I stand on the veranda of the Mehra family home as the first rays of the sun cast long shadows across Lutyens' Delhi. The distant murmur of the city waking up reaches me: vendors carrying steaming cups of masala chai from their stalls, the sharp cry of a hawker advertising newspapers, and a bicycle rickshaw clattering past on the dusty road. Inside, a carved wooden table holds breakfast: slices of hot parathas and chutney. The aroma drifts out the open door, but my mind is already racing.
My uncle, Minister Chamanlal Mehra, enters the courtyard—tall, lean, eyes sharp as a falcon's. "Raghav," he says, voice calm but unmistakably firm, "we have a gathering today. The Congress high command needs all hands on deck." His greeting smile is polite but distant; it doesn't reach his eyes. I straighten my kurta thoughtfully. In my past life, morning routines were much the same—coffee in the high-rise office, the clatter of heels on marble floors—but today there are no boardroom agendas or quarterly reports. Instead, the agenda is a young nation's future, and my place feels suddenly uncertain. Still, I force a confident smile. "Of course, Uncle," I say. He claps me on the shoulder and nods approvingly. There's no warmth in the gesture, only expectations.
From behind me, my cousin Vikram Mehra strides into the courtyard. Where Uncle is quiet calculation, Vikram is brash charisma. He tosses his head, dark hair tousled, eyes alive with excitement. "Raghav! Ready for your first taste of real politics?" he calls out, giving me a friendly jab on the shoulder. In that instant I feel our old rivalry simmering beneath the surface: we were friends growing up, but always jostling for who would make the family proud. He offers me a wrapped samosa from a silver tray with a grin that says leave it behind, old life. I accept it with a nod, the hot chutney filling my mouth with hope.
Uncle's car waits in the driveway, a black Austin that looks as old as the republic itself. We pile in: Uncle takes the front passenger seat as usual, and Vikram squeezes in beside me. On the way to the meeting, the city unfurls around us. Wheels on the bumpy road; ox-drawn carts laden with hay share the lane with shiny new cars. The buildings alternately gleam white and mustard-yellow in the sunlight. Everywhere the new tricolor flag waves on window sills and lamp posts. Men in crisp khaki uniforms stand at ceremonial posts along the way. Officers salute as our car passes. The tangled hum of horns, calls to prayer from distant mosques, and excited chatter in Hindustani and English fills the air. The scent of smoke from incense mingles with chai and dust. A brass band playing somewhere nearby hits a sour note, but the children and elders around it seem entranced. The energy is intoxicating – far more volatile than any corporate merger I've managed, far more raw.
I steal glances at Vikram as we drive. He leans out the window, catching the wind in his face. A group of schoolboys in uniforms salutes him—old habits, I suspect. I look at my own reflection in the windshield: simple white kurta and a Nehru cap now replace the suit and tie of my former life. It feels natural enough, but my mind is still tuned to boardroom logic. In those air-conditioned offices I measured progress in profits and market share, planning everything with spreadsheets. Now I have to navigate the roar of the crowd and the weight of history. In business meetings I could follow an agenda; here, the agenda itself may shift with every speech or whisper.
The car climbs the stately Rajpath, the broad ceremonial boulevard that leads past India Gate. Around us crowds have gathered for the event. Children in school uniforms wave small flags, and men in long coats nod respectfully. A procession of dignitaries steps along the pavement; we catch a glimpse of a Nepali guard marching in his hat. My heart quickens. The scent of dust and exhaust mingles with incense from nearby temples, and my skin warms in the morning heat.
At the far end of the avenue looms the Old Secretariat building, its sandstone walls glowing in the sunlight. The flags of the new nation flap above its pillars. Outside its steps, a crowd swirls with anticipation. Banners hang from the eaves: Union of States Conference. This is to be a meeting of minds and of wills – a discussion on how the myriad princely states will join the Indian Union. As I step out of the car and into the throng, all the city's chaos condenses into purpose. Colorful turbans and sarees pass by, and a family crosses the street shielding their eyes from the glare. On the far corner, a vendor shouts, "Yeh lo, akhbar, akhbar – azaadi ki nayi subah!" The morning breeze carries hints of marigold and hot sweets from a tea stall. I can feel every heartbeat around me, and I wonder if they know they are part of something historic.
Even as I nod at these impressions, I recall an old business saying: always arrive early, always be prepared. Yet here there are no PowerPoint slides or whiteboards – only voices and hurried glances in many languages. The atmosphere is electric, more unpredictable than any market I've known. Still, as we're led into the building by officials in crisp khaki, I try to steel myself. Today's meeting carries the weight of a million lives.
Inside, the hall is a beating heart of discussion. A broad dais at one end is draped in velvet, flanked by potted palms. The room is packed with leaders – men and women in simple white kurtas and sage-green turbans. They fan themselves against the heat and murmur among themselves. At center stage stands a man taller than most, broad-shouldered and serious-faced. His stern eyes survey the room with the confidence of a general on the battlefield. I realize with awe that this is Vallabhbhai Patel. Around him are other elders of the movement; their faces are stern, softened only momentarily by the excited chatter as they watch us enter.
My uncle guides us to our seats at the front. I sit next to Vikram, and he gives me an encouraging grin. I can feel my hands trembling slightly with anticipation. The last time I felt such nerves was before an annual shareholders' meeting as a young CEO. Now it's not shares at stake but the very soul of a nation.
A microphone crackles on the stage. Vallabhbhai Patel steps forward to speak. Instantly, the hall quiets, and even the ceiling fans seem to pause. He clears his throat, and in a deep, resonant voice says, "We stand at the dawn of India's freedom, but this dawn must not be shadowed by division. There are hundreds of princely states in our land – each with its own ruler, its own army, its own pride. If we are to build one India, we must weave them into our national fabric. The challenge is immense."
He names specific cases by name: "Hyderabad in the south, ruled by a Nizam whose loyalty wavers; Kashmir in the north, a jewel torn between choices; Junagadh on the Arabian Sea, where a Hindu majority is ruled by a Muslim Nawab." Each mention draws a tightening of attention from the crowd. Even as he speaks calmly of "patience and persuasion," I can sense the tensions in the room.
Listening, I am overwhelmed by the scale of what we face. In the boardrooms of my past life, negotiating a merger of a dozen companies had been formidable. But here, Sardar Patel speaks of merging 562 kingdoms, each with centuries of history. In business the deals were measured in rupees and strategy charts; here, they will be measured in courage and compromise. His voice is steady, but I feel the weight behind every word: unity now or chaos later.
As he continues, I compare his language to corporate terms: talk of "alliances," "incentives," and "compromise." But unlike a company merger, where contracts and signatures settle disputes, here it will be hearts and brave decisions that bind people together. I find myself thinking of spreadsheets and profit margins – and how useless they are now. Instead, the lines he speaks will be written in the annals of history, not ledgers.
Beside me, Vikram taps his foot restlessly. I wonder what he's thinking. Perhaps he imagines drafting a prospectus on Indian unification, replacing human hearts with numbers. I smile to myself; neither of us could have predicted we'd be swept up in something so unlike the corporate game we once knew.
After the speech there is applause – claps that reverberate like thunder through the hall. Delegates congratulate each other warmly. My uncle gives a low nod of approval. I turn to look at Patel more closely: he has a broad forehead and a moustache thick as forests, but his eyes hold a kindness that matches his stern resolve.
Just then, my uncle stands and beckons me forward. Vallabhbhai looks up, and when he sees us, a gentle smile warms his face. "Vallabhbhai," Uncle says respectfully. I press my palms together in namaste. "I am honored to meet you, sir," I say, voice steady.
He takes my hand in a firm, reassuring grip. "We are all children of India's freedom," he says gravely. "We are brothers all." There is a depth to his words, as if he speaks not just to me but to the nation. His gaze is steady, as if measuring the determination in my young eyes. In that moment, I feel both humbled and uplifted: this is the same man who now shoulders the fate of a nation, and he treats me with the courtesy he would show any comrade.
I remain quietly by Sardar's side as he continues to speak with Uncle. A tall colonel in olive uniform leans in to ask a question about a reluctant state. I catch Patel's response in a low tone: "We will use every peaceful means first, but we must be ready to act if discussions fail." It is barely above a whisper, but the resolve in his voice is unmistakable.
I look around at the assembly. These people lived under the British Raj, fought for our independence, and now they are building a country. Their discussions are patient and deliberative, unlike the rapid-fire decisions of any board I knew. Yet despite the slower pace, their passion is raw. These are not executives negotiating profits; they are patriots shaping a nation.
As the session draws to a close, I catch a final glance from Patel. He looks determined, yet a little tired. I know the work ahead is just beginning.
We step back outside into the still-busy city. The afternoon sun has climbed higher, gilding the domes of New Delhi. The streets hum – rickshaws clatter past, children play cricket in an alley, and in the distance I hear the call to prayer mingling with temple bells. The vibrancy of the city has not dimmed; if anything, it feels even more alive now.
Vikram and I ride in the car home in silence. The earlier chatter of excitement has given way to thoughtful quiet. I look out the window: colonial-era buildings now draped in the tricolor, groups of citizens gathered in small knots talking politics, and a stray dog chasing a tired cow down the street. This is not a boardroom; it is the real world – beautiful, chaotic, and full of possibility.
In my former life, I measured progress in profits and market share. I could plan with spreadsheets and forecasts. Now I'm witnessing a nation measuring progress in unity and trust. There are no bullet points on this roadmap, only aspirations as vast as the Ganges. Even now my businessman's mind is ticking, searching for patterns: if states must merge like companies, what data is missing? If leaders are CEOs of their lands, what board do they answer to?
I realize, almost wryly, that I've stepped into the most chaotic boardroom of all. Here, the pace is unpredictable and the stakes are unimaginable. And yet – perhaps I can help. Perhaps the instincts I honed running businesses could find a place in this new world. The idea is both thrilling and terrifying.
As we turn onto our street, a cool breeze finally offers relief. The city has cooled a little, but I am wide awake. This evening, I will sleep uneasy. India has been reborn, and so have I. Whatever plans I made as Arjun Verma are ashes now – today I'm Raghav Mehra of 1947, and my future is a blank slate.
Tomorrow, I will begin to decide who I want to be in this new life, among these new comrades. For now, I pull a shawl around my shoulders and step out of the car into the gathering dusk, ready to walk home and let these first hours of independence and reincarnation settle around me.