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- The White House, Washington D.C. -
- December 18, 1939 -
The following morning, the grand formalities were gone. The chandeliers and music of the East Room had given way to the quiet stillness of the Cabinet Room. Heavy curtains shut out most of the winter light, leaving the polished table at the center shining faintly under shaded lamps.
It was a smaller gathering now. On one side sat President Roosevelt, his closest advisors, and a few secretaries who carried files stacked with papers. On the other sat Aryan, flanked only by his Foreign Minister and Economic Advisor. Guards stood at a discreet distance. The atmosphere was serious, but not unfriendly — the kind of room where history was shaped with words, not parades.
Roosevelt's voice was steady as he began. "Your Majesty, let me say again how grateful we are that you've made this visit. Since 1936, when Bharat stood up on its own, we in America have watched with admiration. We were proud to be among the first to recognize your independence. But recognition is only the first step. What matters is what we build together."
Aryan leaned forward slightly, hands folded. "Recognition was indeed a good beginning, Mr. President. But beginnings are only seeds. For them to grow, they must be tended with care — by both sides."
That drew a small nod from Roosevelt. He glanced at his advisors before moving to the first matter on the agenda: food supplies.
"Europe's war has shaken even our markets. Britain buys heavily, France too. Our farmers are working hard, but shortages creep up where you least expect them. Additional grain and agro imports from Bharat would go a long way, especially with the disruptions across the Atlantic."
Aryan's expression did not shift. "Bharat's harvest has been strong this year. We are willing to expand grain exports. Wheat, rice, pulses — enough to support your needs. But we ask for fair pricing and fair transport terms. In return, we will require steady access to certain technologies and equipment, which will help modernize our own agriculture."
The American side scribbled notes quickly. Deals were possible here.
The discussion moved to people-to-people ties. Roosevelt himself raised the point. "We've noticed more young Bharatiya scholars applying to our universities. We'd like to encourage that. It's good for both nations. Perhaps a structured scholarship program, exchange of teachers, smoother visas for workers?"
Aryan's eyes softened, just a little. "Yes. Our people are hungry to learn. They want to see the world, and they want the world to see them not as subjects of empire but as free citizens of a rising nation. Opportunities in America will be welcomed. But let it be based on respect, not charity. We want our brightest to return home better equipped to serve Bharat, not to be lost in another country's labor pools."
The advisors murmured in agreement, already imagining cultural exchanges and goodwill projects.
Then came the sharper edges: strategy and security. Roosevelt's Secretary of War leaned in. "Samrat, forgive me for being direct. The situation in Europe worsens daily. America is not yet in this war, but we are preparing. Bharat, with its resources, its steel, its new… capabilities"—he carefully avoided saying 'magi-tech' outright—"could play a role in keeping the balance. Military supplies alone could mean a great deal."
Aryan listened calmly. "Helmets, boots, uniforms, certain steels — yes, these can be discussed. But Bharat will not place its soldiers under another's flag. Until aggression is directed at us, we will remain neutral. Still, neutrality does not mean silence. We have condemned the fascist forces openly, and will continue to do so."
It was a clear line, firm but not hostile. Roosevelt understood what was being said. Pulling Bharat completely into the Allied camp would not be simple.
The President sighed and shifted slightly in his chair. "Neutrality is understandable. But let me be frank, Your Majesty. The true knot lies elsewhere. London."
The word Itself carried a weight in the room. Britain. The empire that had ruled Aryan's land, stripped it, scarred it, and still pretended to hold moral authority in the world.
Roosevelt's tone was careful. "We know there is bitterness. But for the better future of mankind, America is willing to mediate. We want Bharat and Britain to find a path, however long it may take."
Aryan's gaze hardened, though his voice remained even. "Mr. President, reconciliation is not built in one sitting. The hatred that burns in my people's hearts is not without reason. You ask for understanding, but perhaps it is better you see why that is difficult."
He gestured to his aide, who slid a folder across the table. Inside were thick reports, neatly bound. Aryan spoke as they were opened.
"These are records. Not rumors. Proof. For two centuries, Britain drained us. Systematic exploitation of resources, orchestrated famines, mass killings, slavery dressed as law, suppression of thought, destruction of our industries. The figure of wealth extracted stands at over sixty-four trillion dollars, by conservative measure. And still, they speak of civilization."
The Americans grew quiet as they leafed through the documents. The photographs of skeletal bodies during famines, the lists of massacres, the charts of drained revenues, the testimonies of silenced voices.
Aryan continued, softer now. "My people cannot forget these wounds. Even now, Britain looks at us with arrogance, refusing to accept that Bharat is free. Churchill's government makes no secret of its disdain. They want us back in chains. Tell me, Mr. President, how do you make peace with that?"
For a long moment, Roosevelt did not reply. His fingers tapped lightly on the armrest of his wheelchair. His eyes, though steady, carried something like sorrow.
Finally, he said, "Perhaps you cannot. Not yet. But history may demand it someday. And when that day comes, I hope both sides will choose wisely. Until then, America will respect your position."
The talks moved on, circling back to trade, cultural links, and the technicalities of shipping routes. Yet the shadow of Britain lingered over every word. The Americans had hoped for more, for quicker alignment. Instead, they received something subtler: a promise of cooperation, but on Bharat's terms.
When the meeting finally ended, Roosevelt extended his hand again. "Your Majesty, we may not have solved everything today. But we have taken steps. And sometimes, in uncertain times, steps are all we can take."
Aryan clasped his hand firmly. "Steps are better than standing still. Let us keep walking, Mr. President."
As he left the room, Aryan's thoughts were calm but steady. He knew America's intentions, the weight of their schemes. He also knew Bharat's strength, and the road ahead would not be one of compromise, but of careful balance.
—
The heavy doors of the Cabinet Room shut softly behind Aryan and his entourage. Their footsteps faded down the hallway, leaving behind only the faint scent of polished wood and ink. For a moment, no one spoke. The silence seemed to settle like a thin layer of frost over the table.
It was Roosevelt who broke it, his voice calm but carrying the weight of thought. "Well, gentlemen… what do we make of that?"
Secretary of State Cordell Hull leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. His words came measured, like he'd been rehearsing them in his head. "Mr. President, it's a mixed bag. We didn't secure the kind of commitments we were hoping for, not on Europe, not on military alignment. But… we did establish something solid: a foundation for bilateral relations. That part is promising."
Roosevelt gave a small nod, but Hull wasn't finished.
"As for pulling them in early, especially to Europe—well, that didn't land. Not yet. The Samrat knows his leverage. He knows we're stretched thin, balancing aid to Europe without tipping our own economy into ruin. And he knows the West is desperate for resources. His moves were careful, deliberate. That report on British misdeeds?" Hull paused, tapping the table with a finger. "That was no accident. He's setting the stage. He wants us, sooner or later, to mediate a better deal for Bharat with London. He's putting the weight of history on our laps."
The room stayed quiet for a moment. Roosevelt's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Then he said, almost to himself, "And he's not wrong."
The President leaned back, folding his hands across his lap. "For now, we take what we have. A firmer relationship with Bharat. His clear stance against fascism. And we can rest assured—at least for the moment—that Bharat won't align with the Nazis. That would be disastrous."
At the mention of "superhumans" and "magi-tech," the room went still again. It wasn't something they said out loud often. Every man there had seen the reports—machines and abilities that bent the rules of physics, warriors who could rival entire divisions, weapons that didn't belong in any conventional arsenal. The Americans prided themselves on innovation, but even they knew Bharat had stepped into something beyond steel and oil.
Hull cleared his throat, breaking the heavy silence. "We'll have to tread carefully. They know exactly how much advantage they hold."
Roosevelt's gaze shifted to his Defense Secretary. "Speaking of advantage… what about that meeting we had planned? The one with the subject they're calling the Human Torch?"
The Defense Secretary adjusted his glasses, shuffling the papers in front of him. "Yes, Mr. President. The plan is still on track. The Torch will be showcased during the New York segment of Samrat Aryan's visit. Howard Stark is already arranging a demonstration there—his research lab, his people. The Torch will be presented as a symbol of American ingenuity, a reminder that we are not to be underestimated."
Roosevelt hummed softly, the sound low and thoughtful. "Good. We'll let Aryan see it with his own eyes. Not just words, but proof. A young man born of fire standing side by side with the mind of Stark—our answer to their magi-tech."
He looked around the table, his expression firm now, decisive. "And then, the next step. Later this afternoon, at Congress, I'll make the announcement. We will not only welcome him, we will offer Bharat a seat at the League of Nations. A place at the table, where the world sees them not as an upstart but as an equal."
No one argued. No one could.
They all knew it was both a gift and a gamble. A way to bind Bharat closer, but also a reminder that this young Samrat wasn't playing by the old rules.
The room settled back Into silence, the kind that comes not from emptiness, but from the awareness that history had just shifted by a degree.
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