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- Samrat Bhavan, Delhi -
- October 15, 1936 | Night -
The night in Delhi was gentler than the day. A light breeze drifted through the open windows of Samrat Bhavan, rustling the curtains and carrying with it the faint scent of cardamom and ghee from the kitchen. The marble halls—once echo chambers of colonial arrogance—now held the murmur of laughter, footsteps barefoot and familiar, and the clinking of pots and pans as if the house itself had been woken from a long slumber.
In the heart of the Bhavan, the grand dining room sat warm and inviting, not by chandeliers or polished décor, but by the presence of family.
Aryan leaned against the carved wooden archway, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold like a memory already cherished. His mother, Anjali, sleeves rolled up and sari pallu tucked neatly, was barking gentle orders in the kitchen, flanked by Lakshmi Nath Roy—Shakti's mother—whose regal poise had given way to the practical command of a queen in her own court. Between them, half-protesting and half-laughing, was Shakti, dragged into their rhythm with a wooden spatula in one hand and flour smudged across her cheek.
The professional cooks, long relics of the British era, had been shooed out, for the day, without ceremony earlier that evening—much to their surprise and mild horror. Anjali had declared with a raised eyebrow and a warm smile that tonight, the house would taste of home. No menus, no uniforms, no pretense.
"Careful with that!" Anjali warned playfully as Shakti nearly overturned a bowl of spiced dal.
"She's trying to burn the Bhavan down," Aryan called out from the doorway, grinning.
Shakti turned, narrowed her eyes, and pointed the spatula like a sword. "One day, Samrat, I'll teach you what real fire looks like."
"And I'll be sure to wear flame-proof armour," Aryan shot back with mock solemnity.
Laughter echoed from inside the kitchen.
Ravi Nath Roy, Shakti's father, chuckled from the long teakwood dining table where he sat beside Surya Rajvanshi, Aryan's father. Both men had their sleeves rolled up, wine glasses untouched as they sipped on the simpler refreshment of lemon water with mint—Ravi's preference. The two men, once fighters in the shadows of a broken nation, now sat as advisors and fathers, watching the next phase of Bharat unfold not through political meetings, but through moments like these.
"I never thought I'd see the Viceroy's palace smell like mustard seeds and coconut oil," Ravi said with a smile.
Surya nodded, eyes on his son. "Fate has a sense of irony."
They spoke for a while about various things before the conversation shifted to the moving of the capital—the thing recently brought to the fore by Aryan himself, how the ministers and governors were already discussing the move. The decision wasn't final, but it was moving quickly in that direction.
"Ujjain feels right," Surya said. "It's not just central. It's symbolic. A clean start."
"Vikramaditya's seat," Ravi added, his voice softer now. "He gave his legacy to Aryan, and it just feels right it is now returning home."
Aryan joined their conversation as the aroma of cooked rice and masalas filled the room like an embrace. "It's more than symbolism. Ujjain connects us all—north, south, east, west. Spiritually. Logistically. Emotionally."
"And practically?" Ravi asked.
Aryan smiled. "That too."
The women emerged then, triumphantly carrying pots, bowls, and trays that made the long table seem suddenly small. Shakti came last, victorious and flustered, placing a silver thali of steaming rotis in front of Aryan.
"Not burned," she said pointedly, crossing her arms.
Aryan nodded in mock appreciation. "A miracle."
The table came alive with the sounds of plates passed, food served, teasing exchanged, and seconds requested. The food was, of course, extraordinary. Flavors that brought back childhoods and homes long gone. Aryan sat between his parents, with Shakti across from him, and Ravi and Lakshmi at either end of the table. The conversation moved easily from food to memories, to plans.
Between bites of paneer curry and spoonfuls of kheer, Ravi spoke again, his tone shifting slightly.
"We've been thinking," he said, glancing at Lakshmi. "Now that the country is settling, it's time we do something lasting—outside politics. Something to build."
Aryan raised an eyebrow. "Business?"
Ravi nodded. "Yes. Many of the royal houses are sitting on wealth. They know the old world is gone. To remain relevant, they'll need to evolve."
Lakshmi added, "I've had years of experience with textiles, embroidery, traditional patterns. Jewellery too. What we wore in court was never just ornament—it was identity. We want to take that… and shape it for today's world."
Aryan leaned forward, interested now in a way that went beyond family support. "That's exactly what the West is chasing right now. Authenticity. Detail. Artistry. With the right branding and supply chains…"
He looked at his father, who nodded in agreement.
"I say we invest," Aryan said. "You handle design and production. We'll provide additional capital, logistics, and even international connections. The Kalachakra Group—well, one of its subsidiaries—can handle exports."
Lakshmi blinked. "Kalachakra Group?"
Aryan gave a small smile. "Just something I started… to ensure we're not at the mercy of others when the next war comes."
There was a moment of silence. The kind that came not from confusion, but recognition.
"You always think ahead," Ravi said, shaking his head in wonder.
"As should he be thinking, as the Samrat of a vast and diverse country," Lakshmi added, there was approval in her eyes as well as a hint of pride as she spoke.
Aryan shrugged as he continued to eat his food. "Hmm, Delicious as always. Perhaps we should make these recipes global too."
Shakti smirked. "That's fine and all, Just don't take credit for our recipes when they're sold in Paris."
"Wouldn't dare," Aryan said, grinning.
The night stretched long after the plates had been cleared, with warm tea replacing the feast and stories replacing strategy. Outside, the city was quiet. Inside, the new Bharat breathed through laughter, through shared dreams, and through the clink of porcelain teacups in a house that no longer served empires—but families.
And as Aryan looked around at the people he called his own, he didn't see rulers or warriors or ministers.
He saw the reason he had built it all.
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- Samrat Bhavan, Delhi -
- October 16, 1936 | Morning -
The office at Samrat Bhavan was sunlit and quiet, its windows slightly ajar to allow the autumn breeze to stir the drapes. Papers lay in neat stacks on the wide teak desk, next to a pot of still-steaming tea and a brass paperweight shaped like the Dharma Chakra. Outside, the city moved with purpose. Inside, the heart of Bharat's future was being written in words rather than laws—spoken first, before they could ever be inked.
Dr. B. R. Ambedkar sat across from Aryan, his crisp white suit impeccably pressed, but his eyes held the weariness of a man who had fought too many quiet battles—most of them unseen, most of them personal. Yet this morning, he wasn't just a representative of the oppressed. He was the man Aryan had chosen to shape the foundation of a nation reborn.
"I want you to lead the drafting of the Constitution, Doctor," Aryan said without ceremony, hands folded on the desk. "Not as a token, not for politics. But because you understand what it means to build something that truly includes everyone."
Ambedkar looked at Aryan for a long moment, as if measuring not the words, but the weight behind them. Then he nodded slowly. "You understand, Samrat, that this will not be easy."
"I don't want easy," Aryan replied. "I want just."
Ambedkar leaned back slightly, his fingers tapping once on the armrest. "You know my position on caste. I've made it clear time and again."
"And I agree with it," Aryan said quietly. "The caste system has no place in the Bharat we are building. Not socially. Not spiritually. Not legally."
That silenced the room for a moment—not because it was unexpected, but because it was rare to hear such clarity from someone with so much power.
Aryan continued, "This country has bled because of lines drawn by birth. If we don't erase them now, we'll carry the same poison into the future we are trying to create. That's not a legacy I'll allow."
Ambedkar nodded slowly. "Then we begin from a shared foundation. The Constitution must recognize no caste. No untouchability. No inherited inequality."
Aryan leaned forward. "It should speak of dignity. Of opportunity. Of equal protection under law—for every citizen, regardless of name, place, god, or tongue."
Ambedkar allowed himself a brief smile, though his eyes remained serious. "That's a tall ask, Samrat. The ghosts of the past don't die easy. You know that."
"I don't expect them to vanish overnight," Aryan said. "But I won't write them into law and call it tradition."
Ambedkar considered that, then shifted slightly. "There is one thing we must talk about. Reservation. I've always said it must exist—indefinitely if need be—so the oppressed can catch up. Level the field."
Aryan nodded. He had expected this. "And I respect that. Without a hand to lift the fallen, the idea of equality means nothing. But I propose something more measured."
Ambedkar's brows rose. Aryan continued, tone calm.
"I propose a fixed period—fifteen to twenty years. Long enough for the foundation to be laid. For the first generation to rise. Then… we reassess. Let it not become a crutch passed down indefinitely, but a bridge walked across."
Ambedkar didn't speak immediately. He stared at the window for a moment, thoughtful. "You fear future resentment?"
"I fear future injustice," Aryan replied. "Not just towards those who were once privileged. But towards those born poor and deserving, yet not eligible because their surname doesn't fit the box."
Ambedkar exhaled slowly. "It's a gamble."
"It's a promise," Aryan said. "That we will not abandon anyone. But we will also not build a new hierarchy under the guise of correction."
The two men sat In silence for a few moments, the kind where disagreement doesn't feel like conflict but like part of a larger truth unfolding.
Finally, Ambedkar nodded. "I will draft it. On two conditions."
Aryan tilted his head.
"First, I want full independence of the drafting committee. No political interference."
"Granted. Though it should be done under the framework under my throne, that I will not compromise on. As for the selection of heirs and what happens after me, that I leave it to the Committee, which I will also be a part of. Though, I think, I should make it clear, I have no desire to make my throne hereditary."
After a moment of silence Ambedkar nodded accepting the terms.
"Second," Ambedkar said after a moment, his voice firmer, "we include the right to education, to dignity, and to livelihood. Not as lofty goals—but enforceable rights."
Aryan extended his hand. "Done."
Ambedkar clasped it. "Then we begin."
As the morning sun climbed higher, two men—born from entirely different worlds—sat under the same roof, not as ruler and subject, but as architects. Not just of laws and rights, but of hope. In that quiet, the foundation of Bharat shifted—not in revolution, but in resolve.
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Hello everyone, I know the chapters are as not being regularly updated as I would like it to be, but there's a reason for it, as I had caught a flu, so I wasn't able to write any chapters during that time. But now, that I have recovered, I will try to compensate for the chapters, though I cannot promise for certainty, but I will for sure update chapters regularly. Thanks for your patience until now.
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