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- Ujjain, Bharat -
- October 15, 1937 -
The sun filtered softly through the tall, arched windows of the newly built Prime Minister's Office in Ujjain—a structure both grand and grounded, much like the man who worked within its walls. The faint sound of birdsong drifted in from the sprawling gardens outside, where trees still carried the scent of fresh earth and monsoon rain.
Inside, the atmosphere was brisk. The scent of strong chai mingled with old wood and fresh parchment. Cabinets were still being stocked, files being labelled, rooms being claimed. But today, for the first time, the office didn't feel like a construction site. It felt like a seat of power.
At the heart of it all, Surya Rajvanshi, interim Prime Minister of Bharat, sat behind his wide teakwood desk—papers spread out before him, spectacles perched on his nose. His hair had greyed at the temples over the past few months, and deep lines had begun carving themselves along his forehead—not out of weakness, but from carrying the weight of a nation's rebirth.
Across from him, seated with calm grace and sharp eyes, was Anjali Rajvanshi, his wife and the current Home Minister of Bharat. She looked elegant in her crisp, pale blue saree, a pen resting between her fingers, the tip tapping lightly on the folder in her lap. Always thinking.
To their side stood External Affairs Minister Mr. Advait Menon, flipping through a freshly delivered diplomatic communiqué—bearing the seal of the United States Embassy.
"The Americans have officially confirmed it," he said, voice steady. "They're appointing their first Ambassador to Bharat. High-ranking. Not a career diplomat—someone directly recommended by the Senate."
Surya set his pen down, his expression unreadable for a long moment. Then, he leaned back, folding his arms.
"Well," he said quietly, "it was bound to happen."
Anjali looked up from the file. "Alongside the Japanese and the French, no less. That makes three major powers taking us seriously."
"And more will follow," added Menon. "There's already murmurs from Italy and even USSR. They're watching us. Watching Aryan."
The name hung gently in the air between them, like the sun outside—never absent, always present.
Surya gave a soft chuckle. "My son builds a fuel source, lights up half the country, and now the world wants to talk." His tone was proud, but cautious. "Still… this isn't just recognition. It's strategy."
Anjali nodded. "Especially America. Let's not forget their… relationship with the British. They supported them diplomatically till the very end."
There was a flicker of silence.
Even now, barely a year after their hard-won independence, the scars left by the British rule hadn't faded. The humiliation, the hunger, the violence—it still clung to the air, just beneath the surface of smiles and speeches.
Surya rubbed his forehead. "We're standing at a crossroad. One path leads to alliances, trade, diplomacy… the other to dependence, hidden pressures, maybe even manipulation."
Menon exhaled, folding the document shut. "But we can't isolate ourselves either. Not in this world. Aryan's vision is global. The world is changing too fast, and Bharat has already become central to the shift."
Anjali leaned forward, placing her file on the table. "Which is why we need to set the tone now. Every foreign embassy, every diplomat—they should know we welcome friendship, not influence. We decide our direction. We're not a pawn anymore."
Surya smiled faintly. "That's exactly what Aryan told me when we first began this journey. 'We must never confuse recognition with validation, nor friendship with obedience.' He was sixteen then. I didn't understand it fully at the time… but I do now."
They sat quietly for a moment, the hum of distant construction outside reminding them that the capital—like the country—was still being built, brick by brick, dream by dream.
Most of the key administrative units had already shifted from Delhi. Ministries were operating from temporary offices around Ujjain. The Judiciary, Legislative Halls, and Central Secretariat buildings were expected to be fully operational by June or July next year. The city was changing—alive, blooming like a newly watered tree.
"This embassy upgrade," Menon said, returning to the file, "could also open trade doors. More imports and exports, better shipping links, scientific cooperation. But there will be strings. There always are."
Surya looked thoughtful. "Then we must sharpen our scissors."
Anjali raised an eyebrow. "And make sure we don't cut our own fingers in the process."
A warm laugh escaped Surya at that, the first genuine one in hours. "That's why you're the Home Minister. Keeping everyone grounded."
He stood, walking to the window that overlooked the green belt stretching beyond the ministry buildings. The skyline of Ujjain was changing. Not just with towers and offices, but ideas. Ideals.
"I think it's time we talk to Aryan," he said softly. "He'll know how to navigate this. Better than any of us."
"He's been meeting with agricultural scientists and the Mantra-Vigyan department since yesterday," Anjali said. "But I'll ask Hari to check when he's free."
Menon added, "We should also include the Finance and Defence teams. These changes won't just affect diplomacy. They'll ripple through security and economy too."
Surya gave a small nod.
"Let them all come. But first, I want to speak with my son. As a Prime Minister… and as a father."
He turned back to his desk, the sunlight catching the silver streaks in his hair.
"We've survived colonisation, endured bloodshed, and fought for our right to dream. Now we must learn how to grow those dreams without letting anyone steal the roots."
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Outside, in the courtyard, Hari the new butler of Rajvanshi family, and Raghav's younger brother stood ready with a notepad in hand. He bowed lightly as Anjali stepped out of the office. After Raghav was appointed as the CEO of Rajvanshi Group by Aryan, he swiftly gave recommendations for his younger brother by quite a few years for the position of Rajvanshi family's head butler as he didn't want the family he took care of for so many years to face any problems because of the vacant position and who better than his own younger brother for the role, who had served the family for many years, as according to Raghav's judgement his loyalty and capabilities were unquestionable.
"Hari ji," she said gently, "when Aryan is free, let him know Surya and I wish to speak with him. It's important."
He nodded, eyes shining with pride. "As you command, Home Ministter sahiba. I'll find him right away."
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- Bombay Port, Bharat -
- October 17, 1937 -
The salty wind of the Arabian Sea brushed against Howard Stark's face as he stepped off the grand ship onto the bustling docks of Bombay Port. He adjusted his sleek grey overcoat, a small smile tugging at his lips as he glanced around. The last time he'd seen Bharat, it had been through the lens of his military days—dusty roads, rigid colonial control, and a sense of heaviness in the air.
But this… this was different.
The port was alive. Not just busy—efficient. Cranes hummed as they moved crates onto automated trolleys. Uniformed workers moved briskly with purpose, some guided by small handheld devices that displayed flashing symbols. The old chaotic charm of Bombay was still there—but beneath it was a hum of quiet order.
Howard chuckled under his breath. "Well, I'll be damned. Looks like Aryan wasn't just throwing fancy speeches around."
A young Indian assistant, one of his hired men who had arrived earlier to prepare for Stark Industries' exploratory entry into the Bharatiya market, greeted him with a respectful nod.
"Mr. Stark, welcome to Bharat. I trust your journey was smooth?"
"Smooth enough," Howard said, glancing up at the clear sky. "But this? This is smoother than I expected. You've got clean platforms, working transport, and is that—automated sorting at the dockyard?"
"Yes, sir," the assistant smiled. "Some of it is run by modified British-era tech, but the rest—new innovations developed here. Much of it under the new initiative from the Mantra-Vigyan division. And of course, powered by Prāṇa Fuel."
Howard raised an eyebrow. "The stuff I've been reading about in the reports? Clean, renewable, and supposedly self-replenishing?"
"Exactly. You'll see more of it on the way to Ujjain."
He nodded, intrigued. "Lead the way."
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The drive through the city to the Victoria Terminus Railway Station (now simply called Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Terminus) gave Howard time to absorb the changes. Posters lined the roads—not of British monarchs or colonial governors, but of engineers, inventors, and public awareness campaigns.
Public buildings were lit with a soft, pale-blue glow—prāṇa-powered lamps, he was told. It didn't hum like electric bulbs back in New York. The light felt… gentler.
Children in school uniforms carried small tablets—rugged, rune-inscribed devices that looked like a hybrid of early computers and magic slates.
"Wait, are those kids holding working devices?" Howard asked, peering out the window.
"Yes, sir. It's part of the national digitisation mission—every student is given one. Limited access, mostly educational, but still miles ahead of what even Japan or the US has deployed."
Howard let out a low whistle. "And here I thought we were ahead of the curve."
When they reached the station, he barely recognized it. It still had the grand Gothic façade, but inside, it was transformed—clean platforms, information boards that blinked in both English and Hindi, quiet announcements, and trains that looked like something out of a science fiction magazine. Sleek, rune-etched engines that gleamed like silver serpents.
"This is the Ujjain Express," his aide gestured. "Runs directly to the new capital. Powered entirely by Prāṇa Fuel—no smoke, no coal. Silent and smooth."
As the train slid into motion, Howard leaned back in his seat, letting out a content sigh. There was a soft blue glow lining the windows, a calming pulse, and the cabin was nearly noiseless—no loud clanks or screeches. It felt like gliding through a dream.
The landscap' outside shifted slowly. Villages and fields rolled by, but even in rural areas, he saw signs of transformation—lamp posts with embedded glowing crystals, electric water pumps in farms, and windmills marked with intricate designs that matched the patterns he'd read about in the reports, back home about the new innovations in Bharat.
What struck Howard most, though, were the people. They walked taller. Smiled more. Not out of naivety—but with a sense of quiet pride. This wasn't a people just freed from colonisers. This was a people building something.
He noticed roadside stalls with basic digital registers, automatic ticketing counters at small stations, and a level of integration of magic-tech and engineering that felt seamless, not experimental. It wasn't flashy like his work back in the U.S.—it was functional.
And somehow, that made it all the more impressive.
By the time the train began nearing Ujjain, dusk was settling across the land. Howard stood by the window, hands in his pockets, staring out at the glowing skyline of Bharat's new capital.
From a distance, the city looked ancient and futuristic at once—wide roads lit by blue flames, stone buildings with shining metal domes, and towers shaped like lotus petals rising into the sky.
"You've really gone and done it, Aryan," he murmured with a grin. "And here I thought I was the genius."
As the train eased into the newly constructed Ujjain Central Terminal, he stepped off, suitcase in hand. A man in a crisp black suit and green sash was already waiting for him.
"Mr. Stark, welcome to Ujjain," the man greeted warmly. "Samrat Aryan has arranged your stay at Kamal Aasthaan Palace. You'll meet him in the morning."
Howard grinned, shaking the offered hand. "Can't wait. I have a feeling we've got a lot to catch up on."
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