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Ujjain, Bharat
August 25, 1937, Evening
The parades had ended. The music faded into the air like incense, and the crowd slowly thinned. But the heartbeat of the day—its real strength—continued not in drums or jets, but in quiet conversations now taking place across shaded pavilions and press tents.
One such pavilion had been prepared for the post-event interview with Bharat's Cabinet Ministers. Not military men, not generals. But architects of a different kind—the builders of roads, railways, and skies.
The space was simple. A round table under a wide canvas awning. Light breeze stirred the edge of the cloth. Cameras were being readied. A few journalists from Japan, Spain, France, and America sat with notebooks, their pens loaded with curiosity more than skepticism.
The Interview began with a voice both gentle and curious. A young Bharatiya woman from the National Broadcast Forum leaned forward, mic in hand.
"We'll begin," she said, smiling at the gathered ministers, "with a question from the Japanese delegation, translated for us."
She glanced at her notes. "Your excellency, the roads in Ujjain—and reportedly in many other parts of Bharat—are not only smooth and efficient, but surprisingly beautiful. There are geometric patterns embedded in the surface. Could you tell us more about this innovation?"
The Minister of Road Transport, Mr. Abhijit Rao, nodded slowly. He was in his late forties, soft-spoken, with dust still clinging to his shoes from a morning site visit. He smiled modestly before speaking.
"What you saw," he began, "is not decoration. It is function becoming form. Our teams at the National Infrastructure Design Authority worked closely with Samrat Aryan's research labs to create a new asphalt alternative. It's bio-composite, derived partly from natural resins, minerals, and a stabilising prāṇa-based binder that adjusts to Bharat's wide range of temperatures."
He paused, placing his hand on the table. "When this mixture sets, it naturally settles into repeating geometric patterns. Not only do they improve grip during rain and heat—they reflect light better, reduce surface heating, and most of all… they last longer without cracking."
The French reporter blinked in awe. "So the design is… self-forming?"
"Yes," Abhijit said, "though we still guide the layering process to ensure road safety. But the beauty—" he looked thoughtful, "—that is the labour of Bharat's workers. Men and women who pour the material, brush the surfaces, smooth the edges. No machine can match their eyes or hands. If there is beauty, it belongs to them."
There was a pause. A respectful one. Then the Indian interviewer asked her next question, one that echoed in many notebooks:
"What is the scope of Bharat's road development now, one year after independence?"
Abhijit's expression changed—his eyes grew firmer, voice steadier.
"Almost all roads left by the British," he said plainly, "have been either rebuilt or are under reconstruction. The old system was designed for extraction—for moving goods out of Bharat, not connecting its people. We have reversed that logic."
He gestured with his hand, sketching a rough arc in the air.
"Our plan is to create a web—a connected network of highways that link all major cities, ports, and economic zones. Not just straight routes, but climate-adapted, flood-proofed, solar-aligned roads. Many are already under survey. Some stretches, like the Ujjain-Delhi corridor and the Madras-Trichy-Kanniyakumari route, are under active construction."
He added softly, "These are not roads for cars. These are roads for farmers, for school buses, for ambulances. They are arteries of the people."
Applause broke out—not from the media, but from the workers and volunteers standing beyond the pavilion line. Some held notebooks. Others held spanners. Their eyes shone.
The Interviewer turned next to the Minister of Railways, Ms. Meenakshi Nair—a sharply dressed woman in her mid-thirties, with sleeves rolled up and fingers ink-stained from sketching rail maps.
"Minister Nair," the interviewer asked, "the newly refurbished rail terminals have caught global attention. Some even say they resemble miniature cities. What has changed in Bharat's railway system this past year?"
Meenakshi smiled, a spark in her eyes.
"It's not just refurbishment," she began. "It's restoration of purpose. Railways used to carry our raw materials to ports. Now, they carry schoolchildren, traders, and the heartbeat of our economy, all at an affordable price."
She continued, "Every terminal we rebuild, we treat as a living space. There are clean water fountains, reading rooms, child care spaces, and even local art galleries. Our engineers have redesigned the signalling systems entirely—based on an adaptive algorithm, our Railway Department developed with the guidance of Samrat Aryan, which predicts congestion and reroutes in real time."
A British journalist leaned in, intrigued. "And the trains themselves?"
"We've transitioned nearly 40% of our rolling stock to hybrid engines," she said, "partially powered by prāṇa batteries. And for short-distance routes, we now use ultra-light mag-steel coaches developed at the Ujjain Institute of Techno-Magical Innovation. They run quieter, faster, and are easier to maintain."
"And the future?" someone asked.
Meenakshi leaned forward, fingers steepled. "We are already prototyping our own bullet train. But more importantly—we are designing feeder networks to reach the remotest hills and tribal settlements. No Bharatiya should have to walk ten miles to reach a train."
That sentence hung in the air like a vow.
Finally, the interviewer turned to the Minister of Aviation and Civil Transport, Mr. Arvind Bansal—a wiry man with deep lines on his forehead and the kind of eyes that missed nothing.
"Minister Bansal," she said warmly, "the airport infrastructure and new aircraft have drawn international acclaim. What was the guiding vision?"
He chuckled lightly before speaking.
"The skies were once reserved for the few," he said. "We've tried to change that. In the past year, we've built or refurbished 38 airfields, converting many old British military strips into functional civilian airports."
"And the planes?"
"Ah," he smiled proudly. "Designed by Bharat's own young engineers, trained at the Aeronautical Design Centre in Pune. Our Garud-1 and Hansa series aircraft are made for Bharat's needs—short runways, tough weather, and efficient fuel use. Some can even take off from grass or sandbeds."
He added softly, "But airports are not just about planes. They're about people. We've built terminals with no marble floors, but plenty of shade, good chai, and clean toilets. That is what dignity looks like."
A Japanese correspondent noted something quietly in his journal and whispered to his translator, "They have been avoiding going into details of this prāṇa fuel and the new innovative tech they call as magi-tech."
Despite various questions, especially from the foreign media regarding the details of the new technology discovered by Bharat, there wasn't much details that they could gather about them from the ministers, as they refused to go into extensive details citing national security issues. This frustrated the foreigners but, they didn't dare to pressure the ministers about it as the venue was surrounded by powerful super humans as well as Bharatiya security personnel at every corner. They could only swallow their curiosity and termed the advent of the new technology in Bharat as the inventions of Samrat Aryan who was now known as one of the greatest geniuses of the current era across the world.
The interview continued with more questions about the transportation future of Bharat being asked and then the final question came from a young girl with a press badge from a local Ujjain school.
"Will all of Bharat look like Ujjain soon?" she asked, eyes wide with hope.
The three ministers exchanged glances—no one laughed.
Abhijit leaned in first. "No," he said gently. "Every place in Bharat will look like itself—but stronger, cleaner, more connected."
Meenakshi added, "We don't want to turn the country into a copy of a city. We want each village, town, and hill to rise… in its own voice."
And Arvind finished, "And when that happens, the world will see—not just airports or railways or roads—but a civilisation that remembered who it was… and decided to build again."
The cameras blinked off.
But the truth of those words remained.
Not in the flashbulbs or headlines,
But in the quiet nods of workers nearby—
And in the scribbled dreams of the young girl from Ujjain.
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