The remark from the United Provinces' commissioner — likening the subcontinent's population to "cockroaches" — was so nakedly racist it almost drew a laugh from Alan. Almost. Instead, the corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. If nothing else, it confirmed his private suspicion: the infamous reputation India would carry in the future — about violence, about women — was already being shaped, right here, in this very room.
The formal session had ended, but no one rushed to leave.In a wide, teak-paneled salon smelling faintly of cigars and polish, decanters of Scotch and bottles of claret stood ready on sideboards. Sir Barron had arranged it all: a gentleman's coda to the day's labors, a chance for the senior ranks of the Raj to loosen their ties and remind themselves of what it felt like to belong to a club no one else could enter.
Outside, the world was still at war. But inside this snug bubble of cut glass and soft leather, the empire's upper servants practiced an old art — the front may be strained, but the rear will dine well. The small talk was urbane, the smiles easy, but under the laughter Alan could feel the thrum of a shared anxiety: what happens if the Raj truly ends?
Ten thousand British officials and their families — what respectable work awaited them back in a crowded, bomb-pocked Britain? That was the real question here, the one that made his own sudden appointment to Hyderabad seem trivial.
"Truth be told," said Burke of Bengal, swirling his drink, "I don't think Jinnah or Nehru will make trouble just now."
A murmur of agreement followed. Congress and the Muslim League might despise the Raj — and each other — but neither wanted the Viceroy's office openly against them while the war's outcome was still hanging in the balance. Divide and rule. It had worked in Europe; it worked here.
Burke turned to Alan with an oddly paternal smile."Fairness and justice, Wilson — the finest British traditions. That you've grasped this so young does credit to your father."
Alan returned the toast with a polite nod. In truth, "credit" was hardly the word for what the elder Wilson had been up to in Calcutta during the Bengal famine — but one didn't contradict a provincial governor at a drinks reception.
The formalities done, Alan moved on to the real business: not the Empire's war, but Hyderabad's survival. And for that, he needed John — Junagadh's commissioner.
The two found themselves later that afternoon on Connaught Place, its white colonnades throwing long shadows in the fading sun. Alan's brogues were dusted from the walk; he stopped at a shoe-shine stand, lowering himself into the battered leather chair with the ease of someone used to service without question. John followed suit.
"Whatever London decides," Alan said lightly, "we can't go home empty-handed. The princely states may distrust both Congress and the League — which makes them our natural partners. And partners can be… generous."
John gave a faint grunt of assent.
"Hyderabad's Nizam is eager to see a bloc of states — Junagadh included — present a united front. Bombay is practically at your doorstep; that's leverage. Together, you could make Nehru sweat."
John rubbed his chin, eyes on the boy polishing his shoes. "Then it's time we start deciding what our influence is worth."
Alan smiled thinly. "The Nizam was the world's richest man, not so long ago. Worth, as you say, is negotiable."
By the time their shoes gleamed, the two men had reached an unspoken accord. Not theft, exactly — policy, framed in the language of mutual benefit. After all, what was the point of being an imperial commissioner if you didn't use the position to secure your future?
Somewhere in the distance, the evening call to prayer floated over Delhi's rooftops. Alan listened for a moment, and thought: time is running out. Best to take what you can, while you can.
Next: A letter from Hyderabad changes everything…