The sea does not announce itself when it decides to swallow the horizon. It simply closes in. Somewhere off the coast of Madagascar, the water lay dark and deceptive, its surface betraying nothing of the steel behemoth slicing through its depths. The submarine moved slowly, deliberately, like a thought one dares not complete too quickly. Inside, the air was thick with oil, metal, and the faint sourness of men who had learned to live without daylight. U-180 did not welcome passengers. It tolerated them.

The Unseen Witness felt this immediately. He had never imagined the world could be reduced to such narrowness, such unrelenting proximity. Every surface seemed to breathe back at him, damp and warm. The walls sweated quietly. Pipes hummed and hissed. Somewhere deeper in the vessel, machinery pulsed with a rhythm that replaced the sound of the sea, a mechanical heartbeat that never allowed forgetfulness. He was not meant to be here. None of them were.

When Subhas Chandra Bose entered the submarine, there was no ceremony. No announcement. Just a brief pause in movement, a recalibration of glances. The German officers acknowledged him with nods that carried both respect and calculation. To them, he was cargo and consequence combined. To the Witness, he was something else entirely.

Bose moved carefully, his body already attuned to spaces where standing upright was a luxury. He wore a simple uniform, its fabric stiff with salt and travel. His face was composed, but his eyes carried the unmistakable alertness of a man who understood the stakes of breath itself. This was no escape now. This was a crossing.

The hatch closed with a sound that reverberated through bone and memory. A heavy, final clang that seemed to echo longer than physics allowed. The Witness felt it in his teeth, in the base of his skull. Above them, the sea resumed its indifference. They descended.

The pressure announced itself not through pain, but through silence. The familiar sounds of the surface world disappeared, replaced by the submarine’s internal language. The steady churn of propellers, the occasional hiss of valves, the creak of metal adjusting to the weight of water. Days blurred.

Time aboard U-180 did not behave properly. It folded in on itself, marked not by sunlight or shadow, but by meals and maintenance checks. The Witness learned to measure hours by sound, the clatter of utensils in the galley, the muttered exchanges between crew members, the subtle change in pitch when the vessel adjusted course.

Bose spent long periods seated at a narrow desk bolted to the wall. He wrote when conditions allowed, his handwriting steady despite the constant sway. At other times, he simply listened, eyes closed, absorbing the rhythm of confinement. He spoke little, but when he did, his voice was low, deliberate, conserving both energy and intention.

One night, or what passed for night, the engines slowed. A hush fell, unnatural and immediate. The Witness felt his breath catch instinctively, as though silence itself might demand obedience. Somewhere, a command was whispered. The submarine hovered, suspended between depths, listening for threats that travelled through water faster than thought. In that stillness, Bose opened his eyes. He did not move. He did not speak. He listened.

The Witness realised then that this was not new to him. That Bose had been preparing for this kind of silence long before he ever set foot on a submarine. The kind of silence that required attention rather than fear, patience rather than panic. The engines resumed. The vessel moved on.

The meals were sparse, functional. Bread, preserved meat, a thin soup that tasted faintly of rust. The Witness ate mechanically, his appetite dulled by the closeness of bodies and the knowledge that above them lay miles of water that could turn fatal in an instant.

Once, during a rare moment of conversation, a German sailor asked Bose if he was afraid. Bose considered the question carefully. “Fear,” he said finally, “is a sound. You learn to listen to it without letting it decide your direction.” The sailor nodded, perhaps not fully understanding, but respectful enough not to ask further.

At the rendezvous point, the sea changed character. The Witness felt it before anyone spoke. A shift in movement, a tension in the air. Orders were exchanged in clipped tones. U-180 slowed again, rising cautiously toward the surface. The vessel’s hull groaned softly, protesting the reversal. When the hatch opened, light poured in like an intrusion. Another submarine waited. Japanese. Sleeker. Quieter.

The transfer was swift, efficient, stripped of sentiment. Bose stepped from one vessel to another as though crossing a threshold he had already imagined many times. There was no handshake, no lingering. Only the shared understanding that history was now being ferried piece by piece across hostile waters.

As the hatch closed once more, the Witness felt a strange sense of dislocation. As though something essential had been left behind in the depths, even as the journey continued.

The second submarine felt different. The air was cleaner, the movements more restrained. The crew spoke less; their discipline shaped by a different tradition of silence. Bose adjusted quickly, his body absorbing new rhythms without resistance.

Here, he spoke of the Indian National Army. Quietly. Precisely. He spoke of men and women scattered across continents, of prisoners and labourers and students who might yet become something more. He spoke not of victory, but of preparation, of dignity in effort regardless of outcome. The Witness listened, committing the words to memory he would never be asked to recount. The sea outside remained unknowable.

At times, the submarine surfaced briefly, the hatch opening to reveal nothing but darkness and stars. The Witness glimpsed the sky then, vast and indifferent, a reminder that even the most secret journeys occurred beneath an uncaring universe.

In those moments, Bose stood still, looking upward. He did not smile. He did not close his eyes. He simply watched, as though marking his place between elements, between histories.

One evening, as the vessel cut through calmer waters, Bose turned to the Witness. “You will not be remembered,” he said, not unkindly. The Witness inclined his head. “That is not a loss,” Bose continued. “That is freedom of another kind.” The submarine moved on.

When land finally announced itself, it did so reluctantly. A faint change in air, a subtle easing of tension. The engines slowed for the last time. Orders were given. Bose gathered his papers. He stood at the hatch as it opened, the smell of land reaching him before sight. Vegetation. Earth. Life uncontained by steel. He stepped forward without hesitation.

Behind him, the Witness remained where he was, watching the silhouette recede into another chapter of the journey. He felt no regret. Only the quiet certainty that he had carried something essential across an impossible distance.

History would write of alliances, of submarines and secret routes. It would marvel at the audacity, the improbability. It would chart the coordinates and dates with clinical precision. It would not record the sound of breath held underwater. It would not describe the way silence pressed against the chest, demanding trust. But the sea remembered. And so did those who travelled beneath it.

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Other stories in this series of six stories sorrounding the life and time of Netaji Subhash Changda Bose:

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Copyright © 2026 TRISHIKH DASGUPTA

This work of fictionised history, written by Trishikh Dasgupta, is the author’s sole intellectual property. It draws inspiration from documented wartime voyages, covert alliances, and the perilous maritime passage undertaken by Netaji Subhas Chandra Bose during the Indian freedom movement. While this story can be read and experienced independently, it also forms the fourth part of a six story narrative arc, where each piece stands alone yet together deepens the understanding of Netaji’s resolve, transformations, and the unseen journeys that carried history forward. Some characters, incidents, places, and facts may be real, while others are imaginatively reinterpreted.

All rights are reserved. No part of this story may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including printing, photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, send an email to the author at trishikh@gmail.com or get in touch with Trishikh on the CONTACT page of this website.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Trishikh Dasgupta

Adventurer, philosopher, writer, painter, photographer, craftsman, innovator, or just a momentary speck in the universe flickering to leave behind a footprint on the sands of time... READ MORE

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