Genesis Maker: The Indian Marvel (Rewrite)-Chapter 97: : Interlude: Bricks, Bonds and Bharat

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- Flashback: A Few Months Earlier -

- Somewhere in Ujjain -

- January 1937 -

Before the thunder of parades and the roar of fighter jets, before the applause of dignitaries and the eyes of the world turned in awe—there was silence.

A deep, determined silence.

It was January, the coldest winds of the year brushing past Ujjain's narrow alleys and open courtyards. The city was still in its early transformation—hints of the grand vision visible only in scaffolding and blueprints. But beneath the surface, the real work had begun.

Aryan stood atop a half-built terrace of the National Institute for Infrastructure Sciences, his shawl wrapped loosely around him, gazing over the land where foundations were being laid—not just of buildings, but of minds.

Behind him, engineers and planners murmured in small groups. They didn't know he had been there for an hour already—quietly listening to their concerns, their passion, their doubt. He preferred it that way.

He wasn't here as a ruler.

He was here as a fellow student of the future.

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A few weeks earlier, Aryan had written a note —a personal decree, though it was never made public.

"A nation is not built by bricks or flags. It is built by minds that dream, hands that craft, and hearts that believe. Start with them. Start with the thinkers."

And so he had.

From the very beginning of the year, Aryan had walked the unseen paths—into classrooms, libraries, printing presses, art studios, hospitals, engineering labs, and observatories. He didn't speak much. He simply placed his hand on walls, chairs, doors... leaving behind quiet pulses of ancient runes and unseen script.

Each carried intent.

To spark creativity.

To stir curiosity.

To ease fear.

To sharpen focus.

To keep fatigue away from those who needed to think a little longer, try a little harder.

These were not spells of power—but of possibility.

Aryan called them "Saṃvardhan Runes"—growth glyphs. They didn't force intelligence. They simply removed the clouds from the minds already capable of brilliance.

And in the heart of this effort stood a challenge he had marked as vital: roads.

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The Civil Infrastructure Research & Development Division, newly formed, had been tasked with what sounded like a simple mission—replace asphalt.

But the goal was much deeper than that.

"Our roads," Aryan had said in a meeting that no one present would forget, "are not just for moving carts and cars. They carry grain, medicine, children, hope. They must last—not for a season, but for a generation. And they must belong to our land, not borrowed from foreign solutions."

He had arrived not just with orders—but with insight.

In his hand was a thick sheaf of handwritten notes, diagrams, chemical compositions, environmental calculations, and layered runic suggestions. It was a fusion of his past life's readings and his own quiet research in this timeline. To those in the room, it felt like being handed something ten years ahead of their time.

A young materials scientist, Dr. Malhotra, remembered flipping through the pages and whispering, "Is this... magic or science?"

"Both," Aryan had replied. "But you will understand it as science. That is your path."

And so they began.

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By mid-January, the research team had narrowed down a prototype.

Instead of asphalt, they worked with a composite mixture: compressed recycled plastic, basalt fibers, jute-ash polymer, and lime-treated red soil, all held together by a binding agent derived from sugarcane waste and infused with nano-silica.

It was light, flexible under heat, and tough under pressure.

To test drainage, they ran simulations under monsoon showers. The roads held. Water flowed into runic-designed side channels, where it was cleaned and sent underground for storage.

To test wear, they simulated bullock carts, buses, and tanks.

No cracks. No potholes. Just promise.

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Engineers often found themselves working late into the night, but none of them felt the usual burn-out. Thoughts came quicker. Designs were more elegant. Small mistakes became rare.

It was only later that one of the structural engineers, a sharp woman named Shreya Bose, found the rune Aryan had etched behind the laboratory's main pillar. She traced it with her finger—warm, humming softly.

"Is this why I don't feel tired anymore?" she had asked aloud, half to herself.

"No," her colleague said with a grin. "That's because you're finally in a place where your mind is respected."

But they both knew it was more than that.

Aryan hadn't just given them a problem—he had handed them belief. Not blind faith, but earned confidence. That they could do better than the world. That they were better already—they just needed space to prove it.

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- Somewhere in Tamil Nadu -

- June 1937 -

Evening had settled gently over the research quarters. The roads outside were quiet, lit by warm streetlamps powered by the new clean-energy units. Inside the modest tea stall near the site—built not for royalty, but for workers and thinkers alike—a group of engineers sat cross-legged, tired but satisfied, sipping on steaming kulhads of masala chai.

Their boots were dusted with the grey of newly cured road tiles. Their hands bore the ink-stains of drafts and reports. Laughter and mild arguments echoed in the air as smoke curled up lazily.

Then came the silence that arrives after a hard day's discussion. It was broken softly by a young civil engineer, barely in his late twenties, who looked down at his cup and murmured, almost guiltily, "Do you ever wonder... how long we can keep this up?"

The others turned to him.

He didn't mean the chai or the work. They all knew what he was referring to.

"All this infrastructure," he said, "the roads, the factories, the energy grids, the research centres, even our salaries... It's all huge. Bharat was a poor country just a year ago. So many of our people still go to bed hungry. Where is the money coming from? And for how long?"

Another nodded, quietly agreeing. "He's right. We can't live on dreams alone. Concrete doesn't come from thin air, and neither does grain or rupees."

The group fell quiet again.

Until one of them—older than the rest, with a trimmed beard and a small tulsi bead bracelet on his wrist—let out a quiet chuckle.

They turned to him, confused.

He smiled, his eyes sharp. "You all think too small."

"What do you mean?" asked the younger one, defensive but curious.

"I mean," he began, "you're not seeing the full game. I have a few friends in the financial world—bankers, economists, old accountants who used to work with the Crown. And then there's the news. If you put it all together, it's simple."

He leaned forward, his voice dropping slightly.

"Samrat Aryan didn't ask the world for money. He moved it."

Now he had their attention.

"You all remember those lands—abandoned plantations, ghost factories, useless warehouses, dry ports—left behind when the British fled? They had no buyers. No real value in the government's eyes."

They nodded.

"Well, Samrat didn't just buy them. He overpaid. Three times the market price. And do you know how he paid?"

One whispered, "Gold?"

He nodded. "Yes. Pure, minted, tested gold. From his personal wealth. And not in loans or promises. In full payment."

They sat stunned.

"That one move alone gave the Reserve Bank of Bharat a massive reserve of gold—enough to back our currency, strengthen imports, and calm investor nerves. Just imagine. Overnight, our financial heart had oxygen again."

He paused, sipping his tea, letting the weight of his words settle.

"But that wasn't all. Right after independence, Aryan passed orders that every steel mill, aluminium plant, and refinery would shift to maximum productivity. Not just for internal demand—but for controlled surplus. Mines across Bharat were brought under smart management, ensuring steady supply lines. Even if it strained us, it paid off. Because the West... they're preparing for war again."

He raised his brows.

"And we? We're exporting our surplus steel, aluminium, even copper, to them. Quietly. At good rates."

Another engineer piped up, "But wouldn't that be risky? Selling to them?"

"Not when you control what you sell, and how much. And don't forget—our own military is being upgraded with Samrat's new technology. So what happens to the old British stockpile?"

"They're being sold?"

"Exactly. At a premium, to those same Western buyers who are nervous and desperate."

A low whistle escaped someone's lips.

"But what about us? The workers? The daily wages?"

He smiled again. "Samrat made sure that the first thing his companies did—after becoming operational—was to hire locally. Train them. Pay them. Feed them. That's why no one here has missed a meal. That's why every family in this area has at least one member working in something meaningful."

"And what about cost cutting?" asked the youngest one.

"He's thought of that too. Energy is going clean. Transport is shifting to efficient modes. And even our material science teams—you included—are making alternatives to reduce cost and increase life span."

There was silence again—but this time, not of worry.

Of awe.

"But still," the young one whispered, "isn't it too ambitious?"

The elder's voice turned firm, but kind. "Tell me—was it ambition when we were called the Golden Bird once? Was it arrogance when our ancestors built cities, temples, and systems that ran without modern machines? Or was it faith and resolve?"

He placed his empty kulhad down.

"Samrat Aryan is not trying to make Bharat rich. He's restoring what was once ours. With knowledge, with science, with compassion—and yes, with gold."

One by one, heads nodded.

Outside, the newly laid road shimmered faintly under the lamplight. It stretched far into the horizon—solid, ready, and waiting.

Just like the nation it carried.

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I'm sorry for the late Chapter, I was actually stuck on writing the few Chapters. It happens sometimes, like even if you know what you are going to write, you can't get the words or the scenario right.

Anyways, I will try to upload as fast as I can.

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