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- Bharat -
- April 1937 -
Aryan didn't return to Delhi after travelling and listening to the people in the nearby places. Not yet.
The journey had only just begun.
He continued to travel—quietly, with no announcement, no title. Dressed in plain clothes, he moved through train compartments, bullock carts, and even on foot when needed. But he wasn't alone. Across Bharat, dozens of his shadow clones walked the same path—each carrying a part of his will, each hidden behind simple illusions, each with eyes open to see what reports could never tell.
They went everywhere.
To the snow-covered towns in Kashmir, where families had seen their first winter with steady food supplies and warm shelters. To the coastal villages of Kanyakumari, where fisherfolk now used sturdier boats and salt traders spoke of fairer prices. To the far deserts of Balochistan, where water tanks stood where there used to be none, and people whispered blessings into the wind for the one they called "Samrat," even if they had never seen his face.
They crossed hills and tea plantations in Assam, walked the green valleys of Arunachal, and entered the towns and forests of Burma—the easternmost state of Bharat. There, in Mandalay and the quiet villages near the Salween River, Aryan and his clones saw a people adjusting to new governance, new opportunities. They spoke with farmers, monks, shopkeepers—some curious, others cautious. But most, when asked, said they felt part of something greater now. Something growing.
In the deep forests of Manipur, the towns of Nagaland, and the hills of Mizoram, they joined tribal gatherings, speaking little, but listening fully. They sat beside bamboo fires, heard folk songs that hadn't changed in a hundred years, and witnessed schools built with local wood but national dreams.
Some places were thriving.
Aryan saw children learning in languages their parents spoke, not just what was written in distant books. He saw women attending local councils, speaking without fear. He heard shopkeepers talk about new tax policies that let them breathe easier, and old farmers smiling at how crop insurance actually worked this time.
In some corners, when asked who they thanked, people simply said: "The Samrat listens. That's why things changed."
He never responded. He only nodded, feeling both humbled and burdened.
But not everything was right.
In one industrial town in Punjab, workers complained about unsafe machines and greedy middlemen who still skimmed off their wages. In a fishing hamlet on the Konkan coast, oil waste from a nearby plant had ruined their catch. In a remote village on the Burma border, locals said their letters never reached the district offices—there were still places where the system, though changed, hadn't yet learned how to care.
Aryan—and every shadow clone of him—took notes. He sat in chai stalls and roadside dhabas, shared rotis with tired laborers, listened to mothers talk about medicine shortages, and old men speak of their sons who went missing during the border skirmishes in the far northwest.
Some cried. Some cursed the past. Many thanked him without knowing he was sitting right beside them.
Each praise felt heavy. Every complaint, heavier still.
At night, Aryan and his clones gathered in the silence of thought. They shared what they saw, felt, heard—not just facts, but emotions. And Aryan kept a notebook, now thicker than before. Not a diary of pride, but a mirror of his people. A mirror that showed both light and shadows.
He didn't rush to solve everything. That wasn't the point of this journey.
He needed to see what was real.
In the end, he understood something simple but deep—progress was not one river flowing across all lands. It was many small streams, each needing care, attention, and protection.
And Bharat—his Bharat—was not just a land of temples and towers, factories and farms. It was made of hands that built, voices that prayed, and eyes that waited to be seen.
Aryan saw them. All of them.
And now, he would begin again—with clearer eyes, stronger resolve, and a heart that had heard the heartbeat of a billion dreams.
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- Samrat Bhavan, Delhi -
- April 20, 1937 -
After weeks on the road, Aryan finally returned.
He stepped through the grand gates of Samrat Bhavan just as the sun began to set behind the horizon. The golden light touched the red sandstone walls, but Aryan didn't stop to admire it. He walked slowly, each step heavy, not with exhaustion—but with something deeper.
He had left as a ruler with vision.
He returned as a man who had listened to the soul of his land.
The air of Delhi was different from the quiet of distant villages or the noisy alleys of forgotten towns. Here, everything was polished and orderly. But inside him, the stories of his people echoed louder than ever. He remembered the wrinkled face of a tribal elder in Burma, the teary eyes of a mother in Balochistan, and the laughter of children chasing kites in Kanyakumari.
Every face, every word—they had changed something in him.
Once, he thought having power meant having control. But now, he knew—it meant carrying the weight of millions. Not just to command, but to care. To protect, to serve, and most of all… to listen.
He passed through the halls of the palace quietly, no grand announcement, no soldiers following. But somehow, they knew.
Shakti was already standing at the entrance of the main corridor. Arms crossed, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. Beside her, Anjali—his mother—stood with calm grace, her eyes glistening just slightly. Neither had been told. But they had felt it. Perhaps a mother and a girl was to be his other half in future, didn't need to be told.
"Aryan," Anjali whispered.
That one word carried so much.
He stopped for a moment, looking at them—his anchor points in a world that moved too fast. His eyes softened, the hardness of the road melting, just a little.
"You're back," Shakti said, stepping forward. "But… somehow… not quite the same."
Aryan let out a breath. He smiled. Not the proud smile of a ruler, but the gentle smile of someone who had seen the truth.
"I knew you and mother would definitely see through me…you always do."
"Perhaps you are right, but even if the journey had changed me for the better, it doesn't matter much. What matters is that I've seen Bharat," he said, voice low. "Really seen it. And I know now… we have much… much more to do."
Anjali stepped forward, placing her hand softly on his cheek. "You've grown, Aryan," she said. "And not just in years."
He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning into the warmth of her hand. "They believe in me," he said quietly. "Even when they don't know it's me… they believe. I can't fail them."
"No," Shakti said, her voice steady. "You won't."
The three of them stood there, silent in the hallway where decisions that shaped nations were made. But this moment wasn't about politics or policy. It was family. It was love. It was the quiet before the next storm of responsibility.
Aryan straightened his shoulders. There was peace in his face, but fire in his eyes. He had returned with more than just knowledge. He had returned with resolve.
Now, the real work would begin.
And this time, he wouldn't lead from behind walls or maps. He would lead with the voice of his people echoing in every step.
He was home. But his mission was far from over.
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- Samrat Bhavan, Delhi -
- April 20, 1937 | Night -
The evening passed quietly, and the lights of Samrat Bhavan glowed soft and warm. Dinner was simple tonight. No guests, no speeches—just family around a polished wooden table.
Aryan sat at the head as usual, but this time, his presence felt different—not just to himself, but to everyone around him. He didn't carry the usual commanding aura. Instead, he looked calm.
Surya Rajvanshi, his father and Bharat's Prime Minister, walked in a little late, sleeves rolled up, files still tucked under one arm. He looked tired, but his face lit up when he saw Aryan already seated.
"Beta, you're back, finally," Surya said with a small smile as he took his seat beside Anjali. "How was the road?"
Aryan smiled faintly. "Hmm, it was quite a long and learning journey, father. But necessary."
Anjali, seated opposite him, had just come from a late security briefing. Even as Home Minister, she hadn't let go of the role of a mother. She kept quietly passing Aryan more vegetables and rice, as if making sure he was truly eating well again. Shakti sat next to him, silently observing. A hint of pride flickered in her eyes.
For a while, they ate in silence. A rare moment of peace among people who barely had time to breathe.
Midway through the meal, Aryan glanced up. "Was everything alright while I was away?" he asked, voice low but direct.
Surya looked up from his plate, chewing thoughtfully. "Nothing major," he replied. "The military and police reforms are taking proper shape. Bose and General Cariappa are running the defence operations smoothly. Training camps are running non-stop, and the tech you left behind is already being integrated."
Anjali nodded. "The intelligence network is tightening. We're identifying internal gaps—still early days, but steady. As for internal security, we've managed to reduce response time in most states by nearly half."
Aryan absorbed their words quietly.
Shakti added, "Land reforms are moving, but there were some complications. Missing records, unclear land ownership in a few rural belts—mostly due to poor British-era documentation. But the new bureaucrats and state ministers are handling it. They've been thorough."
Anjali leaned in a bit, her tone softer now. "You should know… Shakti has been exceptional as your regent. No panic, no hesitation. She's managed meetings, decisions, everything you entrusted her with. The council respects her."
Aryan turned slightly, looking at Shakti, who only offered a small shrug. "I just followed your systems," she said. "And used a bit of common sense."
He smiled. "Thank you. Truly."
Surya cleared his throat lightly. "There are a few policy documents waiting for your signature—mostly related to education reform, some industrial matters, and a few budget approvals. Nothing that can't wait till tomorrow."
Anjali added, "Also, the Constitutional Committee is requesting your presence. They're approaching the core phase of drafting. Your thoughts are essential—especially around fundamental rights, the judiciary structure, and federal relations."
Aryan nodded slowly, letting the words settle.
"Tomorrow then," he said.
For now, it was enough. They sat there, finishing their meal not as ministers or a ruler, but simply as a family. Each with their own burden. Each playing a part in rebuilding a nation that needed them all.
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