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- Parliament House, Delhi -
- November 24, 1936 -
The sun hung low over Delhi, its golden hue softening the stark lines of the Parliament House. Built by the British to project authority, it now stood as a borrowed shell—its stone pillars echoing the voices of those long gone. Today, it carried a different weight. No longer a symbol of foreign rule, it was to serve as a transition point—a place that would briefly shelter the future, until Ujjain was ready to cradle it.
Aryan stood at the entrance for a moment, still. The guards saluted, but he did not respond with grandeur. His gaze moved over the circular structure—designed to mimic Roman forums, foreign in form but now claimed by the soil it stood upon. It would not be torn down. Not yet. History, even bitter, had to be remembered.
Inside, the grand central chamber had been rearranged. The colonial insignias were gone. The lion of Ashoka now stood where the British crown once loomed. The mood was not celebratory. It was solemn, focused. This was not a coronation. It was a beginning.
The assembly had gathered.
Dr. B. R. Ambedkar sat at the center of the semicircular arrangement, wearing a plain dark coat, glasses low on his nose, papers neatly arranged before him. He was not a man for theatrics. He didn't need them. His mind spoke louder than flags or podiums. Next to him sat Aryan, quiet and attentive, more a listener than a ruler today. His clothes, though tailored, bore no golden stitch. His presence was power enough.
On one side sat Surya Rajvanshi, steady in his role as temporary Prime Minister. He looked proud, but tempered by the weight of the task ahead. Next to him, Anjali Rajvanshi, calm and sharp-eyed, sat as the temporary Home Minister. Her hands were folded in her lap, her focus unwavering. They sat not as royalty, but as servants of the republic they had yet to define.
Across the chamber, Sardar Vallabhbhai Patel sat in quiet contrast. His position as leader of the Congress bloc gave him the voice of dissent, and he wore it with dignity. His personal disagreements with Aryan had faded over the past few months. Aryan had answered every concern with clarity and action, earning Patel's respect. Still, as the head of the opposition, Patel held a duty to those who questioned Aryan's methods. He had come to appreciate some of them—but appreciation was not the point. The role required resistance when necessary, and he intended to fulfill that responsibility, should the time call for it.
There were others. Familiar names. Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, Maulana Azad, Jawaharlal Nehru, Rajaji, Subhas Chandra Bose, and a stream of scholars, jurists, writers, and economists. Some were old revolutionaries with scars on their wrists. Some were young thinkers, idealistic and unafraid. The hall was full of minds that had once only dreamt of this moment.
Ambedkar rose without fanfare. The room fell silent.
"Today, we begin the work that will define this land—not through conquest or decree, but through thought. Through law. Through the will of the people."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle.
"We are gathered not to carve power among ourselves, but to build a foundation no empire can shake. The constitution we draft must serve all—not just the powerful, not just the learned, but every child, every woman, every soul born under this sky."
His voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. Every word landed like a chisel to stone.
Aryan nodded once, but said nothing. He wasn't here to shape the words. He was here to ensure the silence between them carried the weight it needed.
Discussions followed. Not arguments—yet. Frameworks were proposed. Rights debated. Structures envisioned. The idea of a secular state. Federalism versus centralisation. Protections for the marginalised. Language, law, liberty. Every topic, every clause sparked questions.
It was long. It was messy. It was real.
During a short break, Aryan walked the halls alone. He passed by rooms where once colonial officers had dictated the fate of millions. The walls still whispered of control—of fear wrapped in paperwork. But now, there were charts about village representation, notes on cooperative economies, drafts with Devanagari titles.
He stopped by a window and looked out. Delhi was old. Stubborn. But beneath the dust, something had shifted. The air was different. Not freer yet—but expectant.
He returned to the chamber just as Patel stood to speak, his voice strong yet measured.
"If we are to accept a Samrat in this modern world, let it be not of thrones, but of responsibility. Let him be bound by the same constitution as the poorest farmer. If Aryan accepts that, then I will call him Samrat."
Aryan looked up, met his gaze, and answered simply:
"I do."
Silence followed.
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The silence that followed Aryan's words was not heavy—it was thoughtful. Something had shifted in the room. Not resolved, not settled, but aligned just enough to keep moving forward.
More voices rose. The conversation turned to the role of the Samrat in this new Bharat—a constitutional monarchy by design, but one seeking to breathe through democratic lungs. Some raised concerns about symbols outlasting their purpose. Others spoke of anchoring ideals to something steady in a world still waking from centuries of command.
Aryan remained mostly quiet, offering clarity only when asked. He made no demands, only accepted responsibilities. It became clear—this Samrat would not rule from above, but serve from within. A guardian of the Constitution, not its master. A symbol of unity, not of power. The monarchy, such as it was, would be ceremonial in nature—rooted in heritage, bound by law, and answerable to the people.
There was no applause. Only nods. Some reluctant, some resolute. But the air felt clearer, the discussion more grounded.
Then the topic shifted.
Someone—perhaps Bose—raised the matter of the national flag. The room straightened. It was more than cloth, more than design. It was the face of the idea they were building. The emblem that flew over homes and prisons, on marches, on battlefields, in silence and song.
There was no real debate. The tricolour had flown too long, too defiantly, to be replaced.
Saffron. White. Green. And at the center—the Dharma Chakra. The wheel of timeless law and movement, drawn from Ashoka's stone, carried forward into modern ink.
It had flown above every rally where Aryan had appeared as Maheshvara. It had wrapped the fallen and raised the living. It had been torn, stitched, and carried again.
Unanimously, without a word against, it was declared the national flag of Bharat.
A formal decision, but one that had already lived in hearts long before it lived on paper.
As dusk gathered outside, the session neared its end. The framework for the Constitution had only begun to take shape. There were still countless questions to settle. Rights to define. Duties to assign. Systems to build.
But they had started.
The chamber was quiet again as Ambedkar stood.
"This is the first of many such sessions. We will not rush what must outlast us."
No objections. Just tired nods and thoughtful faces.
Aryan lingered a moment as the others rose. The hall, once foreign, now carried voices shaped by its own soil. It would take time—years maybe—to finish what they had started today. But the foundations had been poured.
And outside, above the dome, the tricolour fluttered softly in the evening wind.
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