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- Ujjain – Residential Mandal -
- August 25, 1939 | Evening -
The city felt new, though its soul was ancient. From above, Ujjain now spread out like a great mandala, each circle flowing into the next. At the heart was the shining Kamal Asthaan, the palace that rose with its lotus domes like a beacon. Around it lay the administrative mandal, humming with clerks and ministers. Further out stretched the heritage mandal, where narrow streets, now cleaner with reconstructed roads and advanced drainage systems, along with temples kept the memory of the old city alive. Beyond it, the newly built residential mandal curved outward, clean streets lined with modest houses of red brick and white plaster, shaded by rows of young neem trees.
It was here, In one such home, that the Joshi family lived.
The father, Hariram, had returned from his shift at the textile factory in the industrial mandal. His hands still smelled faintly of cotton and oil, his shirt damp from the day's labor, but his steps were lighter than they used to be. In his pocket, neatly folded, was his week's pay — a crisp hundred-rupee note of the new currency. He had shown it to his colleagues earlier with pride, but the excitement had dimmed when they warned him that the rupee's rules had changed.
Yet, Hariram was not one to stay discouraged long. He had asked questions, checked the bazaars, spoken to traders. And what he discovered made him smile. Rice and wheat, the staples that once consumed half his wage, were cheaper now. The government had released reserves bought fairly from farmers, lowering prices without harming them. Kerosene, jaggery, salt — all cost less. Even clothes and utensils had come down in price, thanks to new production linked incentives from the government that made factories like his produce more. For the first time in years, he felt his earnings could stretch farther than his worries.
At home, his wife, Kamla, was setting down her tools for the day. She had been weaving small bamboo trays for an order she received through the Sarvaseva Sanghathan. The Sanghathan had opened its branch not far from the commercial mandal, and though Hariram had frowned when she first joined, she had seen her friend sign up and could not ignore the possibilities. Now, every time an order came through, she worked at her own pace and received fair pay, certified and guaranteed by the Sanghathan.
"Today's work will fetch eight rupees," she told her husband with quiet satisfaction as he washed his hands. "And there's another order for baskets next week."
Hariram's stern face softened. He had once thought it improper for his wife to take up such work, but now he realized it was not a burden, but a blessing. With Kamla's earnings, they could not only run the house but save. And more than the money, he saw the pride in her eyes, the sense that her skill was valued.
Their son, Ramesh, was bent over his schoolbooks in the next room, scribbling away by lamplight. He was fifteen now, a thin boy with quick eyes and a restless energy. Next year he would become a senior in high school. Like all students, he was already undergoing compulsory training — marching drills at dawn, physical exercise, even lessons on first aid and discipline. Hariram worried sometimes about the boarding requirement that would soon take his son away for two years until he turned eighteen. But he also knew this was the government's way of shaping strong, educated citizens.
"You'll be going to university after that," Hariram said often, half to reassure himself, half to remind his son of the path ahead. Ramesh would nod silently, his mind filled with dreams he never shared aloud.
In the corner of the room, the family's eldest — Amma, Hariram's mother — sat on a low cot, her silver hair tied back neatly, her eyes sharp even at seventy. She was the quiet guide of the house, the one who told stories when arguments rose, who reminded her son and daughter-in-law that wealth was not counted only in rupees, but in harmony at the table. Tonight, as the smell of dal drifted from the kitchen, she smiled at her son's face and said,
"You walked home with light feet, Hari. What is the news today?"
Hariram sat beside her, placing the new hundred-rupee note on her lap. She lifted it slowly, peering at the shimmering threads in its fabric.
"It shines like silk," she whispered. "And you say it buys more than before?"
"Yes, Ma," Hariram said softly. "Food is cheaper. Clothes too. Even after all expenses, I can save. And with Kamla's earnings, we will not worry each month."
Amma's wrinkled fingers ran over the patterns of lotus and wheel. "The rupee feels different," she said. "When I was young, the British made us fear money. It was heavy, scarce. But this… this feels lighter. Almost like a promise kept."
The family sat down to dinner together on the floor — dal, rotis, and a small bowl of sabzi. It was simple, yet it felt more abundant than usual. Hariram ate with a hunger that came not just from his day's work, but from relief. Kamla served with a quiet pride, and Ramesh listened to his grandmother's stories, his eyes darting now and then to the shining note placed carefully in Amma's prayer box near the corner shrine.
Outside, the residential mandal hummed with its own life. Lamps glowed along the neat roads. Children played in the courtyards. Neighbors greeted each other while returning from work. The city, once worn and crowded, now seemed to breathe more freely — as though every home had found more space, more air, more light.
After dinner, Hariram stepped out into the courtyard with his son. The air smelled of wet earth; the monsoon had touched Ujjain again. They stood together, watching the flickering glow of lamps across the mandal, and beyond that, the shining silhouette of Kamal Asthaan at the city's heart.
Ramesh asked quietly, "Baba, do you think things will keep getting better?"
Hariram looked at his boy, then at the city that stretched around them like a great circle of life. He thought of his factory, of Kamla's work, of Amma's words. He thought of the new rupee folded away, of the cheaper food in the markets, of the roads that led from their home to the heart of the capital.
"Yes, beta," he said finally, placing a hand on his son's shoulder. "Maybe not every day. But step by step, they will."
In the distance, thunder rolled gently, not with menace but with the promise of rain. And in that quiet night, the Joshi family of Ujjain — one among millions — carried in their hearts the fragile but growing belief that the future was indeed theirs to shape.
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- Colombo, Ceylon -
- September 10, 1939 | Night -
The rain had stopped, but the air still smelled of the sea — heavy with salt and damp. In the dim light of a shuttered warehouse near Colombo's harbor, two men sat across from each other at a rough wooden table. The lamps were turned low, the sound of waves muffled behind the thick walls.
One was dressed like a merchant, his Tamil features sharp but calm. The other, taller, with a faint Hindi accent, wore plain cotton clothes that looked unremarkable. But beneath the ordinary surface, each man carried the weight of a nation's hope.
The merchant was Arun Mahadevan, one of the rising leaders of the Ceylonese rebels. The other was Aniket Rao, an operative of Bharat's External Intelligence Service — one of the silent arms of the Hidden Flame, now working far from the eyes of Ujjain's shining palace.
Arun leaned forward, lowering his voice though no one else was in earshot.
"The war has begun in Europe. Britain and France have declared war on Germany. Italy and Japan will not stay silent. This is the storm we were waiting for."
Aniket nodded. He had heard the same reports hours earlier through coded transmissions from Ujjain. "Yes. And you know what this means. Britain bleeds from a thousand cuts. Every ship they send to Europe, every soldier drafted, weakens their grip here. Their reserves are stretched thin, their treasury weaker without Bharat. It is time for your people to act."
Arun's eyes narrowed with a mix of resolve and worry. "But our people need more than courage. We need weapons, training… and food for the families that will suffer when men take to the jungles. You promised support."
Aniket reached into a leather pouch at his side and placed a folded bundle of notes on the table. The faint shimmer of the new rupees glowed even in the dim light, the watermark lotus catching the lamplight.
"This is your beginning," Aniket said. "The new rupee is not just our money. It is becoming your shield as well. We have heard from the Maldives, from Malaya, even from the rebels in the BIOT — they are tying their trade to our standard. Already, merchants in your villages are accepting the Bharatiya rupee over the British pound. Do you understand what that means?"
Arun ran his fingers over the note carefully, almost reverently. He had heard of the new currency, backed by gold and by the strength of Bharat's economy, but holding it now felt different. He remembered the frustration of seeing British coins passed like chains from one hand to another, their value determined far away in London. This — this was different.
"It means London's grip weakens," Arun said slowly.
"It means," Aniket replied, his voice steady, "that when your people fight, they will not fight alone. The more your trade and your coin flow through Bharat, the more you stand apart from the British. And the more you stand apart, the easier it becomes for us to keep you supplied. Guns, radios, medicines — we can get them to you, cheaper than anything the British could buy. Every weapon you carry will cost them twice as much to stop."
The rebel leader sat back, his jaw tightening. He thought of the villages in the highlands, the fishermen who whispered of freedom, the plantation workers beaten down for daring to speak against their masters. He thought of the growing anger, the simmering hunger for something better.
"And the risk?" he asked. "If the British find out your hand is in this—"
Aniket gave a thin smile. "They already suspect. But suspicion is not proof. And their attention is fixed elsewhere — on Berlin, on Rome, on Tokyo. They cannot fight the world and chain us all at once. That is our chance."
The room fell quiet for a moment, broken only by the crack of distant thunder.
Arun spoke again, his voice softer. "When Bharat won its independence, our people cheered in secret. We said: if they can rise, why not us? But there was also doubt. Some thought Bharat would forget us once free."
Aniket's gaze softened. He leaned forward, his words carrying the quiet conviction of his homeland.
"Samrat Aryan has not forgotten anyone. He believes freedom cannot exist in one land while chains remain in another. Your struggle is ours too. And when your children hold their first coin free of the Crown's face, it will be the Bharatiya rupee that set the weight."
Arun looked at him for a long moment, then reached out and clasped the agent's hand firmly. "Then it is settled. We fight not just for Ceylon, but for all of us still under their boot."
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I will release regular chapters from tomorrow until there is no further problems on my end. Thanks to all of you, for your patience until now. Also, I am planning on writing another book, though a solid plan is yet to be formed. If you have suggestions, you can share with me.
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