CHAPTER 74: CHAPTER 67: ECHOES OF PROMISE

Delhi – December 16th, 1948

The December morning felt different across India. Newspaper sellers shouted headlines with excitement, their voices carrying news that would change everything.

THE TIMES OF INDIA:

CONSTITUTIONAL DRAFT UNVEILED: CABINET IN INTENSE DISCUSSIONS

HINDUSTAN TIMES:

BIRTH OF A NEW BHARAT: CONSTITUENT ASSEMBLY TO DEBATE HISTORIC CONSTITUTION

From busy city streets to quiet village tea shops, the news spread like wildfire. Everyone had something to say about Arjun Mehra’s carefully planned vision for India.

In a small tea shop in Bombay, Rakesh opened his newspaper, pointing at the big headlines. The shop was filled with steam from hot tea glasses and the chatter of working men.

"Look at this, Ramu," he said to his friend who worked at the docks. "A new constitution. They say it gives us rights, makes us all equal."

Ramu stirred his tea slowly. "Rights are good, but will it put food on my table? Will it get me better pay?" He paused. "But I’ll say this much, at least we’re not fighting anymore. And when I see our own flag on the ships..." He shrugged. "That feels good."

The tea shop owner leaned forward. "It’s all because of our PM, no? He beat the Pakistanis. Got us that big seat with America and Britain. He says he’ll make us strong." There was respect in his voice, mixed with hope.

Far away in a Bihar village, an old farmer sat under a tree listening to a young man read from a Hindi paper. The words seemed almost too good to believe.

The old farmer, Ramesh, wiped sweat from his brow as he surveyed his small plot of wheat. His wheat. The thought still amazed him after all these months.

"Listen to this, Chacha," a younger farmer called out, reading from the Hindi paper. "The PM is bringing a new constitution. Says it will protect our rights, make sure no one can take away what we’ve earned."

Ramesh nodded slowly, his weathered hands running through the grain he had grown on his own land. Almost seven months ago, when the government men came with their papers and soldiers, he thought it was too good to be true.

The zamindar’s lands distributed to those who worked on them. No more rent. No more bowing to the landlord’s son.

"This Prime Minister," Ramesh said, his voice filled with quiet reverence, "he kept his promise about the land. My grandsons will inherit this field, not some landlord’s debt." He looked at the newspaper with hope.

"If he says this constitution will protect our rights, then I believe him. He’s already given us more than anyone else ever did."

In Luvpur, now fully integrated back into India, the city buzzed with renewed energy. The settlers who had moved here after the war had made it their own, bringing fresh hopes and ambitions.

In the busy Anarkali market, a cloth merchant from Delhi arranged his goods while listening to two customers debate.

Both were originally from the Pakistan’s Sindh province, and had relocated to Luvpur in the past few months, during the population exchange after the war.

"This constitutional draft," said one man, who was a teacher. "It promises equal representation, but I worry about the details. Will Punjab get fair seats in the assembly? Will our local concerns be heard in Delhi?"

A Sikh businessman, originally from Pakistan’s Shikarpur city, looked up from his ledger. "At least we have a voice now, brother. Under Pakistani rule, we had nothing. Now we can vote, we can petition the government."

His voice carried satisfaction. "My business has grown threefold since Mehra brought order here. The infrastructure projects, factories and the new railway connections are already being built, this is progress."

The merchant nodded enthusiastically. "My customers come from all over now. Delhi, Bombay, and even Calcutta. Trade is booming." He gestured at his bustling shop.

"At this rate, Lahore will become a commercial hub again. If this constitution protects our rights to do business freely, then I’m all for it."

Delhi

Somewhere in a small apartment near Connaught Place, newspapers covered a wooden table like pieces of a puzzle. For Rhea Sharma, who had just returned to India after five years abroad, every headline felt personal.

She sat with a cup of tea, her straight shoulder-length dark hair falling forward as she leaned over the pages. Her beautiful light tan skin seemed to glow in the morning light streaming through her window.

At twenty-eight, she was smart and sharp from studying journalism in London. But nothing had prepared her for coming home to this changed India.

Everything was different. The quick, brutal war with Pakistan. India’s new seat with the big powers. The shocking murders of Nehru and Azad that had horrified her even from far away. Gandhi’s death months after the attack that had weakened him. And through it all, was Arjun.

Just thinking his name made her heart ache.

She had known him before he became Prime Minister Mehra, before he became the man who rebuilt India. She had known him when he was just...Arjun Mehra, brilliant, intense and full of big dreams but those that are practical too. They had been more than just close friends.

They had been lovers.

She remembered meeting him in 1941 at a political meeting near Delhi University. She was 21, fierce and full of fire, believing her words could change the world. He was 24, already showing the brilliance that would later reshape India, but still young enough to be vulnerable.

They fell for each other hard and fast.

Not just because he was charismatic, though she still remembered his hands combing through her hair and his lips against her throat, all of it which could still make her breath catch, but because their minds matched perfectly.

They would argue about politics until sunrise, their debates as intimate as their embraces.

"People need guidance, Rhea," he would say, his fingers playing with her hair as they lay together in her small bedroom. "They need someone who can see the big picture, who isn’t swayed by every popular opinion."

"And who decides who that someone should be?" she would argue back, her head on his chest, feeling his heartbeat. "Who watches the watchers, Arjun? How do we make sure the guide doesn’t become a dictator?"

He would go quiet then, his hand stopping in her hair. "Someone who loves the country enough to make hard choices. Someone who can handle being hated for doing what’s necessary."

Even then, she had sensed something dark growing in him, a cold calculation. But she had also seen his real love for India, his pain watching the country slowly tearing itself apart, his desperate wish to build something better.

When the chance came to study in London in 1943.

She had begged him to come with her, to study politics together, to dream and build from afar , just for a while. "You can come back stronger," she had said. "Learn what they know. Fight smarter."

But Arjun only looked away, jaw clenched.

"You know I can’t, Rhea. Congress just offered me a place in their Delhi circle," he finally said. "If I leave now, someone else will take that space. Someone less serious, someone who won’t do what needs to be done."

She could see the fire in his eyes, the heavy sense of duty pulling him like gravity.

"India needs me now," he said. "Not after London. But now."

And so, they both knew it meant the end. Not just of their love affair, but of any future together. The world was changing too fast, pulling them apart.

Their last night together was burned into her memory. They made love desperately, trying to remember everything about each other. Afterward, lying against his chest, he whispered, "When this is all over, when India is free and strong, maybe we can find each other again."

"Will you still be you?" she had asked quietly.

He was silent for so long she thought he’d fallen asleep. Finally, he said, "I don’t know. I hope so. But I think...the man who can serve Bharat might not be the man who can love you properly."

Now, five years later, reading about Prime Minister Mehra’s promises and victories and careful political moves, she wondered if that moment had come true.

The man she loved had been capable of gentleness, of doubt, of showing his feelings. The man in these newspapers seemed carved from stone, perfect but somehow empty of the warmth she remembered.

She picked up her notebook and pen. The big constitutional debate on January 5th, 1949, would be her chance to see him again, to understand what he had become.

As a journalist, she owed her readers the truth. As a woman who had once loved him completely, she owed it to herself to find out if any part of her Arjun was still there inside the prime minister.

India’s story was being written right now, each day bringing new Chapters. And at the center was the story of a man she once knew as well as herself, now as distant and powerful as a storm.

[A/N: Alright, let’s not jump to any conclusion now]