Early morning sunlight slanted through the tall windows of the colonial bungalow, dust motes dancing in the still air as Raghav Mehra sat hunched over The Times of India. Headlines screamed of fresh violence on both sides of the new border, and as he read about another night of rioting in Amritsar and Lahore, a heavy weight pressed on his chest. He remembered headlines he should not have seen: bodies in trains, wives torn from husbands, villages burned to ashes. Ached to weep and to rage all at once. This is not the future I remember, he thought bitterly. We cannot let this continue. He tapped the newspaper, blurting out fragments of a past life that felt like a fever dream. "No, no," he muttered. "There must be a better way." Behind his eyes the memory surfaced: he had seen the refugees wade through blood-soaked fields, had seen Delhi's stations choked with families carrying everything on their backs. Arjun Verma's knowledge flooded him — the names of towns that would never heal, the number of children orphaned — but Raghav dared not speak it out loud.
He folded the paper and rose abruptly. Pacing the terrace, he forced the memory aside. There was work to be done here, now. Overhead, a caw of crows broke the silence; in the distance children's laughter mingled with a laboring train, an odd dissonance. In the parlor, a new wireless radio was playing the Prime Minister's monthly broadcast. Nehru's voice flowed over them, soft and earnest: "We stand today at the parting of ways, and we must serve the nation… into which the peoples of India are embarked together." Raghav let the words sink in. In another life he had heard this speech countless times, and even now his mind filled in Nehru's pauses and cadence. Something in him stiffened — a resolve, a plan. He couldn't change everything overnight, but perhaps he could steer the current of history gently, like a canal diverter. "We must act," Raghav told the empty room. "We must plant the seeds now."
Later that morning Raghav met his friend Vijay Rao at the Ministry of Relief and Rehabilitation, a modest office near Raisina Hill that bustled with young officers trying to marshal the chaos. It had been thrown together hastily after Independence, and that itself was a mistake — he thought of how more had needed to be done to anticipate the refugees streaming from Punjab and Bengal. Scattered around the room were crude maps and boards, pins and strings to track the migration. On one wall hung a faded sign: "East and West Punjab Refugee Plan", half covered by a newer notice from Bengal.
Vijay looked up as Raghav entered. He was a lanky young man with bespectacled, earnest eyes. "Raghav, thank you for coming. We're overwhelmed here," he said, voice tight. There was resignation in his tone, a young idealist already wearing down from the endless suffering and bureaucracy. A distressed Afghan stove rustled in the corner; outside, carts rattled along Rajpath.
Raghav spread out a rough map on the long table. "Let's start with what we have," he said calmly. He pointed to the cluster of red pins marking refugee camps. "There's one too many in Delhi. Everyone's headed here. There won't be enough food or shelter if this goes on."
An older officer, Colonel Menon (no relation to Vallabhbhai's deputy V.P. Menon, Raghav noted quietly), stepped forward. His uniform was still olive green despite independence, his cap perched at a jaunty angle. "But we have the railways and military carrying them in. They're coming by the thousand. If we tell them to stop—?"
Raghav shook his head. "We cannot send them back. They have nowhere else to go. But we can organize them better. The trains should travel straight to camps we designate. Why, with all due respect, are most of the refugees ending up in Delhi? We need more well-placed camps closer to the Punjab border, or even within Punjab itself, under new administration. It's safer and more dignified." He unfolded a faded 1944 Administrative Order – "lines of communication plan" – and brushed off the dust. "Before Partition, the British had planned depots along the Grand Trunk Road. Many of those are still intact. Why not use them? Build prefabricated huts, even if temporary, at Jalandhar, Ferozepur, Ludhiana... Let Punjab handle its own arrivals instead of choking Delhi."
Vijay frowned, scribbling notes. "Easy for you to say, we don't have the resources-"
"Then demand them," Raghav pressed gently. "Write to the Home Ministry, line by line if you have to. Emphasize that waiting is costing lives. There's corn ready in Madhya Pradesh and West Bengal that could be rerouted. Use the railways but don't overload any one point. And tell them to involve local village elders — if we work through the Panchayats in Punjab, people will calm down, find housing with their fellow Punjabis. A community council can distribute rations more fairly than leaving it to some out-of-touch official in Delhi." He added softly, "Women and children must feel some sense of normalcy. A public gathering for news or prayer, anything — Gandhi tried something like this. It helped people cling to hope."
One of the younger clerks, a Marathi officer named Deshpande, cleared his throat. "Mr. Mehra, with respect, if all the refugees congregate in Punjab or Bengal, what about those who fled to us in Delhi? Should we tell them to go further north instead of staying here where we have resources?"
Raghav took a breath. "We'll support the camps in Delhi and Bombay that are already over-flowing, of course. There must be safe distribution here too. But beyond that, we must spread the burden. I promise, it's easier to help them closer to home. And if we build it, people from Lahore or Dacca might just stay there. News of basic amenities spreads faster than hatred."
Menon looked doubtful. "Our masters built us a strong railway for trade, and now it's handling sorrow."
Raghav allowed a small, wry smile. "And it's ours to command now. Let us use it for rebuilding, not just destruction." The colonel pondered that. Vijay noticed the way Raghav spoke as if he had lived through hunger himself – and in a way, he had. Vijay decided to trust his instincts for now. Overhead, a plane from Karachi droned past, reminding them that the country was new and big, and the work barely begun.
By midafternoon, Raghav stepped out onto Connaught Place, the newly built white concrete ring taking shape amid cobbled streets and market stalls. He walked to the small tea stall where young Indira Gupta, a recent graduate working in the Bureau of Economic Affairs, was waiting. They had met earlier that week at a conference on food supply, and she had impressed him with her passion.
She greeted him with a smile. "Raghav, good to see you. These vendors say your reports helped get more wheat to the farmers of U.P." She didn't mean to flatter, but Raghav had indeed suggested channeling a surplus from the Central Provinces as a test pilot; it was one of Arjun's memories coming to use.
They sat on chipped wooden stools by a hissing samovar. Around them Argentinian tango music spilled from a nearby gramophone — a Western novelty among the Indian hot air. Indira leaned in. "I heard you were talking to the Home Ministry today. Any success on the refugee front?"
Raghav stirred lemon in his chai. "Some. We convinced a committee that district officers should speed up land reforms. That might help displaced tenants without land of their own. A step toward equity."
She raised an eyebrow. "Land reforms? Already?"
"Yes." Raghav's tone was quiet but intense. "We heard that many landlords will sell small plots to pay bribes or debts. Instead, imagine if the State bought that land at fair price and resettled refugees on it. It's in the budget, if they only authorize it. Land that is empty for a generation should go to whoever needs it now. That means poverty ends, and also gives those men from Lahore who owned nothing to begin with a stake in this country's future. The result would be more stability, and maybe fewer riots."
Indira's eyes were wide. "You're right, of course. My father in Bombay has said our approach has been too slow. He told me, 'Give the poor land; they will not fight if they have bread under them.'"
They lapsed into a companionable silence, sipping tea and watching carts laden with sugarcane roll by. Raghav glanced at the distant dome of Raisina Hill; inside those corridors of power, big decisions were brewing. "It's still early," he mused. "If only we can tackle things at their root."
Indira replied, "I think that is what everyone wants, but nobody knows where to start."
Raghav nodded. "We start where people bleed most." He stood to finish his tea. Indira watched him straighten his jacket, unfurled a small pocket notebook, and scribbled something with fountain pen. Maybe it was a note for later, or a thought he couldn't say aloud. Raghav handed her the paper. It read: "Rally teachers, students: volunteer aid for camps. Show unity. Civil servants meet Pakistan press for calm border crossing." Indira read it and smiled. "Subtle. You wear that suit well, sir," she teased. "Promise me one thing – get some rest."
He only smiled. "History doesn't sleep, nor can I." As he walked away towards the Secretariat, a gust of wind lifted the edges of the note. The words "invite them to peace talks" caught his eye. He pressed them into his mind like fuel.
That evening Raghav slipped into the vast, high-ceilinged hall of the Delhi University Student Union, where a gathering of faculty and junior politicians had arranged a forum on India's future. The room smelled of jasmine and books. On the stage were luminaries — C. Rajagopalachari, now the Governor-General, and Jawaharlal Nehru, the Prime Minister — but mostly Raghav focused on those between, the younger ones, the technicians of policy. There was Yashpal Sharma from the Bombay Plan group, a large gentle giant of a man who advocated mixed economy, and a tall, thin economist, Dr. S. Bose (not the well-known Bose, but a Hindi colleague of Jawaharlal's), and even a couple of young journalists from The Hindu and Hindustan Times scribbling furiously.
It was like standing at the source of a river: ideas flowing and converging. Rajagopalachari was speaking of flooding the budget with more famine relief; Nehru spoke of heavy industry and planned projects. Raghav recognized the lines from Nehru's previous speeches; he imagined he saw him struggle with the same agonies Raghav himself felt — industry vs agriculture, immediate needs vs grand vision.
When Rajaji joked about the long shadow of British India's bureaucracy, the audience chuckled. One of his colleagues, T.K. Nayar, turned to Raghav. "What do you think?" Nayar whispered. "We inherited all this — red tape, regulations. How to fix it?"
Raghav whispered back, "Corruption sprouts where power has no sunshine. We must pry open those office windows — insist on transparency, penalties for bribes. And recruit the finest minds fresh out of universities, not just recycled clerks. We should start an academy of administration, a sort of civil service school for Indians, teaching ethics first."
Nayar nodded. "You'd upset half the officers in this room." He grinned wryly. Raghav only smiled. Rajaji had just made a sharp remark about Gandhi's Satyagraha legacy not mixing with guns and tanks. Raghav thought: yes, democracy without truth is tyranny. Bureaucracy needed truth too.
After the debate, Raghav found himself quietly cornering Nehru's old aide, Malik, who was younger and freckled, near a teacup table. Malik was preparing for a journey to Leh as an assistant, he said, and had a casual, energetic manner. "Have you heard about Jammu and Kashmir?" Raghav asked, lowering his voice as if crossing into forbidden territory.
Malik stiffened, looking around, though the hall had emptied. "Only what reaches Delhi — that some tribesmen have crossed the border. We have telegrams from Srinagar: the Maharaja is hesitant, there is talk of arming. I do not envy whatever Nehruji has to decide."
Raghav's throat went dry. In his mind, he saw the scenes of October that would come: the confused soldiers, the UN debates, a war that truly tested the nation. He remembered from Arjun's life how long and bitter that conflict would become, how Kashmir's status would remain forever contested. He swallowed and chose his words with care. "Yes, I fear what could happen. But maybe, if we could ensure two things: first, quick military relief if needed. Second, a legal instrument ready in advance, so it's clear Kashmir belongs. If the people see our army helping immediately, and a constitution that includes them, maybe they'll be calm."
Malik frowned. "We have nothing official yet. The Maharaja is dragging his feet, asking for a guarantee. Our leaders hesitate to accept until we are attacked. Could things be different?"
Raghav's eyes hardened slightly. "I think it must. The people of Kashmir — Muslims and Hindus alike — they deserve clarity. If Pakistan can claim they sent volunteers, we must show Pakistan we are serious. The Army is stretched, true, but we have experience fighting there. If Nehruji has no choice but war, then let's be ready the day it happens, not after. And in the meantime, dispatch a representative to Srinagar: a neutral envoy who speaks to Sheikh Abdullah, appeals for him to stand firm, and to the Maharaja — an assurance of fair treatment. Sometimes a calm word stops a gun better than an order."
Malik studied him. In Raghav's mind, he saw the young Malik traveling by paraffin lamp over mountainous passes — Raghav hoped— to put some of these ideas into effect. "You're right," Malik murmured, nodding slowly. "We might do that. After all, an ounce of prevention…"
Before they parted, Malik added quietly, "You have some perspective, Mr. Mehra. Have you traveled much?" Raghav smiled. "Some. I try to read everything I can." Malik chuckled. "Keep it up. Maybe one day I'll hear you in the Cabinet debating borders." Raghav returned his smile without saying a word.
That night, in his small rented flat in Old Delhi, Raghav stood by the window looking out over the dusty street. The sky was inky, the stars obscured by new electric wires stretching between poles. Nearby, the house chef was in the kitchen rattling dishes, but the rest of the city slept after dinner.
He poured over the tiny flickering flame of an oil lamp. In front of him lay a notebook — actually his truest confidant now. In neat script, he had written a list of issues: Partition violence, refugee resettlement, Kashmir accession, planning economy, bureaucratic reform, foreign vigilance. Under each, jotter notes: suggestions, names, contacts.
He traced a finger down "Partition" and the sub-point "Gazette equal rations + credit to all. No favoritism." He remembered how in 2001 his own country had offered assistance to global refugees; he drew a line under the word accountability. Under "Kashmir" he had scribbled "Mr. Malik — his face on the page — and "meet Abdullah, also Hari Singh." Planning: "invite foreign advisers? (not blindly). Balance heavy industries with farms. Mention Indian conditions — geographical diversity." Corruption: "Agnipath commission?"— that was Arjun's idea from decades away about forcing young officers to serve rural postings. Foreign: "Study Tibetan issues, keep embassy in Moscow alert to China."
He paused at foreign policy. The Chinese Civil War news had suddenly gone silent; now just rumors. He turned the lamp down lower. Raghav recalled reading that 1949 would bring a communist China. He knew that an alarmist note from his file drawer in 2020 said "Indians under-prepared, maintain vigilance." Could he maybe share some of that? No, too soon. But he made a note: "once non-alignment necessary, now uncertain." By himself he muttered, "We must engage the Soviets and Americans in small measures — we are too weak to offend either but they can help build roads or industry if we ask right."
A clock chimed midnight. Raghav looked at himself in the small mirror over the desk, rubbing tired eyes. The face that stared back was young but lined with sleepless nights. Could one man do all this? A quiet voice in his head, deep and confident from Arjun's experience, replied, One brick at a time. He closed the book. Recollecting Gandhi's footprints in Sevagram, he knew this revolution would be patient.
Tomorrow, he would outline a proposal for training village volunteers in conflict resolution — an idea he had just now imagined. He would bring it to the next meeting; perhaps Pal's wife, a schoolteacher turned relief worker, might champion it in Punjab. Piece by piece, he would weave a web of reforms: from the panchayats of the North-West to the factories of Bombay, from the Himalayas to the delta of the Ganges. And if, decades later, his name appeared in some forgotten footnote of history — as a whisper of change — he would have done his duty.
Raghav Mehra turned off the lamp and stepped to the window. In the dark silence he found a restless peace. The scale of his mission still felt unbearably large, but for now, tonight, it was enough to have a plan. Tomorrow, and the day after, he would lay one brick more. And hope.