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- Ujjain, Bharat -
- August 25, 1937 -
Before the first rays of sunlight kissed the domes of Kamal Aasthaan, the city of Ujjain had already awakened—like a heart beating in anticipation.
Roofs across the city, from the centuries-old courtyards of the old town to the freshly painted terraces of the new residential quarters, bore the Tricolour—saffron, white, and green fluttering with pride and purpose. The flags danced in rhythm with the early morning breeze, their Ashoka Chakras spinning like the wheel of time, finally set in motion by free hands.
Sweet shops had opened before dawn, their brass pans bubbling with fresh jalebis, laddoos, and syrup-soaked gulab jamuns. The air was thick with the scent of ghee, sandalwood incense, and marigold. Street vendors offered steaming cups of chai to passersby, many of whom had already begun their walk toward the heart of the city.
In the older districts, where temple bells rang in harmony with azaan from nearby minarets, families gathered in front of their homes, helping children tie tricolor ribbons in their hair or pin paper flags to their shirts. The streets were swept clean, rangolis adorned doorsteps, and every window displayed tiny hand-drawn signs—Jai Bharat, Vande Mataram, Ek Saal Azadi Ke Naam.
In the newer sectors—where roads were still being laid and buildings rose like dreams halfway built—the mood was no different. Here, too, people had hung flags, painted bricks with patriotic motifs, and even decorated scaffolding with fresh flowers and fabric. Though many lived in temporary dwellings, their celebration was no less vibrant.
By mid-morning, the broad avenues of the administrative zone had become rivers of humanity. Designed in the sacred Mandala pattern, the zone mimicking the overall design of the Capital city, spread out like a divine wheel, its spokes leading to key institutions—Parliament, the Supreme Court, the National Archives, and the upcoming Hall of Sciences. All of them gleamed in the sun, their exteriors nearly complete, dressed in cloth banners and guarded by honor guards.
But all eyes, and all roads, led to Central Park—a vast open space at the exact center of the Mandala, bordered by banyan groves and manicured gardens. At its heart stood the massive, circular plinth that would one day cradle a hundred-meter statue of Bharat Mata. For now, the platform itself stood tall—an altar of national spirit.
From Kamal Aasthaan, a wide ceremonial boulevard stretched toward Central Park—lined with flowering trees, solar lamp posts, and lanes clearly marked for pedestrians, cyclists, buses, and cars alike. It was along this road that the Parade of Bharat would soon take place.
But first—the flag.
__________
Behind the grand platform, beneath the canopy of the morning sky, foreign dignitaries were already in place.
The Japanese delegation sat composed, their silken garments catching the light. Beside them, the royal families of Nepal, Bhutan, Sikkim, and the Tibetan monks in crimson robes watched quietly, their eyes scanning the crowds, the architecture, the soul of the place.
Samrat Aryan had met each of them earlier that morning, offering personal greetings with a measured smile and folded hands. Flanked by his parents—Surya, the Prime Minister, and Anjali, the Home Minister—and Shakti, radiant and poised as the future Samrajni, the Imperial family had struck a perfect balance of warmth and dignity.
"You've certainly built something extraordinary, Samrat," murmured the Queen Mother of Bhutan as she was led to her seat.
Aryan had smiled gently. "It was always there, Rani Maa. We only had to remember who we were."
Now, as the final moment approached, Aryan stood at the base of the flagpole, dressed in an ensemble of deep indigo and silver—a fusion of royal tradition and military sharpness. A ceremonial belt of gold-threaded silk wrapped around his waist, and a cloak bearing the symbol of the Ashoka Chakra rested upon his shoulders.
Shakti stood beside him in a saree that shimmered like moonlight, her expression fierce yet serene. Behind them, rows of children in colorful traditional attire stood poised with instruments—flutes, veenas, tablas, and violins—ready to begin the anthem.
The orchestra conductor, a white-haired maestro from Banaras, raised his hand.
The air stilled.
And then—
"Jana Gana Mana…"
The anthem rose—not as a song, but as a spirit. The harmonies carried through the crowd, through the capital, through the soil itself. Mothers closed their eyes and wept softly. Elders stood tall, saluting. Soldiers held their breath, hands to hearts.
As the chorus swelled, Aryan grasped the cord and pulled.
The Tricolour rose slowly—majestic, unhurried—until it caught the wind and unfurled completely. The chakra spun proudly at its heart.
Aryan stepped back and saluted.
For a long moment, he stood still—eyes lifted toward the flag, his lips a silent prayer.
Then he turned toward the podium.
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His voice was steady, but warm. No booming theatrics. Just a young man—son, brother, soldier, ruler—speaking to his people.
"Brothers and sisters of Bharat…
One year ago, we walked into the unknown together. We had no map. No guarantees. Only the will to be free."
He paused, letting the wind carry his words across the square.
"This flag behind me is not just cloth and color. It is soil turned to strength. Tears turned to steel. And dreams turned to duty."
He gestured toward the crowd—at the workers, farmers, teachers, healers, soldiers, and scholars standing shoulder to shoulder.
"You built this.
Not me. Not any one leader. You.
And if we can do this in one year—then imagine what we can build in ten."
Applause erupted. People raised their flags higher. Children shouted Bharat Mata ki Jai with uncontainable joy.
Aryan continued.
"The world watches us. Some with doubt, others with hope. Let them.
We don't need to prove we are strong.
We only need to keep building a nation that is kind, wise, and just.
A Bharat where no one is left behind."
He ended simply. No grand finale.
"Today is not a destination. It is only the first milestone.
Now, let us march onward—together."
_________
As the national anthem's final notes faded into the morning sky, the crowd began to shift—slowly, like a great tide—toward the heart of Central Park.
The broad crossing that ran through the center had been transformed into a grand viewing promenade. Temporary tiered platforms lined either side of the ceremonial boulevard, equipped with canopies for shade, drinking water dispensers, and volunteers guiding citizens to their seats with folded hands and warm smiles.
Here, people from all walks of life—farmers in dhotis, students in uniforms, monks in saffron, engineers in crisp khadis—sat side by side with nobles, delegates, and officers. Flags fluttered from wooden poles, hand-held fans waved lazily, and the low buzz of conversation floated above the sea of humanity, all waiting for the parade to begin.
Amidst the thousands, one group stood out—the journalists.
Clustered in a designated press zone near the front rows, they were a mixed bunch:
Some were from Delhi, Bombay, and Calcutta—wearing press badges in Hindi and English, scribbling into leather-bound notepads or adjusting their bulky handheld cameras.
Others had traveled across continents: men and women from Japan, the United States, and a handful of neutral or friendly European nations.
Each one of them had their mouths slightly open, heads swiveling as they took in their surroundings—and tried to make sense of it all.
"You're telling me this city is just a year into construction?" asked Michael Armstrong, a reporter from the Chicago Tribune, adjusting his round spectacles. His voice carried equal parts disbelief and curiosity.
"Yes," answered Arun, a young reporter from Bharat's Nav Bharat Patrika. "Most of what you see—roads, systems, the buildings in this Mandala zone—was built over the last ten months."
Michael gave a low whistle. "In the States, we can't get a permit that fast, let alone an entire highway system."
Nearby, Ms. Nakamura from Nihon Shinbun tapped a small audio recorder as she whispered in Japanese to her translator. Her eyes were fixed on the unique pavement of the road beneath her feet—each segment carefully fitted, designed for drainage and heat resistance, and ornamented with faint, almost invisible etchings of ancient geometric patterns.
She bent down and touched the material.
"Not asphalt?" she asked.
"No," said Arun again, smiling. "It's a new kind of compound. Durable, locally sourced, infused with what they call graamik suraksha varnish—a sort of natural sealant."
Michael raised a brow. "You guys invented this?"
Arun shrugged. "Necessity makes good teachers."
But that wasn't all.
The buzzing hum of passing vehicles caught their attention. Sleek, noiseless buses glided down the reserved lanes. Small cars shaped like river pebbles zipped past silently. Even delivery carts and waste collection vans looked unlike anything the foreigners had seen before—each one labeled with the mark of "Prāṇa Fuel".
A young French journalist, notebook in hand, frowned and leaned toward a fellow reporter.
"Prah-nuh? Pran-a? What is this Prāṇa fuel?"
"Some kind of bio-electric energy," muttered someone. "I tried asking yesterday, got handed a whole chart with Sanskrit equations. Honestly, it's beyond me."
Another foreign journalist chimed in. "They're powering half the city with it. And it's not just electricity—it's running their trams, their streetlights, their water purifiers. All of it."
An older Japanese engineer traveling with the diplomatic entourage stood nearby and joined the conversation quietly.
"It's a spiritual approach to energy," he said. "They do not separate life and light. Energy, to them, is alive—like breath. Prāṇa. That's how they named it."
"Yeah, well, we are still figuring out how to keep the grid running in winter, with the soaring prices of the fossil fuels," Michael muttered, half to himself. "And here they are, building a capital from scratch with glowing trees and silent cars."
One of the foreign photographers, a woman from New York, was still shaking her head.
"And the airport. Don't get me started. I've seen JFK. I've seen Haneda. But the Ujjain terminal… it's like walking into the future wrapped in history. They had solar roof tiles shaped like lotus petals."
"And that arrivals board," laughed another, "in Devanagari and Tamil and Bengali and Sanskrit—and still somehow more efficient than Heathrow's."
Meanwhile, the topic of exclusion hung unspoken but heavy.
One junior journalist from Bharat whispered to his mentor, "Did you notice the UK delegation never arrived?"
The elder chuckled softly. "They weren't invited. Or rather, they weren't permitted."
"Still bitter?"
"No. Just… healing with dignity."
__________
A few meters away, Aryan stood on a shaded dais, watching the crowd, listening from a distance. He had placed the press section right there on purpose—not to dazzle, but to let the world witness truth with their own eyes.
Shakti walked up beside him, handing him a cool cloth. "They're all talking."
"I know."
"And wondering."
"Let them," Aryan said, his gaze far but firm. "This is what we were told we could never be. This—" he gestured at the city, the people, the harmony—"this is our answer."
From the distance, the drums began again—the rhythm of the parade.
The first tableau was approaching—the story of Ashoka's transformation from conqueror to dharmic king, recreated by artists and schoolchildren on a moving platform.
The journalists lifted their cameras.
The people leaned forward.
And the soil of Bharat, still young, still blooming, prepared to tell its tale—not as a nation catching up, but as a civilization remembering who it always was.
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