Part 1
The winter sun cast a golden glow across New Delhi, its light softening the scars of a city still reeling from partition. At Birla House, a sprawling estate on Albuquerque Road, peace lingered uneasily over the manicured gardens. The calm was a fragile illusion. Refugees shuffled through camps, the air heavy with mourning and whispers of blame. Violence simmered just beyond the horizon, and in the corridors of power, unity frayed like worn fabric.
But for Mahatma Gandhi, tonight was like any other.
Every evening, Gandhi’s prayer meetings brought a blend of followers, refugees, political leaders, and curious onlookers to the lawn of Birla House. Some came to hear the Mahatma’s words of unity; others came to challenge them. All came carrying the weight of a fractured nation.
Nathuram Godse stood among them. His crisp white kurta blended with the crowd, but his hand, hidden beneath a shawl, brushed the cold metal of a Beretta pistol. His face was calm, unremarkable, but his eyes burned with a quiet fury.
Inside Birla House
In a modest room, Gandhi leaned on his staff as Abha and Manu, his grandnieces and closest attendants, prepared him for the evening meeting. The room was spartan, adorned only with a simple cot and the faint scent of sandalwood.
“Bapu, there’s been another threat,” Manu said softly, holding up a letter filled with hateful scrawls. “Please, let us cancel tonight’s prayers. The police said—”
Gandhi raised a hand, silencing her with a calm smile. “Manu, do you think peace hides in fear? I have no enemies, only those who do not yet see the light.”
Abha frowned. “These men do not want light, Bapu. They want blood.”
“And what would you have me do?” Gandhi asked, his tone gentle but firm. “Bar the doors? Lock out those who seek to harm me? If my death comes, let it not be because I doubted my faith.”
Manu sighed, folding the letter and slipping it into her pocket. She exchanged a glance with Abha, who mirrored her concern. But they both knew Gandhi’s will was immovable.
The Gathering Crowd
The lawn was alive with murmurs as the crowd gathered. Refugees from Punjab and Bengal sat side by side, their tired faces lit by lanterns hung along the garden’s edges. Among them were politicians and aides, watching quietly as the evening air grew heavier with anticipation.
Godse adjusted his position near the dais, his pulse steady. His mind rehearsed the justification for his act, a mantra he had recited for weeks. This man has betrayed us. His forgiveness is weakness, and his weakness will destroy Hindus. He must be stopped.
A low hum of voices quieted as Gandhi emerged, leaning lightly on Abha’s shoulder. Clad in his simple white dhoti and shawl, his frailty was evident, yet his presence carried undeniable weight. The crowd rose to their feet, hands folded in silent reverence.
Godse’s fingers twitched as Gandhi approached the dais, pausing to greet those in the front row.
The Assassination Attempt
The moment came as Gandhi stepped onto the platform, raising his hands to bless the crowd.
Godse moved forward. In one swift motion, he pulled the pistol from beneath his shawl and fired.
The sharp crack of the gunshot shattered the evening calm. Birds scattered from the treetops, their wings beating frantically. Gandhi staggered, clutching his side as blood spread across his shawl. Gasps and screams rippled through the crowd, followed by chaos.
“Bapu!” Manu cried, rushing forward as Gandhi collapsed. Abha followed, supporting his frail frame as his legs gave way beneath him.
Gandhi’s lips moved faintly, his voice barely audible over the din. “Forgive him,” he whispered. “Please, forgive him.”
The crowd surged toward Godse, who stood frozen, the pistol still in his hand. A group of men tackled him to the ground, wrestling the weapon away. As he was dragged off, he shouted, “I am no madman! I am a patriot! Gandhi has betrayed Hindus!”
The Aftermath
Inside the house, doctors worked quickly to stabilize Gandhi. Blood seeped through his bandages as Manu and Abha hovered nearby, their faces pale with fear.
A young doctor finally looked up, relief evident in his expression. “The bullet missed his heart. He will survive if he rests.”
Outside, news of the attempt spread like wildfire. Crowds gathered at Birla House, some singing bhajans, others lighting candles. In the streets of Delhi, the mood was more volatile. Refugee camps erupted in whispers of doubt and blame.
In one corner, a man muttered bitterly, “He survives again. But what has his survival done for us?” Nearby, another wept openly. “God spared him. Perhaps he can save us after all.”
At Parliament House
Prime Minister Jawaharlal Nehru and Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel sat in tense silence as an aide delivered the news.
“Bapu has been shot,” the man said, his voice trembling. “But he lives.”
Nehru exhaled deeply, running a hand through his hair. “Thank God. We must go to him at once.”
Patel remained seated, his face dark. When he spoke, his voice was clipped. “This was no isolated act, Jawahar. Godse may have pulled the trigger, but there are others behind him.”
Nehru nodded grimly. “And if they try again?”
“Then we must find them first,” Patel said. “Or next time, we’ll lose more than one man.”
In the Shadows
Elsewhere in Delhi, members of the Hindu Mahasabha gathered in a smoke-filled room.
“This was a failure,” one man spat. “Godse missed his chance.”
An older man leaned forward, his face half-lit by the lantern. “Failure? No. Gandhi’s survival will divide the nation further. We need only wait, and his time will come.”
In a Cell
Nathuram Godse sat in a dimly lit cell, his hands bound but his expression defiant.
An officer leaned over the table, his voice sharp. “Who are you working with? Tell us!”
Godse smiled faintly. “Do you think this ends with me? Gandhi’s survival changes nothing. His time is over. India has no place for his weakness.”
The officer slammed his fist on the table, but Godse’s words hung in the air like a dark omen.
At Dawn
As the first rays of sunlight filtered through the trees, Gandhi stirred on his cot. Abha and Manu helped him sit up, their faces a mix of relief and worry.
“Manu,” Gandhi said softly, “tell the people not to despair. My wound is small; the nation’s wound is greater.”
Manu hesitated. “Bapu, you must rest. The doctors said—”
“I will rest,” Gandhi interrupted, his voice firm despite his frailty. “But not yet.”