Chapter 41: Migration

1947

Simultaneously, thousands of miles to the east, in the marshy deltas and dense bamboo groves of East Bengal, another drama unfolded.

In the border district of Jessore, a column of five thousand Hindu villagers, farmers, weavers, and shopkeepers was trekking westward toward West Bengal. Surrounding them were the ’Bengal Guards’, covert defence units organised by Ram’s Samvardhan network, armed with standard bolt-action Lee-Enfield rifles and sidearms manufactured in the subterranean foundries of Kanpur.

As the column approached a narrow river crossing, a massive, armed League mob emerged from the surrounding palm groves, wielding scythes, spears, and crude muskets, attempting to block the bridge and strip the refugees of their valuables.

The commander of the Bengal Guards, a former Indian National Army veteran named Das, stepped to the front of the bridge. He raised his hand, signalling fifty trained guardsmen to form a disciplined firing line behind a low mud embankment.

"Halt!" Das shouted across the river in clear Bengali. "This column is under the protection of the Indian Security Defence Cadre! Clear the road!"

The leader of the mob sneered, raising a bloody cleaver. "This is Pakistan now, infidel! Leave your women and your gold, or none of you crosses this river alive!"

"Present arms!" Das commanded crisply.

Fifty rifle bolts cycled in unison, a sharp, mechanical sound that echoed across the water.

"Fire a volley over their heads!" Das ordered.

CRACK-CRACK-CRACK!

A wall of flame and smoke erupted from the embankment. Fifty high-velocity bullets cracked through the air inches above the mob’s heads, shattering the branches of the palm trees behind them.

The mob froze in sheer terror. These were not defenceless, fleeing peasants; these were disciplined, heavily armed soldiers trained in modern warfare.

"The next volley is at chest height!" Das shouted through the settling gun smoke. "Clear the road in five seconds, or die where you stand!"

Within ten seconds, the mob scattered into the jungle, throwing away their weapons. The five thousand Hindu refugees crossed the river in safety, entering West Bengal without a single casualty.

While the masses moved across bleeding borders, Vallabhbhai Patel worked frantically from his office in New Delhi to secure the political integration of the 565 princely states that dotted the map of India.

Sitting beside Patel in his study was his brilliant administrative secretary, V.P. Menon, along with Ram Prasad Gupta. On the large mahogany table lay dozens of signed Instruments of Accession, parchments that surrendered the princely states’ defence, foreign affairs, and communications to the Dominion of India.

"561 have signed," Patel said, running a tired hand over his bald head. "From Bikaner to Patiala, from Mysore to Baroda. They saw the writing on the wall. But four holdouts remain, stubborn as mules."

"Junagadh, Travancore, Hyderabad, and Jammu & Kashmir," V.P. Menon listed, ticking them off on his fingers.

"Junagadh is simple," Ram said, pulling a file from his folder. "The Nawab is a fool who spends his treasury on his pedigree dogs, while ninety per cent of his population is Hindu. He wants to accede to Pakistan despite having no land border with it. We do not need the army. My Marwari financial allies have already choked off Junagadh’s trade routes.

We have financed and organised the Aarzi Hukumat, a provisional popular government, headed by Samaldas Gandhi. Popular demonstrations are breaking out across every town in the state. Within weeks, the Nawab will panic and flee to Karachi with his dogs. The Dewan will hand over the keys to us."

Patel chuckled grimly. "And Travancore? Sir C.P. Ramaswamy Aiyar is claiming Travancore will declare itself an independent maritime kingdom, backing it with their monazite thorium reserves."

"Sir C.P. is arrogant, but isolated," Ram replied. "His own people despise his autocratic rule. More importantly, we have quietly established contact with the veteran naval personnel involved in the 1946 Royal Indian Navy mutiny who hail from the Travancore coast. They have organised mass labour strikes across the Vizhinjam and Cochin ports, shutting down all maritime commerce. Sir C.P. was attacked yesterday by a local nationalist dissident; he is shaken to his core. He will sign the Instrument of Accession before the week is out."

Patel leaned forward, his eyes fixing on the remaining two files on his desk.

"That leaves the two giants," Patel said, his voice dropping to a low, grave tone. "Hyderabad in the south, and Jammu & Kashmir in the north."

"Hyderabad is an armed cancer in the belly of India," Ram said bluntly. "The Nizam, Mir Osman Ali Khan, is hoarding wealth and pouring millions into the Razakars, the fanatical Muslim militia led by Qasim Razvi. They are terrorising the Hindu peasantry in the countryside and negotiating covert arms deals with British arms dealers in Goa.

"We cannot move militarily against Hyderabad right now; Mountbatten is terrified of a Muslim uprising across the south, and our armed forces are fully occupied managing Punjab and border security. We must play a waiting game with the Nizam, sign a Standstill Agreement, let Razvi’s atrocities fully alienate international sympathy, build up our military ring around his borders, and strike with decisive armoured force when the moment is right in 1948."

Patel nodded slowly in agreement. "And Kashmir?"

Ram stood up and walked over to the wall map, placing his finger firmly over the Kashmir valley and Jammu.

"Maharaja Hari Singh is indecisive, terrified of both Indian democracy and Pakistani annexation," Ram said. "He dreams of an independent ’Switzerland of the East.’ But Pakistan will not allow Kashmir to remain neutral. Jinnah’s inner circle is already planning an invasion, using Pashtun tribal irregulars backed by regular Pakistani army officers on leave to seize the valley by force before winter sets in."

Ram turned back to Patel, his eyes cold and sharp.

"I have already acted without waiting for state bureaucratic approval," Ram revealed calmly. "Over the past six months, my foundries have dispatched three hundred Japanese knee mortars, two thousand Lee-Enfield rifles, heavy revolvers, and half a million rounds of ammunition directly to our covert defence armouries across every Hindu and Sikh village in Jammu and the southern Kashmir valleys.

"The village elders and our embedded war veterans are fully organised. If Pakistani tribal raiders cross the border at Muzaffarabad, our local defence units will not scatter. They will hold the line at the river bridges and mountain passes, crushing the advance until the regular Indian National Army can airlift troops into Srinagar and secure the territory permanently."

Patel stared at Ram, a rare, genuine smile touching the old iron leader’s lips. He brought his heavy fist down on the desk with a solid thud.

"Good," Patel said softly. "Let Jinnah send his raiders. They will find that Kashmir is not a prize to be plucked, but a fortress made of steel."

A/N: Let me know your thoughts in the comments. Stone me?