Awakening of India - 1947

Rawalpindi – GHQ – January 8th, 1948

The teletype machine in the corner of the operations room had been chattering incessantly for the past hour, but nobody was paying attention to it anymore.

The real bombshell had already dropped, delivered by a breathless signals officer who'd burst through the doors like he was carrying news of the apocalypse. Which, in a way, he was.

General Akbar Khan, the real one, flesh and blood, not whatever phantom had just torn their world apart, stood frozen in the center of the room, holding a piece of paper that might as well have been his own death warrant.

His normally steady hands were shaking so badly that the words seemed to dance on the page.

"Read it again," whispered Colonel Mahmood, though his voice sounded like he was praying it would say something different this time.

Akbar Khan cleared his throat, but his voice came out as a croak anyway.

"All India Radio bulletin, repeated by BBC World Service: Former Deputy Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru and Education Minister Maulana Abul Kalam Azad confirmed dead following assassination attempt in Delhi.

Mahatma Gandhi and Khan Abdul Ghaffar Khan in critical condition, fighting for their lives in hospital" He paused, his face going ashen.

"Perpetrator identified as Pakistani operative Major General Akbar Khan, killed at scene by security forces." The silence that followed wasn't just quiet, it was the kind of absolute, suffocating stillness that comes before mountains collapse.

Twenty-three officers, the cream of Pakistan's military leadership, stood like statues in a mausoleum. The only sound was the steady tick of the wall clock, each second falling like a drop of water in an empty well.

"That's... the agent we sent to infiltrate Indian Army using my identity," Akbar Khan said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

"But, how is that possible for them to catch him so early? Wasn't our plan failsafe?"

Lieutenant Colonel Rashid, barely twenty-eight and looking like he'd aged a decade in the past five minutes, spoke up with a voice that cracked like thin ice.

"Sir, the details are... they're too specific to be fabricated. The weapon was Pakistani-issue. The man had Pakistani identification papers. Perfect Urdu accent. And he shouted..." Rashid swallowed hard.

"He shouted 'You killed my country!' before opening fire."

"Jesus Christ," muttered General Messervy, the British officer who'd stayed on to help with the transition.

He was staring at the wall map of Kashmir, where little red pins that had once marked their advancing positions. Positions that had seemed so promising just a couple months ago.

"This isn't just a military setback. This is a goddamn apocalypse."

Liaquat Ali Khan arrived twenty minutes later, and one look at his face told the whole story.

Pakistan's Prime Minister had always been an elegant man, impeccably dressed, with the bearing of someone born to leadership.

Now he looked like he'd been hit by a freight train. His usually pristine sherwani was wrinkled, his hair disheveled, and his eyes held the wild, desperate look of a man watching his life's work burn.

"Tell me it's not true," he said, gripping the doorframe so hard his knuckles went white. "Please, for the love of Allah, tell me this is some Indian propaganda trick."

General Akbar Khan held up the telegram, his hand still trembling. "I wish I could, sir. But the details... they're all checking out. Delhi Police have confirmed the identity.

The weapon's been traced to our armory in Rawalpindi. Even his accent matched the Lahore district perfectly." Liaquat's legs seemed to give out from under him.

He stumbled to the nearest chair and collapsed into it, burying his face in his hands. For a long moment, the only sound was his ragged breathing.

"Gandhi," he whispered through his fingers.

"Dear God in heaven, Gandhi is dying, and the whole world thinks we ordered it."

He looked up, his eyes bright with unshed tears. "How do we explain this? How do we tell the world that we didn't murder the apostle of peace?"

"We can't," said a quiet voice from the doorway.

Everyone turned to see a aide-de-camp standing there, his face pale as parchment.

"Sir, the international reaction is... it's catastrophic. President Truman has suspended all aid discussions. Prime Minister Attlee is calling for immediate sanctions.

The Arab League has issued a statement of 'profound disappointment and horror.' Even Saudi Arabia is distancing itself from us."

The room fell silent again, but this time the silence had weight to it, pressing down like the atmosphere before a massive storm.

The Quaid Arrives

When Muhammad Ali Jinnah walked into that room forty minutes later, it was like watching a ghost materialize.

The Quaid-e-Azam, the Father of Pakistan, the man who had willed an entire nation into existence through sheer force of personality, looked smaller somehow. Frailer. Like the terrible news had physically diminished him.

But his eyes, those sharp, intelligent eyes that had stared down the British Empire, were still alert. And in them was a kind of terrible understanding that made everyone in the room uncomfortable.

"I've been listening to the radio," he said quietly, settling into a chair with the careful movements of an old man. "Arjun Mehra's address to the nation was...masterful. Absolutely masterful."

"Masterful?" General Messervy's voice was sharp with disbelief. "The man has fabricated the most heinous..."

"Has he?" Jinnah's interruption was soft, but it cut through the room like a blade.

"Think about it, gentlemen. Really think. A Pakistani operative, carrying perfect identification, using a Pakistani weapon, shouting slogans about 'his country'. Every detail designed to be believable. Every element crafted to maximum damage."

He leaned forward, his eyes boring into each of them in turn. "This isn't fabrication. This is orchestration."

The implications of what he was saying slowly dawned on the room. Colonel Mahmood was the first to speak, his voice hoarse. "You mean... you think Mehra actually..."

"I think Arjun Mehra is a man who understands that wars are won in the hearts and minds of people, not just on battlefields," Jinnah replied.

"I think he looked at our advance in Kashmir and realized that he needed something more than military victory.

He needed moral authority. And what gives more moral authority than being the victim of an unconscionable atrocity? Especially at a time when the entire world is pressuring them to stop the war."

Liaquat Ali Khan looked up from his hands, his face streaked with tears. "But Gandhi... surely even Mehra wouldn't sacrifice Gandhi for political advantage."

Jinnah's smile was bitter as winter wind. "Wouldn't he? Think of the calculation. Nehru and Azad are political rivals, obstacles to his complete control. Gandhi is beloved but aging, his influence waning.

Ghaffar Khan is a symbol of Pashtun resistance that Mehra's plan might not tolerate."

He paused, letting the words sink in. "But if they die as martyrs, victims of Pakistani aggression, their deaths become far more valuable than their lives. Especially Gandhi's.

Every prayer offered for the Mahatma's recovery becomes a curse upon us. Every tear shed becomes a weapon in Mehra's arsenal."

The World Reacts

As if to underscore Jinnah's point, another aide burst into the room with a fresh batch of international cables. His face was so pale he looked like he might faint.

"Sirs," he stammered, "the reaction from Washington... President Truman has issued a statement calling the attack 'an assault on everything decent in human civilization.'

He's comparing it to the Nazi attacks on churches." General Akbar Khan felt his stomach drop. "What about Britain?"

"Worse, sir. Prime Minister Attlee addressed Parliament an hour ago. He called Pakistan 'a rogue state that has betrayed every principle of civilized governance.' There are riots in London outside our High Commission.

The police had to form cordons to protect our diplomats."

"And the Islamic world?" Jinnah's voice was steady, but everyone could hear the dread underneath.

The aide consulted his papers with shaking hands. "President Nasser of Egypt has withdrawn his support. King Saud has issued a statement saying 'Islam does not condone the murder of saints.'

Even the Grand Mufti of Jerusalem has condemned the attack. Sir, we're being abandoned by everyone."

Liaquat Ali Khan made a sound that was half-sob, half-laugh.

"Three months...just three damn months ago, we were the champions of Muslim rights. Today, we're pariahs in our own religious community. How did it happen so fast?"

"Because Mehra understands human nature," Jinnah said bitterly.

"He knows that people don't analyze complex geopolitical situations. They see simple images: Gandhi bleeding, Nehru dead, a Pakistani assassin with a smoking gun.

That image will be seared into the world's consciousness forever. Every time someone mentions Pakistan, they'll think of that moment."

General Messervy had been quietly conferring with his staff officers in the corner of the room. Now he approached the group around Jinnah, his face grim.

"Quaid-e-Azam, the military situation is deteriorating rapidly. Our positions in Kashmir are collapsing even faster than earlier. The men are... they're not resisting with the same spirit. News of the assassination has reached the front lines."

"What are they saying?" Jinnah asked, though his tone suggested he already knew.

"They're saying they didn't sign up to murder holy men. Some units are laying down their arms entirely. Others are retreating without orders." Messervy consulted his notes.

"East Pakistan is completely lost. Dhaka had already fallen last week, now the remnants of our forces had surrendered en masse. The local population turned against them completely."

Colonel Mahmood spoke up from his position by the maps.

"The situation in the west isn't much better. Indian forces are advancing on all fronts. Kashmir is already a lost cause. Khyber and Lahore are under siege. Karachi is being bombarded from the sea.

And with the Khan of Kalat openly supporting India, we have no secure rear areas." "Supplies?" Jinnah asked.

"Cut off. The international community has imposed an immediate arms embargo. Like mentioned in reports, even Islamic nations are distancing themselves from us.

We're fighting with what we have in our warehouses, and that won't last long, barely a few days at most." Jinnah nodded slowly, as if he'd expected this news. "And morale among the officers?"

The uncomfortable silence that followed was answer enough.

Lieutenant Colonel Rashid, who had been listening to the radio in the corner, suddenly straightened up. "Sirs, there's a live broadcast from Delhi. Mehra is speaking again."

"Turn it up," Jinnah ordered.

Arjun Mehra's voice filled the room, smooth and cultured, with just the right note of grief and determination.

"My fellow Indians, as I speak to you now, our beloved Mahatma continues to fight for his life. The doctors tell us that every hour is crucial. Let us pray for him, as we know he would pray for his attackers, for such was his boundless capacity for forgiveness."

"Listen to that," Jinnah murmured. "He's turning Gandhi's condition into an ongoing drama. Every medical bulletin becomes front-page news around the world. Every prayer for Gandhi's recovery becomes a reminder of who shot him."

Mehra's voice continued: "But even as we pray for peace, we must prepare for the harsh reality that Pakistan's aggression has forced upon us. Their attack on our leaders, their invasion of Kashmir, their betrayal of every principle of civilized behavior, these cannot go unanswered.

We fight not for conquest, but for justice. Not for territory, but for the sacred principle that violence against the innocent must never be rewarded."

"Masterful," Jinnah said again, but this time the word was filled with a kind of professional admiration mixed with despair.

"He's reframed the entire conflict. We're no longer fighting over Kashmir. We're fighting against the forces of evil itself. Every Indian soldier who dies becomes a martyr for civilization. Every Pakistani who falls becomes a footnote to barbarity."

General Akbar Khan looked around the room at his colleagues, men who had dedicated their lives to creating and defending Pakistan. All of them looked broken, aged beyond their years by the weight of what they now understood.

"What do we do?" he asked simply.

Jinnah was quiet for a long moment, staring at the map on the wall. The green areas marking Pakistani territory seemed to be shrinking even as they watched.

"We have three choices," he said finally. "We can fight to the last man and be remembered as fanatics who murdered saints. We can surrender unconditionally and hope for mercy from a man who has none. Or..."

"Or?" Liaquat Ali Khan's voice was barely audible.

"Or we accept that Pakistan as we envisioned it is already dead. It died the moment that assassin pulled the trigger, whether he was our agent or Mehra's.

The Pakistan that will emerge from this war, if any emerges at all, will be something entirely different. Something smaller, weaker, forever marked by this moment."

The room fell silent one final time. Outside, they could hear the distant rumble of Indian artillery, growing closer by the hour. The serpent that had struck so boldly at Kashmir was dying, its venom turned back upon itself.

And somewhere in a hospital in Delhi, Mahatma Gandhi fought for his life, each labored breath a reminder to the world of Pakistan's fall from grace.

The man who had never raised his hand in anger had become, in his suffering, the most powerful weapon in Arjun Mehra's arsenal.

The trap had been sprung with perfect timing and devastating effect. Pakistan had not just lost a war, it had lost its soul. And there would be no coming back from that.