Ch.104: Foundations for the Future

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- Bombay, Bharat -

- March 17, 1938 -

The air in Bombay carried a strange kind of energy that morning—hopeful, grounded, and quietly electric. The winter breeze was just beginning to give way to the gentler warmth of early spring. Along the wide, tree-lined avenue near the sea, hundreds of school children stood with flowers in their hands and excitement lighting up their faces.

The new Maharshi Bharadwaj Vidyalaya, sprawled across fifteen lush acres in the heart of the city, looked nothing like the colonial-era schools scattered across the rest of the world. Built with sandstone and gleaming domes, open-air corridors lined with flowering plants, and amphitheatre-style learning spaces, the campus felt alive. Not rigid or boxed in, but flowing—like it belonged to the land and the people.

And today, the man who had envisioned it all had come.

Aryan stood beneath a shaded canopy near the main gate, dressed simply in a cream-colored kurta with a navy blue angavastram draped over his shoulder. There was no crown on his head, no guard of honor marching through the ground. Yet everyone knew—he was the Samrat. And he was their Samrat.

Beside him stood Principal Kamble, a wiry, bright-eyed educator who had once taught in a rundown British-built school in Pune. Now, he was smiling wide, pride written all over his face as Aryan stepped forward to cut the ribbon.

A gentle hush fell over the crowd. Then—snip. The crimson ribbon fluttered to the ground. The school had officially opened its gates.

There was soft applause, but what followed was even better. Children didn't just clap—they beamed. Some even whooped. Laughter rose like music in the open air.

Aryan smiled.

He'd cut a thousand ribbons before. Inaugurated dozens of sites across the country—power plants, labs, hospitals. But this… this was different. This was where Bharat's future would learn to dream.

He was led Into the assembly courtyard where hundreds of students—some local, some from nearby villages—had gathered. They wore simple uniforms, not imported or stitched with western cuts, but woven from khadi and dyed in soft hues of green and maroon. Comfortable, clean, and rooted.

A little boy stepped forward from the front row. "Samrat ji," he said, voice trembling a little, "thank you for building this school."

Aryan walked to him, bent to his level, and ruffled his hair. "No, kid. You are building it. With every lesson you learn, every question you ask, every idea you dare to dream."

The crowd was quiet again—but not in fear. In reverence.

Then Aryan stood and turned to address them all.

"Today is not just the opening of a school. It is the opening of a new path—one that will lead this nation toward a different future. For too long, we were made to learn from books that did not understand us, languages that did not belong to us, systems that sought to quiet our minds instead of waking them."

He paused, his voice soft but firm.

"But from this April, with the beginning of the new session, Bharat will learn to dream in its own voice again."

Cheers erupted. Teachers, villagers, parents—even the staff and cooks who had stood quietly near the back—clapped with teary eyes.

________

Later, Aryan toured the classrooms. Each block had been designed with intent—natural ventilation, circular seating arrangements, multi-use blackboards, even meditation spaces. The science labs looked like something out of the future, but grounded in accessibility. The library housed manuscripts from ancient Bharat alongside translated works from Japan, America, France, and Germany.

But what filled Aryan's heart most was the Kalaripayattu training ground—a circular mud arena shaded by neem and banyan trees, where students practiced with discipline and grace. Near it were music halls, art studios, and even a maker-space with early prototypes of local inventions.

Education here wasn't just about textbooks. It was about transformation.

Each student would be taught not only math and science, but how to question, how to lead, how to create. They would choose clubs—debate, theatre, agriculture, astronomy, robotics, yoga. Sports and martial arts were compulsory, but not enforced like punishment. Instead, students picked what spoke to them: hockey, kabaddi, chess, or the ancient warrior form of Bharat itself.

And classes were being taught in Marathi here in Bombay, just as they would be in Bengali in Calcutta, Tamil in Madras, and Bhojpuri in Patna.

Aryan had made that part clear. Bharat must first learn to speak to itself.

The question of a common language, however, still hung in the air. People whispered in worry. Would it be Hindi? Sanskrit? English? Something new?

Aryan hadn't given a straight answer.

Because he wasn't ready yet.

What he was working on—deep in his personal lab at Kamal Aasthaan—was something more than just a language. With Vaani, the voice of his meta-system, he was designing a workaround of the communication or information network on energy particles in the environment, to develop another sub-network or perhaps an entirely separate one—Universal translation field. Powered by his own All-speak trait, fused with magical runes, and modern scientific principles, the field would allow every person in Bharat—no matter how remote—to understand each other.

He wanted every village to hear every idea. Without a barrier of words.

And though the system was still in its infancy, today's schoolchildren would be the first generation to grow up in that dream.

________

By afternoon, the sun had mellowed, casting golden light on the new school walls. Aryan stood with Principal Kamble beneath a tree, quietly watching the children run across the sports field.

"Samrat ji," Kamble said, voice a little thick with emotion, "you've done something extraordinary. They'll never forget this day."

Aryan gave a faint smile. "Neither will I."

Kamble hesitated. "The newspapers will write about this, of course. But I wonder… ten years from now, when these children become engineers, poets, scientists—what will they say about this day?"

Aryan looked toward the sky, thoughtful. "They won't remember the ribbon, or the speech, or the man who cut it. But maybe… just maybe, they'll remember the feeling. That someone believed in them."

The bell rang softly In the background. Children raced off toward the new dining hall, their laughter ringing like temple bells in the wind.

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- Bombay, Bharat -

- April 20, 1938 -

Riya Deshpande stood barefoot in the warm red mud of the Kalaripayattu ground, sweat glistening on her forehead. She was only thirteen, but something about this ancient martial art made her feel older. Stronger. Every twist, every crouch, every slow, flowing motion seemed to open a door inside her—one she didn't know even existed.

She wasn't the strongest in her class. Nor the fastest. But when she moved, she felt alive. And that meant something.

After practice, she tied her braids back again and jogged barefoot across campus. The grass tickled her toes. Her satchel bounced against her side, filled not just with books—but journals, doodles, and folded pages of poems no one had read yet.

Her school wasn't like the one her older cousins had attended under British rule. There were no stiff benches or cane-wielding teachers. No "memorize and repeat" drills. Here, they asked questions. They debated. They painted. They built models. They danced during breaks. And no one—no one—mocked her when she gave a wrong answer.

The classrooms were circles. The teachers sat with them, not above them. The morning started not with roll calls, but with music and a story—sometimes a Panchatantra tale, sometimes something from Europe or Middle-East Asia. It was all new, and yet… it all felt right.

Riya had grown up in a middle-class home near Girgaon. Her baba was a postal worker; her aai taught part-time Marathi classes at a small community centre. They had dreams for her—good ones. But even they hadn't imagined a school like this would ever exist. Not for someone like her.

At lunch, Riya sat under the banyan tree with her friends: Amruta, who wanted to become a robotics engineer; Fareed, who was obsessed with astronomy and had already built a tiny telescope from scrap metal; and Jatin, who claimed he would someday represent Bharat in football at the Olympics.

"I want to become a scientist," Fareed said, crunching on his guava. "Not the boring type, though. The one who finds new elements. Or cures diseases. Maybe invents an invisible umbrella."

Riya laughed. "You'll need one in Bombay rain."

"And you?" Amruta asked, turning to her.

Riya hesitated.

A few months ago, she would have said, "I don't know."

Now?

"I want to tell stories," she said quietly. "Through words… or drawings… or plays. I want people to feel things when they read or watch something I've made."

Jatin raised an eyebrow. "Like a writer?"

Riya nodded. "Or a filmmaker. Or maybe both. I don't know exactly yet."

Amruta grinned. "Then don't choose. Just try everything."

And that was the best part of this new school.

They could.

________

That week, they attended their entrepreneurship class—something unheard of even in most cities, let alone a school. Riya listened, wide-eyed, as the teacher explained how small ideas could become businesses that helped people. They weren't teaching money-chasing. They were teaching purpose.

In ethics class, they studied ancient Bharatiya philosophies—Ahimsa, Dharma, Satya—and then debated real-world choices: "If you invent something that makes millions but pollutes the river, is it still a success?" Riya didn't have all the answers, but she loved asking the questions.

There were student clubs too—chosen by students, run by students. She had joined the Drama Circle, the Creative Writers Forum, and once, even sat in on the Agriculture Club, where a boy from Nashik showed them how to grow tomatoes on the school terrace using compost and coconut shells.

Her history class wasn't just about kings and dates. They read letters written by freedom fighters. They acted out court scenes from the Mauryan Empire. They discussed not just what happened, but why it mattered.

And best of all, every subject was taught in Marathi—her language. Her thoughts flowed smoother. Her doubts felt smaller. She could learn without translating herself.

That changed everything.

________

One afternoon, as Riya sat sketching in the art studio, her teacher came by and peered over her shoulder. She had drawn a series of panels—each one showing a girl growing older, facing challenges, failing, and then finally finding her voice on a stage.

"It's not perfect," Riya mumbled, embarrassed.

But the teacher smiled. "Perfection isn't the goal, Riya. Expression is. And this? This is honest."

That evening, she walked home with her satchel full of books, a head full of ideas, and a heart that felt light.

________

Her baba was reading the newspaper at the dinner table.

"They're saying the new education system is working," he muttered, almost surprised. "No private owners. No heavy fees. Central board control. And yet… people are learning."

Riya smiled as she served him more daal.

"They're not just learning, Baba," she said softly. "We're becoming something."

He looked at her—really looked at her—and nodded.

"I think you already are."

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