A New India

It was a July morning in New Delhi, and the city was just beginning to wake up when the news broke.

Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel, India's Defense Minister and one of the architects of its independence, had passed away in his sleep.

The radio stations, usually filled with the sounds of news bulletins and light music, fell silent.

Then came the somber announcement, spoken in a tone heavy with grief.

"India mourns the loss of its beloved leader, Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel. The Iron Man of India, whose unwavering strength united this nation, has passed away at the age of 80."

The words hit like a hammer.

Across the country, homes and workplaces fell into stunned silence.

For many, Patel wasn't just a leader he was a symbol of the nation's struggle, resilience, and unity.

Even as his health had declined over the past year, his presence was a source of stability.

Now, that anchor was gone.

Rohan stood at the window of his office, his hands clasped behind his back as he stared out at the city below.

The news had come to him an hour earlier, delivered by Neeraj who could barely meet his gaze.

He hadn't spoken since.

A knock at the door broke his thoughts.

It was Rao, head of R&AW, his expression unusually solemn.

"Prime Minister," Rao said softly. "I came as soon as I heard."

Rohan nodded, his face unreadable. "It was expected. His health has been failing for months."

"Expected or not, it's a great loss," Rao said, stepping closer. "He was more than just a minister. He was the spine of this nation."

Rohan turned, his eyes shadowed. "Yes, he was. And now we must stand straight without him."

For a moment, the two men stood in silence.

Then Rohan spoke again, his voice quieter.

"Do you know what he said to me the last time we spoke? It was just a week ago. He said, 'Rohan, the country is yours now. Mine was the work of a hammer breaking chains, forging unity. Yours is the work of a sculptor. Build it into something worthy.'"

Rao didn't reply.

There was nothing he could say to ease the weight of those words.

The news of Patel's death spread quickly, and the world reacted with shock and sorrow.

Messages of condolence poured in from leaders across the globe.

In London, the British Prime Minister called Patel "a formidable statesman who left an indelible mark on the subcontinent."

In Moscow, the Soviet Union's leader referred to him as "a man of iron will and unyielding conviction."

Even in Washington, where relations with India had been strained, the President issued a statement praising Patel's role in shaping the post-colonial world.

But it wasn't just politicians who mourned.

In villages and cities across India, people gathered to light candles, offer prayers, and share stories of Patel's contributions.

For many, his death felt deeply personal a loss that transcended politics.

In Gujarat, his home state, thousands of people lined the streets in silence.

Farmers, merchants, and laborers ordinary people who had admired Patel for his simplicity and strength spoke of him with tears in their eyes.

"He was our Bapu after Pandit Rao," an old man said to a reporter.

"He didn't just unite the princely states. He united us."

Back in New Delhi, Rohan called an emergency meeting of his cabinet.

The room was tense, the weight of the moment pressing down on everyone present.

Rohan sat at the head of the table, his usual composure marked by a hint of weariness.

"We will observe seven days of national mourning," he announced. "Flags will fly at half-mast, and all official events will be suspended. His funeral will be conducted with the highest honors."

The ministers nodded, their faces solemn.

"I want this to be more than a ceremony," Rohan continued. "It must reflect who he was a leader who served without seeking glory. A man who stood for the people."

One of the ministers hesitated before speaking. "Prime Minister, do you think his death will unsettle the nation? He was… irreplaceable."

Rohan's gaze was steady. "No one is irreplaceable. Not me, not you, not even Patel. But his legacy is. Our job is to carry it forward. If we falter now, we betray everything he stood for."

The room fell silent again, and Rohan rose, signaling the end of the meeting. "Make the arrangements. I want everything ready by tomorrow."

That evening, Rohan returned to his official residence.

The house felt emptier than usual, as though the news of Patel's death had drained it of its warmth.

He sat in his study, a single lamp illuminating the dark wood of the desk.

On the desk was a photograph of him and Patel, taken shortly after independence.

They were standing together, their faces lined with exhaustion but filled with quiet pride.

Patel had his arm around Rohan's shoulder, his expression as stern and unyielding as ever.

Rohan stared at the photo for a long time, his mind drifting back to their first meeting from his memories of this body.

It had been in the early days of the independence movement.

Patel had been a giant even then, his presence commanding but never overbearing.

He had a way of making people feel both awed and at ease.

"You have potential, Rohan," Patel had said to him after one particularly heated debate. "But potential means nothing without discipline. A leader doesn't just act. He carries the weight of his actions."

Those words had stayed with Rohan throughout his career.

And now, as he sat alone in his study, he felt the weight of them more than ever.

"I hope I've done you proud, Sardar," he murmured to the empty room. "I hope I will continue to."

He had already expected this day.

Sardar Patel in the original timeline died in 1950 but here he continued till 1955.

Unfortunately even gods were afraid to leave this man alive.

By the next morning, the capital was a city in mourning.

Black banners hung from government buildings, and the air was filled with the low noise of people gathering to pay their respects.

In Connaught Place, shopkeepers closed their stores and placed garlands of marigolds at their entrances.

At India Gate, a crowd of thousands gathered, many holding small flags or photographs of Patel.

A young journalist wove through the crowd, his notebook in hand. "Why are you here?" he asked an elderly man standing silently with his hands clasped.

The man looked at him, his eyes brimming with tears. "Because he was a father to this nation. He gave us unity when we had none. We owe him everything."

Further down the street, a woman holding a small child spoke to another reporter. "He wasn't just a leader. He was hope. And now… now we have to keep that hope alive."

As the preparations for the state funeral continued.

Rohan knew that Patel's death wasn't just a personal loss; it was a moment that would test the nation's resilience.

But he also knew that Patel had prepared them for this.

He had built a foundation strong enough to withstand even his absence.

"You told me once that the work of a sculptor is to shape, not to shatter," he said softly, as though speaking to Patel himself. "You've left me with a nation worth shaping. I won't let it break."