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- Samrat Bhavan, Delhi -
- October 16, 1936 | Evening -
The day hadn't quieted. It had only shifted.
The golden light of dusk poured through the lattice windows of Samrat Bhavan's inner council chamber. The polished stone walls reflected a mellow glow, but the room held no grand banners or ceremonial pomp. Just a round wooden table, worn smooth from use, and seven chairs around it. Each chair had been placed with care. Not for ministers. Not for governors. But for warriors—of will, of mind, of heart.
Aryan stood at the head of the circle as the last of them entered. He waited until they had all taken their seats before he spoke.
"Welcome back, everyone, its been a while since we met face to face like this. The last time we spoke, we were at a war with the British. Now, that Bharat is free and I have assumed the position of Samrat, I have called you all here, for a matter that requires your aid once again."
They saluted him, acknowledging his words and with respect worthy of their commander, under whom they chased out the British. For each one of them, Aryan's words were absolute, and if he said he required their aid in something, they will ensure that it is completed without any problems.
Veer Singh Rathore, from the sun-baked dunes of Rajasthan, still wore his thick mustache like a badge of rebellion. His arms were folded, eyes sharp. He had once led a phantom cavalry across the desert, disrupting British supply lines and vanishing like smoke. Now, he oversaw defense initiatives in the western provinces.
Rahim Baksh Qureshi, quiet and thoughtful, with salt now edging the once-black beard. The mastermind of Balochistan, Sindh and North West Frontier's underground networks—smuggling not arms, but hope. A poet and strategist both.
Daniel D'Souza, the Goan firebrand, carried an easy grin and restless fingers. Catholic, Marxist, fighter, dreamer. His youth had not dulled—he now managed worker cooperatives and trade unions across the coasts with razor precision.
Arjan Singh Sodhi, the ironclad. Sikh by blood, soldier by resolve. He had rallied the Punjab militia when there was nothing left to fight with but fists and grit. He looked like he could still punch through walls.
Dawa Tenzing, serene as ever, eyes deep like the mountains he came from. A monk once, a revolutionary by necessity. He had united the highland tribes through dialogue, not war, and gave Aryan the Himalayas not as a border, but as a shield.
And lastly, Gurunathan Iyer. The mind. Madras's gifted organizer. Fluent in policy, law, and five languages, he had once outwitted an entire British intelligence unit through letters disguised as temple hymns.
They were more than legends. They were the first to believe. Back when Aryan wore a disguise over his face and called himself Maheshvara.
"Your majesty, it is an honor for us to once again, be of use to you. You just have to order us," Rahim said, cutting through the quiet. His words were met with nods from other five too.
Aryan nodded. "You don't have to be overly polite with me Rahim, and others too. Although I am now in a position of Samrat, I still prefer the casual manners more, granted we are not in a formal setting. Regardless, the matter regarding which you were called is that, while the Constitution is taking shape, and the laws will soon change. But the system that enforces them—the bureaucracy—remains what it was. British bones. Rotten marrow."
Daniel scoffed. "You are right Your majesty, even though we chased out the British scum. It's still the same game. New flag. Old players."
Aryan looked at each of them in turn. "We fought to break chains. But what we've inherited is a machine designed to serve empire, not people. That system resists change. It hides behind files and hierarchies. It survives by stalling progress."
Arjan leaned forward, his voice gruff. "Then let's tear it down."
"No," Aryan said, his tone calm but firm. "Not with fire. Not this time. We rebuild it. Piece by piece. Region by region. Department by department."
Gurunathan tapped the table gently. "That'll need more than passion. Your majesty wants an administrative overhaul of the whole state? That's years of policy, logistics, re-education, maybe even purges."
Aryan nodded. "Exactly. And I need you six to lead it."
Silence followed. Not of disbelief—but of understanding. This wasn't a request. It was a mission.
"You shaped the resistance," Aryan continued. "Now I ask you to shape governance. Take your regions. Study the old systems. Identify what works, what doesn't. And start replacing the dead weight. Train new officers. Build local councils. Cut red tape. Use technology where you can. Build merit where none existed."
Dawa finally spoke, voice low. "We must also ensure accountability. Not just efficiency. The people must see their government. Feel it listens."
Aryan smiled. "Exactly. No more walls. No more sirs behind desks. The system must serve the citizen, not rule them."
Veer Singh cracked his knuckles. "Your majesty, If I'm to handle the west, I'll need my old team back."
"You'll have them," Aryan said. "And more. Resources. Access. Autonomy. But with oversight from a new office—one I'll create under the Samrat Sabha."
Rahim raised an eyebrow. "And what will this office be called?"
Aryan leaned back slightly. "Lok Seva Ayog. A Commission for Public Service—not as a gatekeeper, but as a backbone. And its foundation will be laid by you six."
Gurunathan whistled softly. "You're building an entirely new civil structure."
"I'm building a Bharat that will outlive us all."
The fire in Aryan's voice wasn't loud. But it lit something in each of them.
They had seen too much to be idealists. But they had also built too much to be cynics.
One by one, they nodded.
"We'll need months," Arjan warned.
"Take years, if needed, though I would prefer if you completed it before the Constitution is completed," Aryan replied. "But begin today."
The meeting stretched into the night. Maps were drawn. Roles assigned. Messengers summoned. And somewhere between ink and resolve, the first breath of a new administration stirred.
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- Samrat Bhavan, Delhi -
- November 3, 1936 -
The sky had turned pale grey with the approach of winter, and the scent of dust and faint smoke lingered in the air. Delhi stirred earlier these days, with steam from chai vendors mingling with the morning mist and newspapers fresh off the press declaring bold headlines:
"Integration of Bharat Complete."
"Governors Sworn In."
"Ministries Announced Under Samrat's Throne."
Aryan stood on the balcony of his private chamber, looking out over the capital that had been shaped by centuries of power, occupation, and now—rebirth. The tide had finally settled. Bharat, once a fragmented land torn by borders and princely allegiances, had finally been stitched whole.
There had been no blood. Only conversations, negotiations, quiet assurances, and sometimes unspoken warnings. Aryan had ensured the reunification was done with grace when possible, and firmness when required. From Kashmir to Kanyakumari, Assam to Sindh, the last signatures were in place. Flags had been lowered and raised anew. And now, the weight of governance followed.
One by one, the governors were appointed—not by favoritism, not by politics, but by merit. Each name had been chosen with care. Aryan, with his father Surya, his mother Anjali, and Shakti at his side, spent weeks reviewing dossiers and reports.
Former freedom fighters, administrators, scholars, and soldiers. Men and women who had proven their loyalty to the people, not just to the cause.
The temporary ministries were sworn in during a quiet ceremony in the Sabha Hall. No garlands. No grand declarations.
Surya Rajvanshi, dignified in his simple white achkan, took oath as the first Prime Minister of the Unified Crown Cabinet. The room had gone silent when Aryan offered the ceremonial seal to his father, but Surya's words cut through:
"I do not serve my son. I serve Bharat."
Anjali Rajvanshi, fierce in her conviction and clarity, was named Home Minister. She had been working for months already, reorganizing the internal framework to secure peace across the states, particularly in areas still healing from colonial-era tensions.
Subhash Chandra Bose, after gaining recognition and loyalty of the armed forces of Bharat, was appointed as Defence Minister. His eyes, always ablaze with purpose, now held steady focus. He found common ground with Aryan easily—strategy, discipline, and vision bound them tighter than ideology.
On the other side of the table sat Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel, not as a minister, but as the Leader of the Opposition from the Congress bloc. Aryan respected him deeply, and Patel respected power earned, not granted. Their clashes in the Sabha Hall were inevitable—but necessary. Bharat would not thrive in silence.
Outside the palace, the real change was taking root. The Lok Seva Aayog had already begun filtering through layers of outdated offices and colonial-era frameworks. Hundreds of officers—old and new—were being reassessed. Training academies had opened in every region. Regional offices now reported to civilian councils, not British-styled commissioners.
Aryan had given them all the tools. But he didn't stay idle.
In between meetings and addresses, he sat in the newly formed Strategic Engineering Department—his sleeves rolled, pencil in hand. Blueprints filled the tables. Next-gen rifles, tank designs, aircraft prototypes with delta wings, naval vessels with reinforced hulls. He didn't copy the West—he adapted, improved, and sometimes reinvented.
Factories had been set up along the Ganges belt, the Vindhya basin, and the western ports. Weapon production, shipbuilding, aircraft assembly—all humming to life. The Tri-Services were no longer dependent on foreign imports. Aryan ensured the military would never kneel again.
Still, he knew innovation must never stagnate. So he created the Mantra-Vigyan Vibhag—a dedicated department focused on defence research and development. Engineers, scientists, former rebels with a knack for mechanics—they were brought in and given full freedom. Their only directive: build what tomorrow demands, not just what today needs.
Yet, one piece remained.
A borderless land was not the same as a unified state. The lines that existed—provincial boundaries, linguistic borders, colonial divisions—they were messy, inefficient, and in some places, unnatural.
Aryan stood before a large map of Bharat, a marker in his hand, eyes scanning the old divisions. Bengal was still too vast to govern as one. Punjab needed more autonomy in the northwest. The southern states needed better logistical linkage. Tribal areas, often ignored, needed recognition, not just integration.
He turned to his team, now joined by cartographers, social leaders, cultural historians, and economists.
"It's time," he said. "We redraw the map—not to divide, but to align. Not by what we inherited, but by what we need."
Not a partition of land. But a promise. A reorganization meant not to erase identities—but to honor them while enabling progress. Each state would reflect its people, its culture, its economy, and its strength. And each would serve the nation—not through boundaries, but through unity.
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