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- 10 Downing Street, London -
- August 26, 1936 -
A heavy silence filled the Prime Minister's office, broken only by the crackling of the fireplace. The scent of tobacco lingered in the air as a group of men stood in tense deliberation. Sir Stanley Baldwin, the Prime Minister of Great Britain, sat in his chair, gripping the telegram in his hands so tightly that the paper crumpled under his fingers.
The message was simple. Cold. Final.
The British Raj is at an end.
For the first time in history, the mighty British Empire had lost its most prized colony—not to a prolonged war, not to a drawn-out political process, but to one man.
Across the room, Malcolm MacDonald, the Secretary of State for India, stood rigid, his face pale. He had been the one to deliver the report, and now, he was the one facing the Prime Minister's wrath.
Baldwin slammed the paper onto his desk, his voice cutting through the tense air.
"Tell me this is a joke, MacDonald. Tell me that the Viceroy has lost his mind and panicked like a fool."
MacDonald swallowed, keeping his expression neutral. "It is no joke, Prime Minister. The reports have been consistent for weeks. The British forces in India have collapsed. The rebellion has turned into a full-scale takeover, and now, with Wavell's announcement, we have officially lost India."
Baldwin pushed himself up from his chair, pacing in frustration. His fists clenched at his sides, his face red with anger. "We changed the bloody Viceroy mid-term just to stop this madness! If Linlithgow was weak, Wavell was supposed to be our iron fist. And now? He's throwing in the towel!"
MacDonald remained silent. There was nothing to argue.
Baldwin stopped pacing and pointed a sharp finger at the Secretary. "We are the British Empire. The sun never sets on our rule! And yet, you're standing here telling me that we lost our most valuable colony to some… to some boy?"
MacDonald let out a slow breath before speaking. "With all due respect, Prime Minister, Maheshvara is not just a boy. That was our first mistake—underestimating him."
Baldwin glared. "Then tell me. Tell me how a single man managed to achieve what no other rebel, no other army, no other empire in history has done?"
MacDonald hesitated for a brief moment before stepping closer to the desk. His voice dropped, carrying a weight that unsettled even the hardened men in the room.
"Do you remember, Prime Minister, the reports from a year ago? When our intelligence officers in London were tasked with keeping an eye on an Indian prodigy—a boy with extraordinary intellect and influence?"
Baldwin frowned. "Aryan Rajvanshi? Yes, I recall. A brilliant student, promising even. What of it?"
"That was before we realized what he truly was," MacDonald said. "Before he became Maheshvara."
Baldwin narrowed his eyes.
MacDonald continued, "The Intelligence Bureau assigned men to watch him. When we suspected his leanings, we sent agents to intimidate him. They approached him in the alleys of London, armed and prepared. You know what happened?"
The Prime Minister said nothing, but the unease in his eyes was unmistakable.
"They were broken," MacDonald said, his voice cold. "Not just beaten, but utterly dismantled. When they returned, they weren't officers anymore—they were frightened, disheveled men who looked like they had seen something they could never comprehend. They wouldn't even speak of what he did to them. They simply resigned and disappeared."
Baldwin stiffened.
"That was a year ago, Prime Minister," MacDonald pressed. "Before he was even a revolutionary. Before he had an army, before he had a nation behind him. He was just a young man then, and he crushed our best operatives like insects."
Silence filled the room. The weight of the words settled over Baldwin like a heavy fog.
The Prime Minister sat back down, gripping the arms of his chair. His fury had not lessened, but now, it was accompanied by something far worse. Dread.
"And you're telling me that now, he's a ruler?" Baldwin muttered, almost to himself.
MacDonald nodded grimly. "Not just a ruler. An Emperor. A deity in the eyes of the people. And if reports are to be believed, a force beyond anything conventional military power can deal with."
Baldwin exhaled sharply, his gaze dropping to the telegram once more. The realization struck deep.
The empire was not just losing India—it had lost it long ago. The official declaration was just the last formality.
The Prime Minister's hand trembled slightly as he rubbed his forehead. "So, what do we do? Surely, we can't just let this stand."
MacDonald's voice was grave. "Under normal circumstances, we could consider a full-scale military operation. A direct invasion. But that is not possible—not now."
Baldwin's head snapped up. "And why not? This is the British Empire, damn it! Are you saying we can't take back one colony?"
MacDonald shook his head. "Because, Prime Minister, Germany is acting up. Europe is on the verge of something dangerous, and we cannot afford to spread our forces thin. If we were to attempt to reconquer India, it would require an unprecedented military operation—one that would drain our resources and cost us thousands, if not millions, of lives. And all of it… against one man."
The room went still.
MacDonald looked Baldwin straight in the eye. "A war against Maheshvara right now is impossible."
Baldwin's jaw clenched. His grip on the desk tightened. But he knew the truth.
"Then we make him pay in other ways," he muttered darkly.
MacDonald nodded. "Yes. We cannot fight him directly, but we can make ruling India difficult for him. Diplomatic isolation. Economic pressure. Cut off trade routes, manipulate global markets. Ensure that no Western power recognizes his rule. We may not be able to remove him, but we can make sure he does not rise unchecked."
Baldwin exhaled sharply, then looked at the gathered officials. "Make the arrangements. If we cannot break Maheshvara with force, then we will break him with the weight of the world."
The meeting was over, but the they could feel that the battle was far from even beginning.
As MacDonald stepped out of the office, he could not shake the uneasy feeling in his gut. They had lost India, and now, they were about to enter a new kind of conflict—one where their enemy was not bound by the rules they had always relied upon.
And deep down, despite all their plans, he feared that Maheshvara, with all the powers and intelligence according to the reports had already foreseen everything.
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- Viceroy's House, Delhi -
- August 30, 1936 -
The air in Delhi carried a strange mix of silence and anticipation. It was as if the city itself was holding its breath, waiting for history to be written. The British had made their decision—India (British India of 1936 which included whole of current India, Pakistan, Bangladesh and Burma or Myanmar in its territory) was no longer theirs to rule. The official announcement had been made, and now, all that remained was for the final words to be spoken.
At the grand halls of the Viceroy's House, Archibald Wavell stood with squared shoulders, his face betraying little emotion. His uniform, though crisp, seemed weighed down by the burden of defeat. Before him stood the man who had brought the British Empire to its knees—Maheshvara.
Aryan Rajvanshi, now fully recognized by his divine moniker, was not alone. Flanking him were Surya and Anjali Rajvanshi, his parents in this life, Shakti Nath Roy, along with her parents Ravi Nath Roy and Lakshmi Nath Roy and also Karna Sharma along with his parents and the key members of the Bharatiya Swatantrata Sangathan (BSS). These were the men and women who had fought, bled, and struggled to reclaim their homeland.
There was no gloating, no arrogance in Aryan's expression as he faced the last Viceroy of India. Wavell, for all his pride, knew that he was standing in the presence of a force he could neither negotiate with nor oppose. The young man before him had become more than a revolutionary—he was a symbol, a living testament to the will of an entire people.
With a resigned breath, Wavell spoke.
"The British Empire formally relinquishes control over the territory known as British India. The decision has been made in London. From this moment, India is no longer under British rule."
The words carried finality. They would be transmitted over radio waves, printed in newspapers, and carried to every town and village.
For Aryan, it was not just an announcement—it was the closing of one chapter and the beginning of another. Without another word, he turned away. It was time.
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- Red Fort, Delhi -
- August 30, 1936 – Noon -
The vast courtyard of the Red Fort was overflowing. Thousands had gathered, and millions more listened through their radios. People had climbed onto rooftops, hung out of windows, and filled every street leading to the fort. They had all come to witness the moment they had dreamed of but never truly believed would come.
And when Aryan stepped forward onto the balcony, dressed in regal yet simple attire, the crowd erupted.
"Jai Maheshvara! Jai Bharat Mata!"
The chants shook the very walls of the fort. Even the sky, clear and bright, seemed to acknowledge the moment. Aryan raised his hand, and the voices quieted.
He spoke, and his voice carried across the land, strong and unwavering.
"People of Bharat, today marks the end of our suffering. No longer shall we be ruled by foreign powers, no longer shall we be treated as slaves in our own land. The British have left, and from this moment forward, we reclaim our destiny."
A thunderous roar of approval followed, but Aryan continued, his expression serious.
"But freedom alone is not enough. Bharat will not be a nation divided by caste, religion, or language. We will not be fractured by the differences that others sought to exploit. From today, we are not just a country—we are one people, one civilization, bound together under Bharat Mata."
The energy In the air changed. People listened, not just with their ears, but with their hearts.
"For too long, our past glory was stolen from us by invaders. But we will not dwell on the past in anger—we will rise. We will build a Bharat that surpasses even its golden age, a nation where every citizen, regardless of background, lives in peace and prosperity."
Cheers, louder than before, filled the air. But Aryan was not finished.
"And to ensure this, we must forge a new path. Though I now assume the position of Emperor of Bharat, I do not seek absolute rule. The people will have their voice. A new Constitution will be written, not by a single ruler, but by the will of the people—by leaders, intellectuals, and every citizen of this land."
Gasps of surprise rippled through the crowd, quickly replaced by awe.
"Under this Constitution, every Bharatiya will have the right to choose their leaders. Ministers and officials will be elected to govern, to serve, to build a nation where justice and honor reign supreme. This is not just my rule—it is ours."
The moment those words settled, the crowd exploded in celebration. There were no doubts, no hesitation. To them, Aryan was no ordinary ruler. He was Maheshvara, the one who had broken the shackles of a mighty empire, the one who had reshaped destiny itself.
Across the nation, radios carried his voice to villages and cities alike. Newspapers printed the headline:
"BHARAT IS FREE – EMPEROR MAHESHVARA CALLS FOR A NEW ERA!"
The streets of Delhi erupted in celebration. Firecrackers were set off, processions of people danced and sang. Homes opened their doors to strangers, and across every region, regardless of religion or language, people embraced each other as one.
It was not just a victory. It was the rebirth of a nation.
And as Aryan stood on the balcony of the Red Fort, watching his people rejoice, he was overwhelmed with a cascade of emotions.
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