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- Kamal Asthaan, Ujjain -
- February 9, 1939 | Late Afternoon -
The meeting stretched on well into the afternoon, the heat of the sun pouring into Kamal Asthaan, but the people inside seemed impervious to it, as if the very air around them had thickened with purpose. For those who had lived through the tremors of history, each moment in this room seemed to vibrate with the promise of something monumental. Aryan sat at the center, watching his advisors and the assembly shift from one crucial subject to another, from economics to education, from health to defense. But for now, the conversations were nearing their end.
Surya Rajvanshi shifted in his seat, glancing over his notes, looking up at Aryan. The time had come to seal the day's proceedings, but not before one last matter was raised.
"Samrat," Surya began, his voice calm but carrying weight, "What are your thoughts on how we continue this momentum? The work here today will take weeks, months — perhaps years — to fully take shape. But we must ensure there is continuity, a regular cadence for these meetings. We cannot afford to lose our focus."
Aryan nodded, taking in the words of his father with a quiet intensity. He turned to the room, catching the eyes of those gathered, the men and women whose decisions would ripple through every corner of Bharat. He leaned forward slightly, the sharp blue of his eyes sparking with something else — a vision that went beyond just plans and strategies.
"You're right, Father," Aryan said, his voice clear and commanding, "This cannot be a one-time conversation. This is just the beginning. We need regular meetings, a forum where we track our progress, where the fires of innovation and strategy are kept alive." He paused, letting his words sink in, feeling the weight of them in the room.
"We'll reconvene at regular intervals — every fortnight, perhaps," he added, his tone leaving no room for doubt. "And as each stage of the plan unfolds, we'll hold ourselves accountable, step by step."
There was a hum of agreement in the room, nods exchanged, a silent understanding that their nation was shifting, and they were the ones laying the stones.
But just as the conversation seemed ready to close, Aryan stood up, his eyes bright with the intensity of an idea that had long simmered in his mind.
"One more thing before we adjourn," he said, his voice firm, drawing all eyes back to him.
The room fell quiet, expectant.
Aryan's gaze swept over the group again, lingering for a moment on each leader, each advisor. "Bharat is not just a land of people and resources — it is a land of trust. Trust, which we must safeguard. And for that, I believe we must take a bold step forward in how we handle our contracts, our agreements."
He moved slightly, hands resting on the table, his fingers tapping in thought. "I propose that we make magical, or runic, contractual papers the standard across every level of our society. In government, in private business, in employment, even in personal agreements. From the smallest trades to the most monumental deals, I want runic contracts to become the backbone of all transactions."
A murmur rippled through the room. Subhash Bose leaned forward, eyebrow raised, sensing the gravity of the suggestion.
"Runic contracts?" he asked, his tone inquisitive, yet cautious.
Aryan nodded. "Yes, runic contracts. We've already made strides with the Bharatiya Standards Bureau, giving them the authority over the manufacturing and monitoring of these papers. And I plan to create a subsidiary unit within the Bureau dedicated to ensuring every single contract, large or small, is bound by these runes. The power of these runes will be twofold — they will eliminate the possibility of breaking trust, and they will guarantee that anyone who does break their word faces severe punishment, as specified by the very contract they sign."
He let the Idea settle into the room for a moment, watching the reactions. Nehru's gaze flickered with curiosity, while Patel's features softened into thoughtful contemplation.
"You're speaking of a level of enforcement unlike anything we've seen before, Samrat," Nehru said slowly, clearly pondering the implications. "But… what of those who might not trust these runes? How do we ensure they aren't manipulated or misused?"
Aryan smiled, calm as always, but with a spark of conviction in his words. "That's exactly why this will be different, Panditji. We will not only make these contracts standard, but we will ensure that everyone understands the power they hold. A breach of contract will not simply result in a broken promise; it will result in consequences so severe that it becomes a deterrent in itself. No one will take these lightly."
Subhash Bose's voice cut through the quiet as he leaned forward. "And how do you intend to spread this across Bharat? From the cities to the smallest of villages?"
Aryan's gaze hardened, his eyes alive with determination. "I will build a universal organization for Bharat. An entity that connects even the smallest of our villages to the rest of our nation. This will be an all-purpose organization, like a guild, where anyone can find help — whether they need a plumber, a mason, a carpenter, or a skilled laborer. But it won't just be a place for work — it will be a bridge for the unorganized sector to find employment, get training, and be given the resources they need to grow."
He paused, giving the room a moment to grasp the scope of what he was proposing. "In return, this organization will not only help the workers, but it will directly assist every household. If a family needs a pipe fixed or their roof repaired, they'll simply go to our organization, and find a skilled worker who is ready to help. It will be the backbone of Bharat's labor force, organized, efficient, and designed to support every corner of our nation."
There was a soft ripple of conversation around the table as the weight of his words settled in.
Surya Rajvanshi leaned back in his chair, considering his son's proposal. "A unified network of support for the unorganized sectors… it could change everything."
Anjali Rajvanshi, usually quiet, spoke up then, her voice calm but laced with the force of conviction. "This organization could be the heartbeat of Bharat's future. If we can connect these people to opportunity, give them the support they need, and create something like this… we're not just offering jobs. We're offering dignity."
Aryan met her gaze, his eyes gleaming with pride. "Exactly, Mother. It's not just about what they do for us — it's about what we do for them."
The room fell silent for a moment, each leader contemplating what had been laid before them. Then, Subhash Bose broke the quiet with a sharp nod. "If we can make this work, Aryan, then Bharat will stand on the foundation of not just government power or military might, but unity. And that unity will be our greatest strength."
Aryan stood tall, his gaze unwavering as he looked at each person in the room. "Then we begin now," he said simply. "We lay the first stones today, and from here, Bharat will rise stronger than ever."
The room stirred with a renewed sense of purpose. This was not just a meeting anymore; this was a blueprint for the future.
As the discussions began to wind down for the day, Aryan remained standing, the fire of his plans still burning bright in his chest. The wheels of change were in motion, and he knew, as did everyone else in that room, that this was just the beginning.
The road ahead would not be easy, but the steps were being taken, one by one, with the weight of an entire nation's future behind them.
And together, they would build something that would last for generations.
—
- Bangalore, Bharat -
- February 10, 1939 -
Far from the marble halls and hushed debates of Kamal Asthaan, the city of Bangalore hummed with a very different kind of promise. Here, the air wasn't heavy with speeches and declarations — it buzzed instead with the low, constant thrum of generators, the clicking of typewriters, and the soft hum of minds sharper than any blade.
In the quiet heart of the city's northern edge sprawled the new nerve center of Bharat's future — the headquarters of Rajvanshi Tech, the glittering, glass-and-steel jewel tucked among old tamarind trees and rain-washed red earth. It hadn't been there long — just two years ago, this plot had been a patch of farmland and scattered huts. Now, it pulsed like a living thing.
From above, the campus looked like an oasis — wide courtyards, shaded pathways, small gardens where young engineers sprawled on benches with notebooks open to the breeze. The main building, a sleek fusion of sandstone and steel, rose proudly against the gentle Bangalore sky. Inside, the hum of conversation was punctuated by the rhythmic chatter of experimental machines that looked like something out of a dream.
If Kamal Asthaan was where Bharat's backbone was forged in policy and iron will, Rajvanshi Tech was where its heartbeat thudded in circuits and light.
—
In a bright corner lab, sunlight spilled through tall windows onto rows of worktables cluttered with wires, spools of film, reels, early circuit boards — and somewhere among them, a young engineer named Raghav flicked his eyes between a half-built camera and the densely scribbled notes he had pinned above his workbench. Notes in Aryan Rajvanshi's own precise handwriting — sketches, equations, strange runes mingled with modern schematics.
Near him, a senior scientist — Dr. Henry Westfield, an optics expert from Britain once employed by the Crown itself — leaned over the prototype, his brow furrowed. Henry had been quietly pulled into Bharat by the Kalachakra Group's invisible hands — a "defection" that the British newspapers still hadn't uncovered.
"It's stunning, you know," Henry said, tapping the glass lens gently. "Coloured images this crisp — this steady. My old lab would have called it witchcraft."
Raghav grinned, wiping sweat from his brow. "Well, Doctor, we do have runes hidden under the casing. So maybe it is."
They shared a low laugh — the kind born when two people realised they were building something that would make their names echo long after they were gone.
—
Across the hall, in a sun-drenched studio, another team huddled around what looked like a bulky, humming box — a prototype for something Aryan had described in his letters as a 'personal computing device'. Nothing like this existed yet, despite having advanced computing devices being present in this Marvel universe timeline — not in Bharat, not in America, nowhere. The room was warm, the air thick with the smell of solder and hot metal.
On a blackboard near the door, someone had chalked a note in big letters:
"MAKE IT SIMPLE ENOUGH FOR EVERY HOME!"
A young woman, Priya Sharma, hair tied in a neat bun, adjusted her glasses and turned the dials on the machine, watching the small, flickering screen light up with green letters. "If we can shrink this core down even further," she said to the group, "we can move it from a lab desk to an office. Then a study table. Then maybe… one day… a living room."
Another engineer, an American in rolled-up sleeves named Jack Turner — a Kalachakra find from Chicago — laughed at that. "A computer next to a sofa? You dream too big, Priya."
She turned, eyes sparkling behind her glasses. "Not my dream, Jack. The Samrat's. He wants every household to think beyond just radio and black-and-white film reels. If he can dream it, we can build it."
—
Outside, in the shaded garden, a few employees gathered under a sprawling peepal tree for a late lunch — paper plates balanced on laps, laughter drifting up into the warm breeze. They came from every corner of Bharat — some fresh graduates from Bombay University, a few quiet geniuses from small towns in Tamil Nadu, one or two engineers with accents that gave away their European birth.
All of them drawn here by whispers and opportunities that had never existed before. Drawn here by Aryan's unspoken promise: "If you can dream it, Bharat will give you the tools."
—
At the far end of the garden, under a stone pavilion lined with vines, sat a polished boardroom with sliding glass doors that blurred the line between inside and out. Inside, a small group of senior executives and Kalachakra liaisons pored over documents stamped with two seals — the lotus crest of Rajvanshi Group, and the unmistakable circle-and-gear mark of Stark Industries.
One file lay open in front of them, the bold heading catching the sun:
"STARK EXPO PRESENTATION – 1939"
At the center of the table, a young man in a grey suit — Vishal Malhotra, the campus director — tapped his pen thoughtfully.
"Howard Stark wants a show," he said, voice steady but alive with excitement. "He wants a spectacle that makes the world sit up. Coloured film. Personal computing. High-resolution display screens. He wants proof that Bharat is not just catching up — but pulling ahead."
One of the foreign advisors, a stout man from Hungary, leaned in. "He'll get it. This Expo will break every record. And if Samrat Aryan's plan works, Rajvanshi Tech won't just be a local powerhouse — it'll be the name every investor in New York, London, Berlin whispers about at their dinner tables."
Vishal's lips curved in a small smile. "Then let's make sure they have something worth whispering about."
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