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- Samrat Bhavan, Delhi -
- December 10, 1936 -
Time had flowed steadily since the sweeping reforms were first announced. In those quiet months that followed, change crept into the lives of the people—slow, deliberate, and undeniable.
General Kodandera M. Cariappa, a proud son of the soil and a soldier of unwavering discipline, had been appointed as Bharat's first Chief of Defence Staff. His name carried respect in military circles and in the hearts of common people alike. Under his sharp leadership, the modernisation of the armed forces had begun. Outdated uniforms gave way to functional designs, broken weapons were replaced with indigenously developed prototypes, and training grounds echoed with the synchronized footfalls of a new, disciplined generation. Aryan had trusted Cariappa with not just the army, but with the soul of Bharat's defence. And Cariappa had answered with silent, steadfast service.
At the same time, the long-awaited land reforms had begun rolling out in carefully planned phases. They were neither hurried nor sloppy. This was a matter too deep—one that touched generations of pain, pride, and power. The zamindari system, that feudal rot in the foundation of Bharat, was being steadily dismantled. No longer would a man live in wealth while dozens toiled for a handful of rice on his land. The people could feel the difference. They could breathe a little easier.
Aryan had been clear—those who clung to their power with greed and violence would face justice. And they did. The newly trained, better-equipped police forces—reformed under strict oversight—took swift action. Zamindars who refused to give up their chokehold on land, who exploited or incited unrest, were arrested and tried. There were no show trials, only law. Bharat would not be ruled by fear anymore.
Now, as justice took root, the next phase loomed ahead—land redistribution.
Land ceiling policies were being drawn with care. A man could own land, yes, but not more than he needed. Whether for personal use, business, or agriculture, every case was being weighed with input from economists, ministers, and scholars. It was not perfect, but it was honest work. And it was work that Aryan had vowed to see through.
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This morning, in the heart of Delhi, Aryan sat in the grand but humble meeting hall of Samrat Bhavan.
The sun filtered softly through the skylight above, casting a warm glow on the polished teakwood table around which Bharat's minds had gathered. Economists, engineers, environmentalists, military planners, and administrators sat alongside him. Some young, some old—but all were here for one purpose: to plan the veins and arteries of a new Bharat.
"Today," Aryan began, his voice calm but firm, "we build the skeleton that will carry our dreams forward. Not just for comfort, not just for pride, but for survival."
Maps of Bharat were unrolled before them—marked with rail lines, roads, rivers, ports, and airports. Some routes were still relics of colonial trade patterns, designed for extraction. Others simply didn't exist where they were needed most.
"I've always believed that, there's no point in growing food if we can't move it," said one logistician, adjusting his glasses. "No point in defence if troops can't reach borders fast enough."
The truth echoed around the table. They needed new roads. New highways. Railways that could carry goods and soldiers alike. Inland waterways that connected rural hearts to urban markets. Airports to connect cities and towns, and harbours that welcomed not just ships, but opportunity.
But all this required more than vision. It needed planning. Detailed surveys. Geological reports. Civil studies. Engineering designs. It needed to know the land deeply before touching it. And above all—it needed funding.
Aryan nodded slowly, his fingers tracing the path of a proposed high-speed rail line across the heart of Bharat.
"Let's first understand what we're building," he said quietly. "Only then can we decide how."
The meeting stretched for hours, but the energy never dipped. There was something powerful about being in a room where ideas weren't just ideas—they were seeds. And they would be planted.
As the sun dipped beyond the Yamuna, the first phase of the project had begun—not with cement and steel, but with thought and purpose.
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- Office of the Samrat, Samrat Bhavan, Delhi -
- December 14, 1936 -
The only sounds in the room were the soft scratching of a pen on paper and the slow ticking of the clock on the wall. Aryan sat at his desk, deep inside Samrat Bhavan, going through a thick stack of reports. His eyes were tired, but his focus didn't waver.
He was reading the financial reports of Bharat—figures, trade records, reserve data, and the rising costs of everything they were trying to build.
Bharat had long since became Independent but this Independence hadn't come free. The British were gone, but they had drained the country before leaving. Aryan had expected this, but today, looking at the numbers, he felt the weight of it in a way he hadn't before.
The Reserve Bank of Bharat was now free, but not strong. The gold it had was barely enough. Much of the country's gold had been sent to the Bank of England long ago by the British. It was part of their strategy to control Bharat's economy—even if Bharat became free.
Now, the British hold was broken, but the damage was still there. Most of the country still depended on farming. There were plenty of fields growing cotton, jute, tea—but not enough factories to turn them into finished goods. For things like clothes, tools, or machines, Bharat still had to import from other countries, trading raw materials in return, and that too at a low cost, which further hurt the finances of Bharat.
Aryan leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. So much work had been in planning and even some had already begun—roads, schools, army modernization, clean energy, communication systems. All of this needed money. Every new project, every soldier's uniform, every road built—it was all putting pressure on the country's already tight finances.
He thought of those who had newly started their business ventures in Bharat. Some of the royal families who had lost their position of power to Aryan had chosen to build factories instead, to stay relevant. Wealthy families had taken risks, selling their treasures to invest in new industries. His own family wasn't behind either—his father-in-law and mother-in-law had opened textile businesses and luxury items factories that used modern technology. Aryan had supported them—secretly through the Kalachakra Group, and openly with his family's own wealth.
These efforts were valuable, but still in their early stages. It would take time for them to really make an impact.
But Bharat didn't have such a luxury as time. Not now.
He got up and slowly walked to the window. The lights of Delhi flickered in the evening chill. His thoughts kept circling the same point.
If the country needed money, he would create it. Not from the shadows this time, but out in the open. He would start a new group of companies—different from Kalachakra, which would continue its quiet work to influence the world economy. These new businesses would carry his family's name, and they would be open for all to see—ethical, efficient, and modern.
But this wasn't just about making money. It was about giving the country a strong foundation. These companies would create jobs, generate income for the government, and give people pride in working for something that was their own.
Still, something more urgent needed to be solved first. The Reserve Bank needed gold—real gold. Without that, the entire financial system could collapse.
Aryan returned to his desk and opened a file stamped Confidential. Inside were lists of properties the British had abandoned—warehouses, lands, factories—left behind when they fled.
He had made up his mind.
He would buy all of it. Every last piece. And he wouldn't haggle.
He'd pay twice the value. Even three times, if needed. All in gold.
He could make the gold himself using alchemy—pure, clean, and indistinguishable from naturally mined gold. Enough to boost the RBI's reserves and rebuild trust in the country's finances.
And in return, those lands would become the birthplace of his businesses—factories, research labs, and training centers. Slowly but surely, Bharat would rise again, not just in spirit, but in industry.
He picked up his pen and began writing a letter to the Finance Ministry. No one needed to know the whole truth. They just needed to see that someone believed in Bharat enough to invest everything in it.
As he wrote, something stirred in his chest—a quiet fire.
Afterall, this wasn't simply about money.
This was about the next step in real freedom. Freedom from being dependent on others. Freedom from waiting on foreign powers. Freedom from helplessness.
And if no one else could take the weight, Aryan would carry it himself. He didn't need applause. He didn't need recognition.
Because dreams—real dreams—don't come cheap.
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