardar Patel, who had been silent as stone, finally spoke. His voice rumbled like distant thunder, carrying the weight of mountains.

"Your 'sovereignty', Brigadier, was used to launch an invasion of our territory and to orchestrate the assassination of our leaders. This buffer zone ensures such folly is never repeated." He leaned forward slightly, his eyes boring into the Pakistani officer.

"Your nation currently faces starvation and strategic collapse. Its survival depends entirely on your government's willingness to accept reality rather than chase the ghosts of past ambitions."

Krishna Menon's contribution was delivered with the smooth precision. "The international community desires stability above all else, gentlemen.

This comprehensive security arrangement will provide that stability by permanently removing Pakistan's capacity to threaten regional peace."

"But Kashmir…Khyber…Karachi... Lahore... our access to the sea... East Pakistan... and now this buffer zone..." Muhammad Ali's voice broke as he enumerated each loss.

"This leaves us with a rump state, hemmed in on all sides, constantly monitored, dependent on Indian goodwill for our very survival."

"It leaves you with the core territory of West Pakistan, minus certain strategic areas that have proven incompatible with regional stability," Arjun corrected with clinical precision.

"You retain sovereignty within clearly defined and secured borders. You have the opportunity to rebuild, to focus on the welfare of your remaining population rather than territorial expansion." His smile was winter-cold.

"Five months ago, Mr. Ali, your leaders spoke of marching to Delhi and claimed the great cities of the subcontinent as their birthright. Today, India dictates terms from within the Governor's House in Lahore. I suggest you consider these terms very carefully. There will be no others."

He rose from his chair, the movement serving as both dismissal and threat. "You have forty-eight hours to convey your government's unconditional acceptance.

Should that acceptance fail to materialize, our military operations, which are currently suspended as a gesture of goodwill, will resume with objectives that may prove considerably more comprehensive than those already achieved."

The threat hung in the air like incense in a temple, heavy and inescapable. The Pakistani delegation sat frozen, each man calculating the mathematics of national survival and finding only impossible equations.

As the Indian delegation prepared to leave, Patel approached Arjun with something approaching awe in his usually stern features. "'How's the tea?'" he murmured, shaking his head slightly.

"And this buffer zone arrangement... You've left them no room to breathe, no space for future mischief. It's complete strategic neutering."

Arjun's smile was barely visible, a ghost of satisfaction that touched his lips for just a moment. "Security requires depth, Sardar-ji, both territorial and psychological.

They needed to understand that the new India's borders are inviolable, and that our patience, when tested, has very sharp teeth indeed."

As they walked through the embassy's corridors toward the exit, their footsteps echoing off marble floors, Arjun paused at a window overlooking the diplomatic quarter.

In the distance, the Red Fort stood silhouetted against the Delhi sky, its walls having witnessed the rise and fall of empires for centuries.

"The peace will be an Indian peace," he said quietly, his words carrying the weight of historical inevitability.

"We have not merely defeated our enemy, we have constructed the cage that will contain what remains of them, ensuring that this particular threat to our security will never arise again."

Behind them, in the conference room, the Pakistani delegation sat in stunned silence, the document before them no longer mere paper and ink but the architectural blueprint of their nation's future.

A future that would be lived entirely at India's sufferance, within borders drawn by Indian hands, under the perpetual shadow of Indian power.

[A/N: Which other platform is good for posting novels? Because I hate to say it, but Webnovel might have the best UI of them all. I had started on Royal Road, but's it's UI isn't that good.]