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- Kamal Aasthaan, Ujjain -
- December 7, 1939 -
The winter breeze carried a sharp chill, but the city was awake, roads lit and crowded near the airport. Word had spread quickly: the Samrat was leaving Bharat for the first time since independence.
Inside the palace, Aryan stood in his study, fastening the buttons of his tailored achkan, a dark shade of blue with faint silver embroidery shaped like lotus petals along the edges. His mother adjusted his collar, as she always did before big moments, while Shakti lingered nearby, teasing him that he looked more like a film star than a statesman. Aryan only smiled faintly, though deep inside he carried the weight of a hundred calculations.
This visit was more than just courtesy. It was proof that Bharat was not going to close itself off, nor march with greed into others' lands. The world was burning in Europe. Fascism's shadow lengthened. And in that storm, Bharat had to show not just strength, but wisdom.
"Afghanistan first," Aryan whispered under his breath as he glanced at the folder on his desk. Maps, notes, handwritten reports from his envoys. The kingdom across the north-west frontier, proud and rugged, always suspicious of neighbors. He would walk into their court not as a conqueror, not as a beggar, but as an equal.
—
The drive to the international airport was slow, not because of traffic but because of the sheer number of people who had come to watch. Families stood along the roadsides waving small saffron-and-green flags. Women tossed marigolds from balconies as his motorcade passed. Children shouted his name with a joy that reached him even through the armored windows.
Aryan sat in the back of the Rajvanshi-made car, its polished silver lines gleaming under the streetlamps. The vehicle itself was a statement — luxury shaped with Bharat's own hands, not borrowed from Europe, not a colonial leftover. Its heavy frame was rune-carved, bulletproof, resistant to fire and explosions. Of course, he did not need such protections, but appearances mattered. A Samrat who walked unguarded might inspire awe, but a Samrat who carried his nation's dignity in every detail — that inspired respect.
Raghav, seated in the front, looked back once and said softly, "Young Master… the people look at you as if you carry all their hopes."
Aryan only nodded. "Then I will carry them carefully."
—
At the airport's private hangar, the centerpiece awaited — Vyomratha —the Samrat's personal jet. Sleek, polished to a mirror shine, its wings curved slightly with runic patterns that shimmered faintly in the moonlight. To the untrained eye it looked like a modern marvel; to those who could sense, it pulsed with a deeper power.
The prāṇa-hybrid engine was silent until awakened, combining Aryan's magi-tech with the cutting edge of aviation. Beneath its metal skin lay systems decades ahead of their time — navigation that never lost direction, encrypted communications, defensive runes that could cloak the plane from hostile detection. It was not simply an aircraft. It was a fortress of the skies.
As Aryan approached, the soldiers in ceremonial uniforms straightened and saluted. His entourage — ministers, diplomats, aides — moved behind him in practiced formation. But all eyes were on him alone as he ascended the staircase to the aircraft.
At the door, Aryan paused, turning back toward the city lights of Ujjain, his capital. The river glistened in the distance like a silver thread. For a moment, he thought of his father and mother when they had first dreamed of freedom, when Bharat was still shackled. How far they had come. How far they still had to go.
—
Inside, the cabin was furnished with quiet elegance — polished wood, soft carpets, maps and charts already laid on the table.
After settling into his seat, Aryan closed his eyes briefly, letting the thought settle. This was the first step of many. After Afghanistan would come Iran, with its ancient empire and modern ambitions. Then across the oceans to America, where Roosevelt had personally sent an invitation — a chance to draw Bharat closer to the Allies, to soften Britain's bitterness by placing Bharat at the table of nations.
And on the return, a visit to Thailand, freshly renamed from Siam, seeking its own place in a shifting world.
It was a journey that would announce Bharat firmly on the global stage, not as a colony, not as a follower, but as a voice among equals.
—
As the engines roared to life, the ground shuddered faintly, though the prāṇa crystals kept the sound smooth and controlled. The crowd outside erupted into cheers, voices carrying across the runway. Aryan glanced out through the window, at the sea of faces, their eyes reflecting faith and pride.
For a moment, his heart softened. He was still that boy who had once walked incognito among them, seeing their struggles firsthand. He carried their stories now, every step, every mile.
The jet began to roll forward, gaining speed on the runway. The city's lights blurred, then fell away as the aircraft lifted gracefully into the night sky.
Ujjain grew smaller beneath him, the heart of a rising nation pulsing like a jewel in the dark.
—
- Kabul, Afghanistan -
- December 9–11, 1939 -
The next three days unfolded like a dance — careful steps, long pauses, and words measured like gold. Kabul welcomed Aryan with ceremony, soldiers in crisp uniforms, banners fluttering, and musicians playing their age-old instruments at the palace gates. Yet beneath the warmth, both sides knew the shadows of history sat between them.
The first day was dedicated to maps. Large tables filled the Afghan royal hall, spread with charts marked by British surveyors who had never cared to learn the land's heart. Lines were drawn in ignorance, splitting valleys and rivers, claiming villages without ever seeing them.
Afghanistan's ministers pressed firmly, their voices echoing with pride. They demanded recognition of their claim over the Pashtun belt, the rugged mountains that had now become Bharat's Gandhar Pradesh, once called the North-West Frontier Province.
Aryan listened without impatience. When his turn came, he had his ministers lay out maps of the Sikh Empire before the British ever arrived, maps that spoke of borders drawn not by outsiders, but by history itself.
For hours, the discussions swayed like a pendulum — demands and refusals, evidence and counterclaims. But when Aryan finally leaned forward, his voice steady, the tone in the room shifted.
"We both inherited scars from the British," he said. "Let us not deepen them with our own hands. Bharat will not bow, nor will we ask you to. But let us choose peace over pride."
By the end of the third day, a compromise emerged. The maps would stay as they were for now. No land would change hands, but both nations would establish a joint council to manage disputes on the frontier. It was not perfect, but it was enough — a foundation to build trust upon.
Aryan and King Zahir Shah ended their talks on a note of guarded warmth. Over dinner, they spoke less of maps and more of the greater storm in Europe, of fascism's march and of neutrality. Afghanistan remained wary of the Soviets pressing from the north. Aryan listened, nodded, and offered support — but only on the surface, careful not to entangle Bharat too deeply with Moscow's affairs, as Aryan wanted both to eventually have good and lasting relations, despite them having barely any diplomatic talks or trade relations at the moment.
—
- Tehran, Iran -
- December 13–15, 1939 -
From the mountains of Kabul, the journey led westward, across deserts into the heart of Persia. The Shah's court greeted Aryan with silk and gold, music flowing through grand halls that still echoed with the memories of empires. The warmth was genuine, but beneath it lay another knot of disputes — Balochistan.
The British had left wounds here too, carving lines through a land that neither Bharat nor Iran fully accepted. Villages found themselves cut in two, tribes pulled between flags. The talks were sharp at times, but Aryan kept his tone calm.
He reminded them that both nations shared more than disputes — ancient trade routes, cultural ties, and faith in survival at a time when Europe was tearing itself apart. "Empires rose and fell between our lands," he said in one council. "Yet the people never stopped crossing, trading, marrying. Borders may divide maps, but they cannot divide memory. Let us write a future that honors both."
The Shah listened, his eyes thoughtful. For the first time, the Baloch issue was not shouted across tables but discussed with an eye toward gradual resolution. A commission was proposed — slow work, but steady. Meanwhile, Bharat and Iran pledged closer trade and cultural exchange, a gesture that softened tensions.
Evenings were lighter. Aryan dined with scholars, poets, and generals. The Iranians marveled at Bharat's sudden rise, at its strength drawn not from conquest but from rebuilding itself. Aryan, in turn, spoke of Persia's enduring wisdom, how their histories often intertwined like rivers meeting at a delta.
—
By the end of the second week of December, Aryan had touched two thrones, settled two long-standing disputes enough to prevent their festering, and shown the world that Bharat did not come with greed.
But the true test still waited. Across the oceans, America had extended its hand. The invitation from President Roosevelt was no small matter — it carried the weight of the Allies, and with it, Britain's reluctant acceptance. For the first time, Bharat was being offered a seat at the table of the League of nations.
Yet Aryan knew what he wanted. Not a seat at the edge, silent and token. He wanted Bharat at the heart of the discussion, shaping the world's choices, not following them.
As the plane prepared to lift again from Tehran, Aryan stood by the window, watching the city lights fade into the desert night. His reflection in the glass showed not just a young man, but a Samrat carrying the weight of a billion voices.
"Not just another member," he whispered to himself. "If Bharat joins, it will be as an equal."
The engines roared, the runes hummed, and the jet turned westward, toward the Atlantic, toward America — and the next chapter of Bharat's place in the world.
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