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- Secret Cabinet Room, South Block , Delhi -
- November 25, 1936 -
The long table was bare except for one map—hand-drawn by Aryan—marking every military base, coastline, mountain pass, and shadowed border of Bharat. Outside, Delhi simmered under the dry winter sun. Inside, the air was still, heavy with focus.
Aryan sat at the head, not wearing the mantle of Samrat, but carrying the weight of vision. He wasn't here to command but to listen, align, and act. His gaze swept across the room—steady, clear.
To his right sat Shakti. She said little, a quiet presence whose steadiness often spoke more than words. A plain notepad sat open in front of her, filled with observations. She was there not only as his partner, but as someone who knew what power costs—and what it protects.
Anjali Rajvanshi, Home Minister of Bharat and Aryan's mother, was already writing in the margins of a thick dossier. Her sari was simple, her hair tied back. Her face was calm, composed. When she spoke, her voice didn't seek attention—it commanded it. Her task was to shape the foundation of a nation's security from the broken bones of a colonial legacy.
Opposite her, Surya Rajvanshi, the Prime Minister, listened more than he spoke. Years of resistance had taught him that leadership often meant patience. His silence wasn't distance—it was depth.
Subhas Chandra Bose stood beside a chalkboard, coat off, sleeves rolled. The soldier in him was at work. His pointer tapped against the board filled with names and structure charts.
"I've reviewed everyone left from the colonial chain," he began. "Most are skilled. But skill alone won't do. We need leadership rooted here. Not imported, not inherited."
He tapped once on the board, where three names were written. One of them: General K.M. Cariappa.
"These are my recommendations for Chief of Defence Staff. All have led with distinction. None carry allegiance to the Crown. They understand our terrain, our languages, our people."
Aryan leaned forward slightly. "And their loyalty to the republic?"
"They've already proven it. Some, in blood."
Bose continued, "The CDS will report to the Cabinet Defence Committee and coordinate the three branches. But the final authority—constitutional and strategic—rests with the Samrat."
Aryan gave a slight nod. "Good. Though it rests with the Samrat not for control. But, for cohesion. The people must believe there's a single hand that steadies the sword."
Shakti looked down at her notes, then asked, "And the intelligence system, what about the existing network, left behind by the British?"
Anjali looked up. "Right now, it's fragmented. The British built it to suppress movements like ours. Not to safeguard a democracy. We need a single agency with internal and external branches—civilian-led, answerable to Parliament. No more silos. No more secret files moving in the dark."
Bose turned to the group. "I suggest, we build it from scratch. We could call it Rashtra Raksha Vibhag. Split it into Antarik Suraksha for internal matters and Videsh Jasoosi Seva for foreign intelligence. We'll need academies. And more importantly, a culture of discipline and purpose."
Surya added, his voice calm, "Hmm, Discipline without trust leads us back to chains. Intelligence reform is urgent, but internal security—policing—has to change first. Uniforms don't matter if mindsets don't."
He paused, then continued. "Community policing, accountability boards, and local language training. People must feel protected, not watched."
Aryan glanced at his mother. "And the khaki uniform? Does it stay?"
"For now," Anjali said. "The debate is ongoing. But change starts with how power is used, not just how it looks. No more fear behind every knock on the door."
They all paused. That fear was still recent in memory of the common people of Bharat, shadows from the colonial era. None of them had forgotten it.
Then came the harder part—weaponry.
Bose opened a folder. Inside were blueprints—rifles, tanks, naval vessels, aircraft. Each one drawn by Aryan, already being prototyped in state-run factories across the country. Pune. Dhanbad. Visakhapatnam. Cuttack. Nationalized shipyards. Expanded docks. Secure fuel depots.
"This arsenal," Bose said, "is far ahead of anything our neighbours or even some of the most advanced nations have. Samrat, you built the designs with utmost precision and ingenuity, and we've begun the work on manufacturing it. But now comes the real test. We need to drill, train, and live in these systems until they're second nature."
Aryan didn't speak. It wasn't modesty. He knew the weapons worked. But soldiers had to trust them—learn them—make them their own.
"We'll start with the 1st Mountain Division," Bose continued. "Give them the new gear. Drop them into the roughest terrain. Let them break it in."
Aryan asked, "And the Navy?"
"Ten new ships are under construction. Submarines and carriers too. But doctrine needs a rethink. Not just ships—we need strategy. Sea lanes, chokepoints, true blue-water capabilities."
Anjali added, "And coordination. Customs, Coast Guard, maritime intelligence. Security isn't fences. It's systems."
Shakti asked quietly, "What of the Special forces?"
Bose smiled slightly. "Already in the works. Cross-trained, mobile, multilingual. Answering only to the CDS, operating across borders and terrains. And sworn to the Constitution—not individuals."
Aryan looked at them all.
Four people. One table. A country still raw, trying to rise without forgetting the pain that shaped it. They weren't just building a military. They were forging a backbone—a structure of purpose and protection that would outlast them all.
Aryan listened, his gaze steady as each piece of the nation's new backbone was laid bare. The talk of borders, weapons, uniforms—all necessary. But he knew that steel alone wouldn't hold a country upright. A nation wasn't just lines on a map or men in uniform. It was people. Soil. Hunger. History.
He reached Into his satchel and pulled out a worn leather folder—edges creased, its contents marked by long nights and silent thought. He placed it on the table without ceremony and flipped it open. Inside were handwritten notes, draft laws, annotated maps of land ownership patterns, and printed statistics.
"I've been preparing this," Aryan said, his voice quiet but clear. "Land reforms."
The room stilled again.
"The Zamindari system will have to go," he continued. "Not with fire. Not overnight. But in stages—planned, protected, and irreversible."
Shakti leaned forward, her brow furrowed. Anjali nodded once, eyes already scanning the pages across the table. Surya didn't speak, but his hand closed slowly into a fist, resting on the arm of his chair. He knew what this meant.
"Land is power," Aryan said. "And for too long, it has belonged to too few. We can't call ourselves free if millions remain tied to the soil like bonded shadows. Every village that tilled for a lord, every family that paid rent to a name they never saw—that must end."
Bose crossed his arms. "You expect pushback."
"I'm counting on it," Aryan said. "And that's why it must be gradual. The police and local administrative networks must be ready. Not to silence dissent—but to protect those who choose to follow the law, not those who threaten it."
He turned a page. "Phase One will be tenant protection. Legal caps on rent. Binding agreements. Redistribution comes next, where holdings above a certain threshold will be acquired, compensated fairly, and given to those who work the land."
"No revolution?" Anjali asked.
"No revolution," Aryan replied. "Revolutions rot if they move faster than people's understanding. We build this change like a dam—layer by layer, till the pressure can flow through channels, not explode through chaos."
Surya spoke at last. "And caste system? You know that the land ownership and other similar practices related to it are deeply rooted with it, right?"
Aryan didn't flinch. "Yes. Every policy here is caste-blind. Caste, creed and all the other practices that seek to divide the people, will have no meanings in the new Bharat. Opportunity must not wear a surname. That's non-negotiable."
The silence that followed wasn't one of doubt, but of shared weight. They all knew what it meant to challenge power where it had lived for centuries. But they also knew why it had to be done.
"We'll need allies on the ground," Shakti said softly, she had a proud smile on her face momentarily, which she quickly masked with more serious expressions. "Educators. Reformers. Gram panchayats that can be trusted. This has to be explained, not just enforced."
Aryan nodded. "I've already made contact with a few. Quietly. The groundwork is being laid. But once it begins, it doesn't stop."
He looked at each of them.
"This is the root," he said. "The rest—our weapons, our borders, our industries—they'll all fall if the root is rotten. We're not just defending Bharat. We're replanting it."
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