1947

‘The truth isn’t easily pinned to a page. In the bathtub of history the truth is harder to hold than the soap, and much more difficult to find . . . ’

—Terry Pratchett, Sourcery

Drawing the Line

12 August 1947
New Delhi, undivided India

The man looked up from the maps he had been poring over. His hands were clammy, partly from the heat but mostly from the enormity of the task he had been assigned. He mopped the sweat off his brow. Then, Cyril Radcliffe picked up his pen, drew a deep breath—and a dark line.

He set the pen down. There. The deed was done. Radcliffe surveyed the map. He had carved out parts of India to form East and West Pakistan. Just as they had asked him to do. He lifted the heavy receiver of the telephone and dialled a number.

‘Mountbatten speaking,’ answered the viceroy of India.

‘I’ve done what you asked, Dickie,’ said Radcliffe.

‘Perfect,’ said Mountbatten, euphoric that this damned line had been drawn and done with. He could now head back to Britain. And go down in history as the viceroy who benevolently handed India back her freedom.

‘It’s far from perfe—’ Radcliffe began saying.

‘Not to worry, Cyril. I’m sure you’ve done the best you could manage, given that you had only five weeks.’

‘And given that I knew nothing about India or cartography—and had to work with out-of-date census figures and maps with absolutely no expert help. As you were well aware,’ Radcliffe thought to himself bitterly.

But what he heard himself say was, ‘I suppose you’re right, Dickie.’

Lord Louis Mountbatten barely registered his reply. He could already picture himself making headlines. Across the world. The empire’s blue-eyed boy. Dressed in his spotless navy uniform. Rows of medals emblazoning his chest.

Radcliffe cleared his throat, interrupting Mountbatten’s train of thought. ‘Well, I believe I’ve completed the task I was called to do,’ he said.

‘Yes, yes, Cyril, and most importantly, you’ve served your country well.’

Radcliffe shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘I’d like to return to England now, Dickie. I fear there may be violence here.’

‘You can leave tomorrow, if you choose to. I’d recommend staying back to watch the whole ceremony, of course. It’s going to be quite a grand affair, I’m told.’

Radcliffe could almost hear the unctuous smile slide into Mountbatten’s voice.

‘Just remember though, Cyril,’ he continued conspiratorially, ‘The line has to remain a closely guarded secret. In fact, I think it will be better if we announce the new borders a couple of days after we officially hand over power.’

Radcliffe clenched his jaw. It was excruciatingly infuriating dealing with Mountbatten’s whimsy and utter disregard for due process. He had been picked for this infernal job of drawing the line because he was considered the most brilliant barrister in England. But Mountbatten made it almost impossible to function. Radcliffe drew a deep breath.

‘Dickie, you do realize that doing that would mean that India and Pakistan will not know their borders when they get independence . . . ’