The winter light over Raisina Hill had a way of deceiving the senses. It shimmered faintly against the sandstone, turning the sprawling imperial domes of the erstwhile Viceroy's palace into something both familiar and unrecognizable—an echo of a dead empire wearing the borrowed skin of a young republic. Mid-December winds swept across the Mughal gardens, carrying with them the scent of ash from distant hearths and the faint hum of Delhi's impatient heartbeat.
Within the vast corridors of Rashtrapati Bhavan, a hush had settled—one that accompanies moments of history when something irreversible is about to occur. Servants carried teak trays with measured footsteps. A brass clock chimed softly. And in a high-ceilinged study decorated with naval paraphernalia and oil portraits of long-dead aristocrats, Lord Louis Mountbatten stared at the door with an expression he had perfected over decades: a mask of polite command concealing a storm of irritation.
He was dressed impeccably in admiral's whites, medals polished to mirror brightness, shoes sharp enough to cut the thick Delhi winter air. But beneath the immaculate veneer, his fingers twitched against the armrest of the chair—an involuntary betrayal of the fact that this meeting was not one he had summoned from a position of certainty.
For the first time since leaving London with the glittering burden of empire on his shoulders, Mountbatten felt the strange sensation of being on foreign ground in the very palace built for his kind.
The door opened.
Prime Minister Anirban Sen entered with the smooth, unhurried gait of a man who understood the weight of silence. Behind him walked Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel, wrapped in his simple shawl, radiating the immovable gravity of a granite mountain. Mountbatten rose, offering a thin smile.
"Prime Minister Sen. Mr. Patel," he said, voice warm but taut as a violin string. "I appreciate your promptness. The situation in Kashmir, I imagine, leaves little room for leisurely formalities."
Anirban returned the greeting with a slight bow of the head, his expression unreadable. He took his seat opposite Mountbatten, Patel lowering himself into another chair with a heaviness that seemed to press the very floor downwards.
Mountbatten's gaze flicked to the aides standing discreetly against the wall—Indians now, not British—and something in his chest tightened. This was no longer the world he had shaped.
He cleared his throat.
"Prime Minister," he began, "I must express my concerns immediately. Recent developments have reached me that are… troubling." His voice sharpened. "Jawaharlal Nehru, I am told, is… shall we say, inaccessible? Maulana Azad as well? Their absence from Parliament does not go unnoticed."
Anirban lifted his teacup and took a measured sip, the porcelain clinking gently. When he set it down, the room seemed to still.
"They are safe, Your Excellency," he said.
Safe. The word hung between them like smoke.
Mountbatten blinked. "Safe?" he repeated. "Prime Minister, words can be rather flexible in times of conflict. My sources—reliable ones—tell me they are under effective confinement. Confinement, I daresay, not protection."
Patel shifted slightly, not a twitch of discomfort but of restrained impatience.
Anirban's voice remained calm. "India is in a state of national emergency. Intelligence suggests deep infiltration by Pakistani operatives. Senior leaders—especially ideological ones whose public utterances carry weight—are prime targets for assassination or manipulation."
Mountbatten's lips tightened. "Protective relocation, then? With sealed communications? And guards at the gates?"
"Necessary measures," Anirban replied evenly. "Temporary. Precautionary. And prudent."
"House arrest," Mountbatten said flatly. "Call it what it is."
A moment passed like the draw of a blade.
Anirban's eyes did not waver. "Call it leadership, Your Excellency. A Prime Minister must protect his nation—even from the naivety of its own heroes."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
Mountbatten straightened in his chair. "Prime Minister, these are not the actions of a constitutional democracy. They resemble—how shall I put it?—methods employed by regimes we fought against in the last war."
Anirban leaned back, unthreatened, almost amused. "War, Your Excellency, does not respect your distinctions. It demands results, not etiquette."
Patel's silence was its own weapon, filling the room like an iron weight.
Mountbatten inhaled sharply, shifting tactics.
"Very well," he said. "Then perhaps you can explain why the Kashmir situation was not referred to the United Nations. The legal frameworks exist. They were crafted precisely for moments such as this. A neutral international body could prevent escalation."
Anirban's answer came without hesitation, sharp as a dry thunderclap. "Escalation is precisely what we require."
For the first time, Mountbatten looked startled.
Anirban continued, voice low, deliberate. "India must not merely survive this provocation. It must crush it. Decisively. Permanently. If we rush to international arbitration, we give Pakistan legitimacy it has not earned. We give the world the chance to meddle. We give the aggressor a shield."
He leaned forward slightly.
"India does not litigate its sovereignty in foreign halls."
Mountbatten stared at him, struggling to reconcile this man with the soft-spoken academic he had once read about in briefings. Something unfamiliar twisted in his gut—was it respect? Or apprehension?
He clenched his jaw.
"Very well," Mountbatten said. "Then tell me why Air Marshal Elmhirst and Rear-Admiral Jefford—senior British officers—were abruptly dispatched to the Andaman Islands. At a time when their expertise is absolutely critical."
Anirban's expression shifted. Not defensive, not evasive—but something colder, sharper, like the unsheathing of a hidden blade.
"Because," he said, "I intend for them to live."
A flicker of confusion crossed Mountbatten's face.
Anirban's voice deepened, taking on a gravity that seemed to distort the very air. "We have intercepted communications indicating that Pakistani operatives have marked British officers—especially those in command—as prime symbolic targets. Eliminating them would serve a dual purpose: crippling our operational command and severing India from its most influential international ally."
He let the words sink in.
"By sending them to assess our strategic island outposts, I remove them from the immediate theatre of danger—while ensuring their assignment remains legitimate."
Mountbatten's face paled. He had anticipated many things in this confrontation. Not this.
"Survey missions," he whispered. "During a war?"
Anirban's reply was almost gentle. "Our enemies expect us to be predictable. So we give them paradox."
Patel finally spoke, his voice gravelly and unadorned. "And in the meantime, our own Air Vice Marshal Mukherjee and Vice Admiral Katari have taken over. Indian command for Indian war."
Mountbatten's breath caught.
Elmhirst removed.
Jefford removed.
Nehru contained.
Azad contained.
India fighting without British oversight.
The war expanding.
The empire's last tendrils cut.
He felt the tectonic shift under his feet.
When he spoke again, there was no veneer of charm left. "Prime Minister… what exactly are you doing?"
Anirban did not blink.
"What is necessary."
The clock in the corner ticked once, twice, thrice—each sound like the hammering of fate.
Mountbatten's voice dropped. "You are dismantling every safeguard of the transition. Every assumption on which independence was built."
Anirban's reply came like a verdict.
"No, Your Excellency. I am dismantling every assumption that India must remain what the British designed her to be."
Silence fell.
The winter sun slipped behind a cloud, dimming the room.
Anirban leaned forward, eyes burning with a calm fire that made even Patel look at him with newfound evaluation.
"History will record," Anirban said quietly, "that this was the moment India truly became sovereign. Not when we lowered your flag. Not when we signed papers. But today—when we refused to ask permission."
Mountbatten felt something ancient and imperial crack in his chest.
This man was not Nehru.
Not Gandhi.
Not any of the leaders the British thought they understood.
This was something far more dangerous.
Anirban rose. Patel rose beside him.
"For your concerns," Anirban said softly, "I thank you. For your approval, I do not require it."
And with the quiet dignity of a nation no longer willing to bow even in politeness, India's Prime Minister turned and walked out of the last palace of empire.
Patel gave Mountbatten a final look—steady, unblinking—before following.
Mountbatten stood alone.
The winter wind crept through the half-open window, extinguishing a candle on his desk.
The last light of the Raj flickered, struggled, and died.