India after the Fall
The air in Simla was crisp. I looked up at the tapestry of stars in the Himalayan night sky. I, Gilbert Elliot-Murray-Kynynmound, 4th Earl of Minto and Viceroy of India, stood on the veranda of the Viceregal Lodge. I had a rare moment of peace from the endless demands of ruling this vast land.
Suddenly, a searing light ripped across the sky. It was something brighter than any moon. A fiery trail was left in its wake.
"What in God's name...?" I muttered, my hand instinctively rising to shield my eyes.
My ADC, Captain Davies, rushed out with a pale face.
"Sir, reports are coming in. There's a meteor in the sky, they say. It's immense. Heading west!"
West? How far? As far as Europe? As London? A chilling premonition gripped me.
"Davies, get me Professor Chatterjee immediately."
I was usually excited to meet Professor Jagdish Chandra Chatterjee, a brilliant astronomer from Presidency College in Calcutta. I had cultivated a cautious respect for him, representing the burgeoning scientific spirit of India. Although I admired his spirit, I was apprehensive in its potential to fuel nationalist sentiment.
Chatterjee arrived before the sun rose, transported by a special train. The situation was truly in need of that urgency. He was a small, intense man with eyes that burned with intellectual fire.
"Professor, explain that," I gestured towards the lingering glow in the sky.
He stared up at the sky, squinting from the unexpected brightness.
"Viceroy it was a meteor, but no ordinary one. The luminosity, the trajectory... it was something significant. The scale of it... I need data."
All resources were at the professor's disposal, primarily the observatories in Madras and Kodaikanal. Chatterjee and his hastily assembled team tracked the debris field and calculated the impact zone. The news came in from Cairo and Constantinople. Frantic fragments from telegraphs confirmed what I feared: London was now gone.
The confirmation arrived with a horrifying bluntness one morning. A British merchant ship limped into Bombay's harbor. Its captain was half-mad with grief and terror, telling a tale of woe: a blinding flash, a deafening roar... then nothing. The heart of the Empire had been obliterated.
The council chamber was thick with fear and disbelief when I assembled them. My council, senior British officials, military commanders, and the Maharaja of Gwalior, a loyalist prince.
"Gentlemen, we are for all intents and purposes alone," I began, surprised my how steady my voice was. "London is gone. The King, the government... vanished. Our duty is clear. We must maintain order in India, no matter how difficult that might be. We must ensure the continuity of governance."
"But viceroy, our authority stems from...," Sir Harold Finch, the Chief Secretary, protested.
"It stems from us now, Finch," I interrupted him, my gaze hardening with resolve. "It comes from our ability to lead, to govern. We must keep this land from descending into nationalist chaos."
The Maharaja spoke next in a deep voice, "Viceroy Sahib, the people will be frightened for what comes next. Rumors will spread. In these times, we must show a unified front of strength. The princely states will stand with you for now. But whispers of self-rule will grow louder.
I was afraid that he was right. Already, the news had unleashed a torrent of emotions across India: shock and grief mainly. But there was also a dangerou spark of hope among the nationalists. Gandhi, who was just an unknown lawyer, had already written a popular newspaper article that the demise of London proves empires were "built on sand", and that Indians now had to stand up on their own two feet.
It was clear where all of this was headed. I couldn't let things get out of hand. Decisions had to be made, quickly and firmly.
First, I declared martial law across the British colony, taking charge of the meager military and placing them in control of key cities and infrastructure. They enforced new censorship laws, suppressing news that could incite unrest.
I reformed the government to include a "Council of Regency". This included British officials and princes, like before, but also two moderate members of the Indian National Congress: Gopal Krishna Gokhale and Dadabhai Naoroji. It was politically risky, but I thought it was better to co-opt nationalist fervor than confront them directly.
The council was made to design new legislation on economic matters. New rules were quickly designed to control food supplies, impose price controls, and implement rationing to prevent famine and hoarding.
We had to deal with many crises, causing the next few months to blur together. Sepoy regiments in the Punjab were on the verge of mutiny every day, fueled by rumors and nationalist agitation. Tensions flared in Bengal between Hindus and Muslims, threatening to erupt into widespread violence. The North-West Frontier was increasingly volatile, as Afghan tribes sensed weakness and raids were imminent.
My regular conversations with Gokhale were pivotal. He was a shrewd man, but pragmatic. He believed in gradual reform rather than revolution.
"Viceroy, you cannot hold India by force alone," he told me.
It was late-night. It didn't matter much to me, as sleep evaded me now. The air was thick with cigar smoke.
"I cannot find an alternative," I argued. "I have no choice. My army is the only thing holding back chaos."
"The tide is turning," he replied. "You must offer us a path to self-goverance, a real share in power. Otherwise..."
He left the sentence unfinished. The implication was clear.
I knew he was right. The seeds of self-rule had already been sown. Before I could fully relinquish my power, I needed to see firsthand the undercurrents of change which were reshaping the very fabric of Indian society. The next morning, I decided to take a trip to Calcutta, incognito, for a simple dinner. It was known as the intellectual heart of India.
Disguised in plain clothes, a sharp contrast from the viceregal regalia, I was accompanied only by a trusted aide who spoke Bengali fluently. I ventured into the bustling streets of North Calcutta. The city, even under the pall of the London disaster, pulsed with restless energy. The air, thick with the scent of spices and the stench of coal, humed with conversations in a dozen different languages. None of those were English anymore.
We found a modern restaurant hidden in a narrow alley. It was the kind of place that would be frequented by students and a burgeoning middle class. They were the people who were most engaged with the changing political landscape. We sat at a plain wooden table, the room lit by flickering oil lamps.
As we ate our simple meal of rice, dal, and vegetables, I listened. I truly listened to the conversations around me. What I heard was a revelation.
A group of young men, presumably students due to their bags of books, were engaged in a heated debate.
"Gandhi's call for nonviolence is the only way," one declared with great conviction. "We must show the British that we refuse to be ruled by force."
"But is it practical?" another countered. "They have the guns. They control the army. We must find ways to be more pragmatic."
"Pragmatic?!" a third scoffed. "This need for pragmatism is so small-minded. Where has it gotten us in the last decades? We need to bold. No longer beg for our rights, but to demand them!"
"And what of this Indian Governance Act that the moderate traitor Gokhale spoke about?"
"It's a crumb," one replied dismissively. "Nothing but a sop to keep us quiet and complacent. Dominion status? What does it mean to be 'within a Commonwealth' when the Commonwealth is nothing but a graveyard?"
Their debate was more passionate and informed than I expected. Yet it was also deeply critical of the British, even my own attempts at reform. What they were saying was far different from the deferential, carefully worded petitions given to me by Indian elites. They were right, of course. I had been proposing milquetoast reform to stave off larger revolution.
An older man, who I assumed by his attire to be a shopkeeper, chimed in.
"The Sahibs are weakened. They have lost their prestige. The world sees it too. Now is our chance."
The sense of empowerment filled the room. Everyone had confidence in their voices. The fear, an ingrained deference to the ruling class, remained. But it was fading.
As we left the restaurant and walked back towards the Governor's House, I noticed other subtle changes to this new India. Shops now proudly displayed signs advertising Indian-made products. They were becoming economically self-sufficient. No longer did they rely on British trade to thrive.
Newspapers had grown more critical of British administration. They were filled with articles written in Bengali, Hindi, and other languages discussing self-governance and nationalism. There was a lot of discussion on the boundless potential of India's future.
Even under martial law, small gatherings and meetings were still taking place. Often they were under the guise of religious or cultural events, but it was clear the spirit of resistance was simmering beneath the surface.
This simple dinner was more revealing than any official report. It confirmed what I had long suspected: the meteor event had been a catalyst which accelerated the inevitable. The old ways, the old assumptions of British dominion were crumbling. India was changing, rapidly and irrevocably.
I returned to the Governor's House with the sounds of the city still ringing in my ears. I was no longer just maintaining an empire; I was navigating a revolution in the making.
I began to draft a radical departure from British policy. They might've disagreed had they still been around. Still, I got pushback from the conservative British officials in my council.
"This is treason!" Finch screamed at me. "You're handing India over to the natives! What would the crown say?"
"I'm trying to prevent a bloodbath, Finch!" I retorted, my patience was wearing thin. "We are not in a position to dictate terms, not anymore. We must adapt now. Or we will be swept away to the dustbin of history too.
I stood on the deck of a ship departing from Bombay harbor. Five years after that outburst and I was no longer the Viceroy. My successor, Lord Hardinge, was nothing more than a transitory figure overseeing a very different India. Despite radical nationalists and British hardliners, the seeds of self-rule were being cultivated carefully.
As I turned back, staring out at the receding coastline, I felt a mix of relief and profound sadness. The world I had known, the world of the British Empire at its zenith, had disappeared. It had been consumed by a fire from the heavens. The meteor had not just destroyed London, but the entire old order.
Every offshoot of British rule had become enveloped in power struggles and civil war. Every week, newswires reported of ongoing violence in Australia. Canada had rallied around a man who seemed to impose radical violence on any dissenters. I felt some pride at my diplomatic efforts to keep India balanced on the edge of a pin.
While years of struggle lay ahead for India, the path towards true freedom was in front of them. They just had to reach out. I was once a viceroy of the greatest jewel in the British Crown. But now I was nothing more than a witness to a new age that I helped to usher in.
My new destination was England, or what was left of it. I was sure that whatever I'd find, they'd need a hand to guide them forward.