________________________________________________________________________________
- Ujjain, Bharat -
- August 25, 1937 | Midday -
The sound of drums grew deeper, steadier—like a heartbeat rolling across the earth.
The first tableau entered the ceremonial boulevard, a grand platform draped in rich tapestries of indigo and gold. It moved slowly, pulled by silent, prāṇa-fueled engines that gave no noise but shimmered faintly with warmth. Onlookers leaned forward in anticipation.
"This," announced the voice from the speakers, calm and clear in Hindi, English, Japanese, and French, "is the beginning of the story. Bharat's story."
The announcer's tone was not theatrical, but reverent—each word chosen with care, so that even those unfamiliar with Bharat's history could follow and feel its weight.
The first scene showed the Indus Valley Civilization, with artisans crafting pottery, scholars using early scripts, and women drawing water from clay wells. A model of Mohenjo-daro's grid-like city layout moved alongside the actors. Children in the crowd pointed, marveling.
Then came Vedic Bharat—rishis beneath peepal trees, yajnas being performed, melodies of the Rigveda depicted through glowing runes and singing priests. The announcers explained, "These weren't just religious rituals—they were discoveries of math, language, medicine, and music. A civilization rooted in knowledge."
Next rolled in Mauryan grandeur—a majestic recreation of Ashoka's transformation. On one end of the platform, a warrior king stood in conquest; on the other, a monk-king spreading dharma. Above him, the wheel—the Ashoka Chakra—spun gently, reminding everyone of his journey from might to meaning.
The timeline flowed forward: Gupta brilliance, Chola naval prowess, Nalanda and Takshashila's scholarly glow, Bhakti and Sufi saints, the resistance of Rani Durgavati and Rana Pratap, and the vibrant, complex mingling of cultures across centuries. It wasn't a parade—it was a living textbook, an ode in motion.
Foreign guests watched, spellbound.
From the press zone, Ms. Nakamura whispered to her translator, "It's not nationalism. It's remembrance."
Michael from Chicago scribbled notes with furrowed brows. "They've turned history into poetry on wheels," he muttered. "And not a single moment of hate—only resolve."
Then came the final tableau of the historical section.
A single platform—simple, but powerful.
It showed a young man in a black dhoti, eyes glowing with calm fury, holding a conch in one hand and a staff in the other. Around him stood villagers, rebels, monks, women with sickles, children with slingshots.
The announcer spoke without flourish:
"And then came the time to rise. To throw off the yoke not with hate, but with fire and will. This was the War of Freedom. And at its heart—stood Maheshvara."
There was a murmur among the crowd.
Aryan, known by that name in battle, stood still on the dais, watching his own image go by. His hand gripped the edge of the railing, not in pride, but in quiet memory.
On the tableau, the British redcoats fled, pushed back by a wave of golden energy rising from the people. From every corner of Bharat, figures emerged—Subhash Bose, Bhagat Singh, Rani Lakshmi Bai, Sardar Patel, Sarojini Naidu—all recreated with careful detail. But they all looked not at Maheshvara, but at each other. A reminder that victory had come from unity.
And then, as the crowd broke into thunderous claps, a new procession began.
The States of Bharat.
Each tableau was crafted to represent the spirit, culture, and beauty of the thirty newly recognized states—not as political divisions, but as living strands in the great weave of Bharat.
First came Jammu & Kashmir—apple orchards, Sufi singers, paper mâché artisans, and saffron farmers. Then Ladakh—mountain monks, snow leopards, and highland dancers under prayer flags.
Himachal Pradesh brought temple festivals and pine forests. Punjab thundered in with bhangra beats, golden wheat, and a majestic depiction of the Harmandir Sahib. Not just Indian Punjab—but the whole of Punjab, whole and unbroken.
Then came Devbhoomi Uttaranchal—sacred rivers, towering peaks, and sages meditating in the wild. Haryana followed with wrestling akharas, milk fairs, and vibrant folk songs.
The crowd roared as the tableau for Gandhar Pradesh rolled in—men and women dressed as ancient Pashtun warriors and modern farmers. The speakers explained, "This land once birthed Gandhara art and shared trade with Rome. Today, it stands united as part of Bharat again."
Balochistan and Sindh came next—one with the colors of desert festivals and tribal dances, the other with riverside temples and Sufi mystics.
Gujarat brought in salt marches and garba circles; Rajasthan, a cavalcade of camels, mirrored turbans, and golden forts.
Madhyapradesh arrived with tribal communities and ancient stupa replicas. Then came Magadh—home of Ashoka and Mahavira—its tableau rich with stone carvings, monks, and scholars.
The audience gasped as Bengal appeared, cloaked in red-bordered sarees, dhak drummers, and Tagore verses woven into banners. On its rear, the Sundarbans tiger stood tall, unbothered and bold.
Then came the northeast—each one a vivid festival.
Assam brought in bihu dancers and silken white-gold cloth. Manipur's tableau shone with martial arts and Manipuri Ras Lila. Mizoram—a landlocked state reborn with access to the sea—showed boat festivals on rivers now open again.
Meghalaya with living root bridges, Tripura with carved palaces, Nagaland with headhunter legends turned into art.
(The North Eastern states like Manipur, Mizoram, Tripura, Meghalaya, etc have additional areas of real life Bangladesh and Burma)
Then came Arunachal Pradesh (+ parts of Northern Burma)—snowy ridges and tribal lore. Behind it, Burma(only Southern part exists as a separate state), lush and lively with pagodas, rice terraces, and unity in transition.
The crowd stood to cheer.
And still they came—
Maharashtra, Odisha, Chhattisgarh—their cultural and tribal rhythms, freedom tales, and sacred rivers on full display.
Then Telangana and Andhra Pradesh, whose shared rhythms danced side by side in delicate contrast. Karnataka, proud with its tech temples and Carnatic singers.
And at last—Tamil Nadu and Kerala.
Tamil Nadu with ancient Sangam scholars, temple towers rising like mountains, and poets chanting in bold rhythm.
Kerala's tableau glided in like a dream—kathakali masks, boat races, coconut groves, and a soft rain of jasmine.
The entire Mandala plaza felt suspended in a dream of time—past, present, and future stitched together in harmony.
As the final tableau crossed the square, it carried a simple message etched in four scripts—Devanagari, Tamil, Bangla, and Urdu:
"Thirty threads. One soul. Bharat."
The crowd rose. No instruction needed.
Foreign guests, too, stood without prompting. Many wiped their eyes. Not because of loyalty—but because they had seen something rare.
_________
The air grew still for a moment—like the earth itself paused to draw a breath.
The last of the cultural tableaux rolled away, their colors and music leaving behind a warmth in every heart. But now, something else was coming. Something silent, strong, and resolute.
A distant beat began—steady, rhythmic, like iron footsteps on granite. The crowd turned as the military parade began, its tempo rising like the slow unfurling of thunderclouds.
From the far end of the ceremonial road, the Tri-Services Guard of Honour appeared, marching in perfect formation. At their front strode the finest men and women of the Army, Navy, and Air Force, wearing uniforms that shimmered subtly under the sun—woven with newly designed composite fabric resistant to fire, water, and bullets. Their helmets were lighter, their boots soundless, and their posture unshakable.
The announcers spoke again—soft, respectful.
"These are the sentinels of Bharat, rearmed and reborn through knowledge and vision. The gear they wear—crafted with precision, designed for endurance—was developed under the personal guidance of Maheshvara himself. Not for conquest… but for defence, justice, and peace."
Behind the ceremonial guard came rows of specialized units.
Mountain regiments in snow-camouflaged gear, with foldable skis and climbing tech tucked into their kits. Desert commandos with tan armour and sun-resistant cloaks. Naval marines in wet-tech suits, their rebreathers glowing blue. Paratroopers, sleek and agile, marched with their automatic rifles angled just right—ready, but calm.
Then came the Special Operations Forces—each step silent yet purposeful. Their faces covered, their armour matte black. Advanced weaponery, mini-turrets, and gear packs shifted gently on their backs as they moved. Every motion spoke of control—lethal, but disciplined.
Following them were the paramilitary forces—Border Guards, Railway Protection, Coastal Defence Corps—all distinct, all proud. Their uniforms bore state symbols on one shoulder, and the Tricolour over the heart.
Then came the machines.
With a hum of power, tanks rolled in, their bodies forged in Bharat's own factories. Their design—low profile, turreted with precise engineering—was decades ahead of what the world had seen, yet they bore the grace of restraint. Camouflage paint glinted only slightly, broken by sacred geometric symbols for protection and strength.
Field artillery followed—mobile, light to transport, yet devastatingly effective. Modified howitzers, multi-barrel rocket launchers, mortars—all indigenously developed under Aryan's secret labs that pushed World War technology into a new frontier.
Children cheered as armoured personnel carriers drove past, their flags fluttering proudly. Elder citizens saluted. Veterans stood straighter.
Next came the unexpected.
From behind the military columns, a soft golden mist emerged—not from machines, but from people.
A group of around thirty individuals marched forward, each clad in cloaks of subdued colours—no name tags, no faces shown. Their heads held high, movements fluid and controlled. They were the superhuman division—Bharat's greatest secret and newest shield.
They did not wave. They demonstrated.
One by one, as they passed the main stage, each released a glimpse of their power—not in grandeur, but in grace.
One raised a palm, and from it a stream of water curved in the air like a ribbon, crystallizing into a flower before shattering into mist.
Another's footstep cracked the road, revealing vines that bloomed instantly and then dissolved.
A woman spun gently—and her cloak lit up with sparks of golden light, forming protective shields in mid-air before fading again.
One bowed—and for a moment, his shadow split into three separate forms before merging again.
They moved on—unrecognizable, anonymous protectors.
Foreign guests whispered in awe. Cameras clicked, but none could identify their faces. That was the point. These were not weapons. They were guardians, hidden so Bharat could sleep peacefully.
And then, the sky roared.
All eyes lifted.
From the eastern horizon, a formation of fighter jets burst forth in a sharp V-formation—sleek, fast, and undeniably homegrown.
Designed from Aryan's blueprints that married World War II jet propulsion with next-gen controls, these aircraft cut through the sky like blades. Their wings shimmered with an alloy only Bharat had mastered.
The announcer's voice quivered slightly—not with fear, but with pride.
"These are the Garud-class fighters—designed, built, and piloted by Bharatiya hands. With speed and agility unseen before… they are not just machines of war, but wings of sovereignty."
One by one, they climbed, dove, twisted in tight formations. Then, the lead pilot released a smoke trail—saffron.
The second—white.
The third—green.
And just behind, the final fighter drew a perfect navy-blue Ashoka Chakra in the sky.
The crowd gasped, many with hands over their hearts.
As the jets disappeared into the distance and the sound faded into a silence so profound it hummed, Aryan closed his eyes on the stage. Not to shut out the world, but to feel it more deeply.
He didn't smile. Not yet. This was not the end.
This was only the unveiling.
And behind him, on the stage, a boy saluted with trembling fingers. A soldier's child. A citizen of a new Bharat.
________________________________________________________________________________
Thanks for reading 🙏 🙏.
If you are liking this story so far please support this novel through the power stones and let me know your thoughts in the comments and please review the book with ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ if you deem it worthwhile.