Awakening of India - 1947

The Carlyle Hotel Corridor – Early February 1948

The heavy oak door of the suite closed with a muted thud that seemed to echo through the corridors of history itself.

Arjun Mehra and V.K. Krishna Menon walked down the thickly carpeted hallway of The Carlyle, their footsteps muffled by Persian rugs that had witnessed a thousand diplomatic secrets.

Arjun's fingers worked methodically at adjusting the collar of his bandhgala, the crisp brown cotton, a stark contrast against his olive skin. His face was a masterpiece of controlled composure, but Menon could see the storm brewing behind those calculating eyes.

This was the face that had stared down British generals, that had made seasoned politicians quake – serene as a temple pond, yet concealing depths that could drown unwary swimmers.

"Menon-ji," Arjun's voice was barely above a whisper, yet it carried the weight of mountains, "When is our audience with Ambassador Gromyko?"

"Tomorrow morning, Prime Minister. Ten o'clock sharp at their mission." Menon's reply was equally quiet, his diplomat's instincts sensing that even the walls here had ears.

"They were..." he paused, allowing himself a thin smile that would have made a cobra proud, "notably enthusiastic in confirming, once they learned of your personal involvement.

It seems our comrades in Moscow are as eager to measure the new India, just as much as British and Americans."

Arjun's nod was barely perceptible. "Each one requires a different bait, Menon-ji. The Anglo-Americans – they still dream in terms of gentlemen's agreements and shared democratic values, even as they count their coins and calculate their debts.

But beneath their civilized veneer, they understand only strength and self-interest. The Soviets..." His eyes hardened like winter steel.

"They respect power, despise weakness, and trade only in concrete realities. Tomorrow, we speak their language – no moral appeals, no democratic platitudes. Pure transaction."

Outside The Carlyle, the February wind cut through Manhattan's concrete canyons like a blade. Two of Arjun's security detail, walked the perimeter with practiced ease.

Transatlantic Cables – London

[2 days before UNSC meeting]

Even as Arjun strategized his next gambit, the transatlantic cables were burning with the fury of an empire in its death throes.

Sir Alexander Cadogan's dispatch landed on Prime Minister Clement Attlee's desk with the impact of an artillery shell, its coded language barely concealing the magnitude of the crisis they faced.

Attlee, a man whose slight frame belied the crushing weight of dismantling the greatest empire in human history, read each word with growing dread.

The report was clinical in its brutality: "Prime Minister Mehra did not negotiate – he dictated terms. The £1.5 billion sterling balances have become a loaded gun pointed at the heart of our economic recovery.

His proposal is daring beyond measure: approximately half the debt to be settled through immediate provision of British industrial goods and technical expertise for India's reconstruction.

A minor lump sum payment to follow, with the remainder subject to 'favorable long-term arrangements' – all contingent upon our unequivocal support for India's permanent Security Council seat."

The words seemed to burn on the page.

"He presents this not as supplication, but as salvation – for us. A pragmatic solution to our financial catastrophe, wrapped in the cover of mutual benefit, yet unmistakably backed by the iron fist of India's ability to demand full, immediate repayment."

Foreign Secretary Ernest Bevin's face was a thundercloud when Attlee summoned him for an emergency consultation. The man who had clawed his way up from the docks to the highest echelons of power understood the language of leverage better than most.

"Are you seeing this, Clem!?" Bevin's voice growled through the stately corridors of Whitehall, his working-class sensibilities cutting through diplomatic niceties like a docker's hook through rope.

"The man's a bloody genius – a highwayman in statesman's clothing! He knows we're bleeding money, knows those sterling balances are like a bone lodged in our throat — too painful to ignore, yet impossible to swallow.

If we cross him on this UN business, he'll call in every penny, and Cripps will be selling the Crown Jewels to keep the lights on in Downing Street."

Bevin slammed his meaty fist on the mahogany table, sending teacups rattling.

"This is a devil's bargain... settling our debts with machinery we're already struggling to shift, redirecting our industrial capacity to build up India instead of rebuilding Britain... it's extortion dressed up as economics.

Yet what choice do we have? Pay with what we make, not the money we don't have."

The mood in Whitehall was funereal. Senior civil servants spoke in hushed tones, as if afraid their voices might shatter what remained of British prestige.

The reality was inescapable: the lion they had once caged was now setting the terms from its own den, and Britain's survival hung in the balance.

"We cannot be seen to capitulate immediately," Attlee finally declared, his voice heavy with resignation. "We'll express concerns, demand consultations, perhaps rally the Dominions to voice caution about India's...recent endeavored authoritarianism."

But even as he spoke, both men knew the truth. With the Security Council vote just two days away, there was no time for the usual diplomatic ballet. Britain would have to choose: economic ruin or eating a very large, very public slice of humble pie.

Transatlantic Cables – Washington D.C.

Across the Atlantic, in the rapidly expanding marble corridors of American power, President Harry Truman studied Ambassador Warren Austin's urgent cable with the intensity of a poker player reading his opponent's tells.

Austin's words painted a portrait of a leader unlike any the new global hegemon had yet encountered.

"Mr. President, Prime Minister Mehra is a different species entirely from the deferential leaders we've grown accustomed to from the newly independent nations. He possesses a formidable intellect married to an unshakeable conviction that India's time has come.

Our concerns about his recent... consolidation of power...were deflected. He framed the military actions and emergency measures as unavoidable responses to existential threats, citing Gandhi's assassination as irrefutable proof of Pakistan's treachery."

Truman's aide, a young man whose Harvard education hadn't prepared him for the complexities of decolonization, looked up nervously. "Sir, with respect, this sounds like every strongman's justification..."

"Keep reading, son," Truman's Missouri twang carried decades of political experience. The cable continued: "More significantly, Mehra explicitly positioned India as America's indirect but effective partner' against emerging threats in Asia.

While never naming China directly, his meaning was unmistakable. Adding to the above, he also ensured that the India will setup a working democratic administration by the year's end.

He painted a picture of a strong, stable India – empowered by permanent Security Council membership – serving as a democratic shield against communist expansion. This offer, however, is explicitly conditional on our support for India's UN ambitions."

Secretary of State George Marshall, his military bearing intact despite years in civilian service, entered the Oval Office with maps of Asia tucked under his arm. His strategic mind was already grappling with the implications.

"Mr. President," Marshall's voice carried the weight of a man who had orchestrated victory in two theaters of war.

"Mehra is playing three-dimensional chess while we're still learning checkers. His methods are... unorthodox. The speed of his consolidation, the emergency powers – it raises eyebrows.

But crucially, he's given firm assurances about restoring full democratic governance by year's end. Not to mention, his anti-communist undertones cannot be ignored."

Truman leaned back in his chair, the weight of global leadership etched in every line of his face.

"But can we trust a man who's grabbed emergency powers like he has, George? Even with promises of democratic restoration, this feels like walking a tightrope with a strongman."

"Perhaps, sir. But consider his track record and his commitments," Marshall replied, pulling out Austin's detailed report.

"He's explicitly promised constitutional elections and parliamentary restoration within ten months. Given the existential crisis India faced after Gandhi's assassination, his emergency measures may be justified as temporary stabilization.

And frankly, the alternative – a weak, fragmented India, or worse, one that we've might spurn drifting into Moscow's orbit for the industrial and military aid – could be catastrophic.

With China likely to fall to the communists, a strong, democratically-committed India could be our only reliable partner in containing Soviet influence across Asia."

The room fell silent except for the ticking of the presidential clock. Outside, Washington bustled with the confidence of a nation at the apex of its power, yet inside this room, the fragility of that dominance was becoming clear.

"His democratic commitments aside, Mr. President," Marshall continued urgently, "time is against us. The Security Council vote is in thirty-six hours.

We need a decision – do we gamble on Mehra's word and his vision for a democratic India, or do we risk pushing him toward Moscow?"

The Soviet Mission

The following morning brought a crystalline February dawn that painted Manhattan's skyline in shades of amber and gold.

As Arjun Mehra and Krishna Menon approached the Soviet Mission, their breath formed small clouds in the bitter air.

The building before them couldn't have been more different from The Carlyle's gilded opulence or the imposing Georgian facades of British power – this was architecture stripped of pretense, all clean lines and unforgiving surfaces, as if the very bricks had been drafted into ideological service.

Inside, Ambassador Andrei Gromyko rose from behind a mahogany desk that seemed almost apologetic for its bourgeois origins.

Lenin's penetrating gaze followed them from an oil painting that dominated the far wall, the revolutionary's eyes seeming to weigh their capitalist souls and find them wanting.

At thirty-eight, Gromyko already possessed that legendary diplomatic poker face, though Arjun caught the subtle intelligence burning behind those pale eyes. His handshake was firm but brief – the grip of a man who measured every gesture for its political weight.

"Ambassador Gromyko," Arjun said, settling into the offered chair with deliberate ease, "thank you for accommodating us on such short notice. I trust the winter isn't treating you too harshly here in New York?"

"The cold is familiar, Prime Minister," Gromyko replied with the ghost of a smile. "Though I must confess, Manhattan's winds have their own character. Please, some tea? Coffee? I understand you prefer tea in the afternoon."

"Tea would be excellent, thank you." Arjun accepted the porcelain cup, noting its fine craftsmanship – a diplomatic gift, no doubt.

"You know, Ambassador, I've been reflecting on our two nations' remarkable parallel journeys. Both of us have thrown off the shackles of old orders, both committed to charting our own course in this rapidly changing world."

Gromyko sipped his tea thoughtfully. "Indeed, Prime Minister. Though I would suggest that revolution and independence, while sharing certain...philosophical foundations, take different forms. The Soviet Union's path was perhaps more comprehensive in its transformation."

"Quite so," Arjun nodded diplomatically.

"Though I would argue that India's challenge is equally profound – taking four hundred million people from colonial subjugation to genuine sovereignty. The sheer scale of that transformation..." He paused, allowing a note of weariness to enter his voice.

"Some days I wonder if we truly comprehend what we've undertaken."

"The magnitude of nation-building is never fully apparent until one is deep in the process," Gromyko agreed.

"Stalin himself remarked that building socialism was like constructing a cathedral – one must have both the vision for the final structure and the patience for laying each stone."

Arjun leaned forward slightly, his tone becoming more confidential.

"That's precisely what brings me here today, Ambassador. India finds itself at a crossroads. We can either follow the path of our former colonial masters – gradual, piecemeal development that serves their interests as much as ours – or we can be more ambitious in our approach."

"Ambitious how, Prime Minister?"

"Well," Arjun set down his cup and leaned back, "we're considering a comprehensive industrialization program. Not the scattered, profit-driven model the British prefer, but something more systematic.

Steel production, coal mining, heavy engineering – the foundations of true national strength." He paused, watching Gromyko's reaction carefully. "I'm curious about your thoughts on such an approach."

Gromyko's eyes sharpened almost imperceptibly. "Heavy industry forms the backbone of any truly sovereign nation, Prime Minister. Without it, political independence remains incomplete. The Soviet Union learned this lesson quite definitively in the 1930s."

"Exactly!" Arjun's enthusiasm seemed genuine.

"But here's our dilemma – we lack the technical expertise for such massive undertakings. The British, naturally, are reluctant to help us develop capabilities that might compete with their own industries. The Americans are...well, they're focused on other priorities at the moment."

"And so you look eastward?" Gromyko asked quietly.

"I look toward experience, Ambassador. Toward nations that have successfully made the transition from agricultural to industrial economies without compromising their sovereignty." Arjun's voice carried a note of respectful inquiry.

"Would the Soviet Union be interested in sharing some of that hard-won expertise?"

Gromyko set down his cup with deliberate care. "What exactly are you proposing, Prime Minister?"

"A partnership," Arjun said simply. "India will establish two, perhaps three major steel complexes – massive undertakings that will transform our industrial capacity. We need partners who understand large-scale planning, who have mastered the complexities of heavy industry.

In return for such expertise..." He paused, as if the idea had just occurred to him. "Well, the Soviet Union would naturally benefit from guaranteed access to high-quality steel at favorable terms. Perhaps twenty percent of our output for the first decade?"

The room fell silent except for the distant hum of Manhattan traffic. Gromyko's pale eyes never left Arjun's face, and the Indian Prime Minister could almost hear the calculations running through the Soviet diplomat's mind.

"This is an intriguing proposition," Gromyko nodded. "Though I wonder, Prime Minister, whether such cooperation might raise eyebrows in certain Western capitals."

Arjun smiled, and for the first time it seemed entirely genuine.

"Ambassador, I've discovered something remarkable about true independence – it means making decisions based on your nation's interests, not on what makes others comfortable.

We intend to work with Britain on modernizing our existing infrastructure, with America on agricultural technology and other commercial sectors, and hopefully with the Soviet Union on heavy industry. Each partnership serves specific needs."

"A pragmatic approach," Gromyko acknowledged.

"More than pragmatic – it's necessary. Because here's what I've realized, Ambassador: a strong and industrially self-sufficient India changes the entire equation in Asia. It becomes a stabilizing force, a counterbalance to...various pressures."

Arjun's tone remained casual, but his meaning was clear. "Such an India would naturally want its voice heard in international forums. The Security Council, for instance."

There it was – the request, wrapped in layers of mutual benefit and strategic logic rather than stated as a demand.

Gromyko nodded slowly. "The composition of international bodies should indeed reflect contemporary realities rather than the arrangements of 1945. A strong, sovereign India would certainly bring valuable perspective to global discussions, especially from the eastern side of the world."

"The question," Arjun said softly, "is whether we build this new world together, or whether old patterns reassert themselves. I believe the former serves everyone's interests better."

Gromyko sat quietly for a long moment, his diplomatic mask revealing nothing. When he spoke, his words carried careful weight.

"Prime Minister Mehra, your vision is both comprehensive and practical. The Soviet Union has always supported the industrial sovereignty of nations committed to genuine independence."

He paused, choosing his next words . "Your thoughts regarding international representation, particularly in the context of such extensive cooperation these are matters that deserve serious consideration in Moscow.

The potential for mutual benefit you describe is quite substantial."

Arjun nodded, recognizing this as far as Gromyko could venture without explicit authorization from the Kremlin. But the door wasn't merely ajar – it was swinging wide open.

As they rose to leave, Gromyko extended his hand once more, this time holding the grip a fraction longer. "Prime Minister, history moves in great cycles. The Soviet Union has great respect for leaders who understand which way the wind is blowing."

Outside on the windswept street, Menon pulled his coat tighter against the cold, but his eyes sparkled with satisfaction. "Prime Minister, that was masterful. You've given them a vision they can't ignore."

Arjun paused beside their waiting car, his breath forming small clouds as he spoke. "Now we wait, Menon-ji. Thirty-six hours until the vote. Three great powers must choose between comfortable prejudices and uncomfortable realities."

He smiled with quiet confidence. "We've already made each choice quite illuminating."