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- Surat, Gujarat -
- January 27, 1939 -
The winter sun over Surat was soft today, glinting off the fresh white walls of the Bharatiya Institute of Managent like a quiet promise. The main courtyard buzzed with the gentle hum of voices—students in crisp cotton kurtas, plain shirts, so with notebooks tucked under their arms, so with nothing but an old satchel and a head full of ideas.
BIM Surat hadn’t even seen a full year yet. Just six months ago, these sa walls were piles of bricks and steel rods under a bright blue tarpaulin, watched over by n and won who’d once broken stones for roads and laid railway tracks in Aryan’s new Bharat. Many of those sa hands now turned pages instead of soil—calloused fingers holding pens, learning numbers, plans, dreams.
Inside a wide, sunlit lecture hall, the final-year batch sat scattered across neat rows of teak desks. They weren’t all young. So faces wore thick-rimd spectacles perched on noses that had slled decades of sweat and dust. There were mothers with silver in their hair sitting beside fresh-faced twenty-year-olds who still stumbled over balance sheets. Nobody cared who was older or younger. Here, everyone was a student again.
Near the front, a man nad Ishwarbhai, easily in his late forties, scribbled notes furiously. Just five years ago, he’d pushed a wheelbarrow of bricks on the outskirts of Ahdabad, listening to Aryan’s fiery promises of a Bharat that would build itself with its own hands. When the chance ca to learn, he’d taken it, one evening class at a ti, saving every rupee for his son’s schooling—never dreaming he’d sit in a classroom himself one day.
Beside him, Rehana Behn, who’d cooked for revolutionaries in a hidden kitchen back when British boots still thundered down Surat’s streets, read through her final case study, lips moving in a quiet rehearsal. Her small spice shop back ho already earned enough to feed her family, but now she wanted more. A small local chain, maybe. Training other won to run stalls, build supply links. She hadn’t even dared say it out loud until BIM opened its doors.
At the podium, a guest lecturer from the Tata group—a stocky, soft-spoken Parsi gentleman—wrapped up today’s session. He didn’t drone on about theory. He spoke about failed investnts, small victories, and the ssiness of real markets. How you lose sleep over a late shipnt. How you shake hands on trust before you shake them on profit. How sotis, profit follows trust.
When the bell rang, students shuffled out in little knots—young and old leaning in, talking softly about margins and suppliers and taxes like farrs once whispered about rainfall and seeds. The corridor outside the hall still slled faintly of new paint and hot chai. On one side, a small notice board fluttered with pinned leaflets—job postings, grant announcents, a fresh poster for "Angel Pitch Week," where the Rajvanshi Group’s own managers were rumored to drop by to hear pitches.
That was Aryan’s promise—never just a classroom. BIM was a bridge. Good ideas shouldn’t rot on dusty shelves. Good people shouldn’t stay stuck just because they didn’t know which form to file or which door to knock on. From Rangoon to Lahore to Chennai to Bombay, BIMs had blood like sturdy new saplings across Bharat’s cities. Each one feeding a market that hungered for its own makers, sellers, drears.
Down in the courtyard, Ishwarbhai and Rehana sat on a stone bench under a neem tree, sharing a tiffin of thepla and pickle. They talked about wholesale grain prices, about supply routes through Kutch, about the new textile cooperative starting up two towns over.
"You really think we can pull this off?" Ishwarbhai asked, half-joking but half-hoping too.
Rehana laughed softly, wiping her fingers on her cotton dupatta. "Why not? We’ve built roads with our backs, Ishwarbhai. This... this we’ll build with our heads."
Across the courtyard, a young man in a crisp white kurta clutched a folder to his chest—his pitch for a small matchbox factory he wanted to set up with leftover timber scraps. If he could just get soone from Rajvanshi or Tata or any other major companies to listen next week, he’d have enough to hire ten more n from his village. One folder, one chance.
Above them all, the BIM sign glead in the sun—plain, sturdy, new. A small testant that freedom wasn’t just about flags and speeches. It was about tools and numbers and quiet benches under old neem trees where old workers and young drears could look at each other and say, Let’s build sothing of our own.
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- Kamal Asthaan, Ujjain -
- January 28, 1939 -
The air in Aryan’s study carried the faint sll of sandalwood and fresh ink. Afternoon sunlight fell through carved jali windows, scattering gentle patterns across stacks of papers, maps, and folders spread over a wide teak desk. Outside the open balcony, the gardens of Kamal Asthaan breathed in the winter breeze—still green, still tended by careful hands, a quiet contrast to the hum of ambition inside.
Aryan sat leaning back in his high-backed chair, sleeves rolled, pen tapping lightly against a ledger. In front of him, fresh reports lay open—updates from Surat, Bombay, Rangoon, Lahore, and Delhi. Each page carried the sa heartbeat: the first wave of BIM students was almost ready to step out of lecture halls and into a hungry, half-built marketplace.
He could almost see them now—young n clutching thin folders with trembling hope, middle-aged won explaining plans for spice cooperatives and cloth factories, old masons trying to set up tile workshops to replace expensive imports. So ideas were grand and daring; others looked mundane—milk delivery systems, handmade soap, second-hand book stores. Mundane, but necessary.
The Rajvanshi Group’s investnt managers had already sent back thick files marked with big red ticks and scribbled notes in the margins. They saw potential everywhere—sotis more in the small things than the grand sches. Aryan knew other giants like Tata wouldn’t sit idle either. Bharat’s old family houses and new industrial nas would watch carefully and copy quickly. That was the point.
He leaned forward, fingers drumming on the table’s edge. More competition ant more hands building, more brains dreaming. More tiny businesses ant local jobs, local pride, local money staying ho before it went out to the world.
It was exactly what he wanted—Bharat not just free on paper, but alive in every street and shop window, its people shaping their own wealth instead of waiting for soone to hand it to them.
His thoughts drifted to the bigger picture. More businesses needed better roads, smoother supply lines, fewer bribes and paperwork headaches. They needed to know that if they risked everything, the state wouldn’t crush them under hidden taxes and petty red tape.
Aryan’s eyes flicked to the corner of his desk, where the small black telephone sat silent. He reached for it without another thought.
Within minutes, a direct line to the Pri Minister’s residence connected. It was still strange sotis—calling his own father by his official title, knowing Surya Rajvanshi would drop whatever he was doing when the Samrat’s line buzzed.
A faint click. A warm, steady voice. "Aryan?"
"Baba," Aryan said, voice relaxed but carrying an undercurrent of urgency. "I need you to hear out for a few minutes. It’s important."
He laid It all out—how the first BIM graduates were ready to scatter seeds of industry across towns and cities, how the Rajvanshi Group and others were lining up to back them. He spoke of everyday ideas—soap, oil mills, machine repair garages, cooperative dairies—and how even these simple things could shift Bharat’s dependence away from costly imports if done right.
And then, the crucial point—freedom to grow. No strangling bureaucracy that demanded bribes at every table. No taxes so high they killed courage. Smart incentives for local manufacturing. Export encouragent for quality goods. Strict but fair environntal checks—sustainable, so the rivers and fields wouldn’t choke while the cities rose.
Surya listened in silence. Aryan could almost picture him—pen in hand, brows furrowed, reading every angle the way only a seasoned freedom fighter turned statesman could. There were no empty nods between them; only the weight of real choices.
When Aryan finished, the line stayed quiet for a mont. Then Surya’s calm voice ca, laced with the sa quiet pride that had carried him through years of hidden etings and midnight trains during the struggle.
"You’re thinking ten steps ahead again," Surya said, a soft chuckle breaking through the calm. "Good. We’ll need new committees under Comrce and Industry, a separate fast-track for small business clearances. And clear tax slabs for family-run cooperatives—no hidden claws."
Aryan let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His father understood—always did. The old freedom fight had built roads and bridges; this new one would build markets and factories, ideas and exports.
"Draft your notes tonight," Surya said, already slipping into the asured tone of a man who’d learned to juggle hope and caution in equal asure. "We’ll present it at the cabinet this week. If we get this through by the next financial cycle, the BIM students won’t return ho to closed doors."
Aryan felt a flicker of warmth at that. These graduates deserved that much—no dusty halls with ’Pending’ stamps, no officers pocketing their dreams. Just clear paths and a fair chance.
When the call ended, Aryan stayed at his desk a while longer, sunlight slipping lower against the stone walls. Beyond the glass doors, the flag on Kamal Asthaan’s highest do fluttered strong in the afternoon wind.
Freedom was a promise, he thought. But promises needed more than ink and stone. They needed roads and teachers, risk and reform. And people brave enough to turn paper plans into living, working hands.
He dipped his pen again, dragging fresh lines across a blank page. There would be more signatures, more late nights, more push and pull with stubborn old bureaucrats. But if it ant a chai seller’s son could open a small factory soday without fear—then every drop of ink was worth it.
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