Chapter Five: A Question of Scale
The study smelled faintly of old paper and camphor.
Sunlight filtered in through the tall windows, catching the dust in slow, drifting lines. Maharaja Rudradev Varma sat behind his desk, reviewing correspondence, his expression calm in the way of a man long accustomed to weighty decisions.
Aryavardhan stood across from him.
Not as a child.
Not yet as a ruler.
But as someone asking to be taken seriously.
"Fertilizers," Aryavardhan said carefully.
The word hung in the air, unadorned.
Rudradev looked up, surprised—not by the subject, but by the steadiness with which it was spoken.
"Go on."
Aryavardhan had rehearsed this conversation many times, but he did not deliver it like a speech. He spoke as if explaining something obvious—something that merely needed to be seen correctly.
"Our land is fertile," he said. "But it is underused. Yield depends too much on rain, too much on tradition. Fertilizers would stabilize production. Increase output. Not by a little—by margins that compound."
Rudradev leaned back slightly, fingers steepled.
"And you believe this is the right time?"
"Yes," Aryavardhan replied without hesitation.
He explained the structure calmly.
Raw materials sourced through British suppliers. Machinery purchased from firms already producing for imperial needs. The factory established within Varunadesh, close to ports and rail access.
Nothing secretive. Nothing confrontational.
"The British benefit," Aryavardhan added. "Higher yields mean more grain. More surplus. More predictable supply during uncertain years."
Rudradev's eyes sharpened.
"You are thinking of war."
"I am thinking of preparation," Aryavardhan corrected gently.
Silence followed.
Outside, a distant bell rang from the harbor—ships coming in, ships going out, commerce moving as it always had.
Rudradev stood and walked to the window, hands clasped behind his back.
"You understand," he said slowly, "that this is not a small venture. Fertilizer plants require scale. Infrastructure. Capital."
"I do," Aryavardhan said.
"How much?"
"Several crores," Aryavardhan answered honestly.
That stopped him.
Rudradev turned.
Crores were not unheard of—but they were commitments. The kind that bound a kingdom's future to a single direction.
"This is not a lesson," Rudradev said quietly. "This is not an experiment. If we do this, we do it properly—or not at all."
"I know," Aryavardhan replied.
"And if you are wrong?"
Aryavardhan did not answer immediately.
"If I am wrong," he said at last, "then we will still have built something the land needs."
Rudradev studied his son for a long moment.
Not as a ruler.
As a father.
"You are asking me," he said, "to trust judgment that even seasoned merchants hesitate to make."
Aryavardhan met his gaze.
"I am asking you to investigate it."
That, at least, did not sound reckless.
Rudradev exhaled slowly.
"Give me time," he said. "I will look into it. The suppliers. The implications. The risks."
He paused, then added, "This is not a no."
Aryavardhan bowed his head.
"That is all I ask."
As he left the study, Aryavardhan felt neither victory nor disappointment.
Only tension.
The kind that meant the decision mattered.
Behind him, Maharaja Rudradev Varma returned to his desk—but his correspondence lay forgotten. His thoughts were elsewhere now, turning over possibilities he had not expected to consider.
Crores.
Fertilizers.
A son who was beginning to think not in years…
…but in decades.