Genesis Maker: The Indian Marvel (Rewrite)

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- Rajvanshi Estate, Calcutta -

- March 7, 1936 -

The journey back to the Rajvanshi Estate was filled with quiet conversations and a lingering sense of anticipation. The cool evening air carried the scent of the city, but as they moved further away from the bustling port, the familiar warmth of home began to settle in. Aryan sat beside his father in the car, glancing out the window as familiar streets and landmarks passed by. Each turn brought back old memories—his childhood games, late-night discussions with his parents, and the lessons that had shaped him into the man he was today.

When they finally arrived at the grand estate, Aryan felt an old, comforting sensation return—the feeling of belonging. The mansion stood as it always had, its regal presence unshaken by time. The soft glow of lanterns illuminated the entrance, where a small crowd had already gathered. Family, close allies, and old acquaintances—all waiting to welcome him properly.

But what caught his attention first was the unmistakable aroma wafting from inside. Spices, rich and familiar, filled the air, instantly stirring something deep within him. His mother's cooking.

Anjali Rajvanshi rarely cooked these days, leaving it to the skilled hands of the household staff. But on special occasions, she took over the kitchen herself. Aryan could still remember the flavors of her dishes, each bite carrying warmth and love. The thought of finally tasting her food again, after years in America and Europe, made his stomach tighten in anticipation.

As they stepped inside, Aryan was greeted with a sight he hadn't realized he had missed so much—his mother, who had earlier hurried into the kitchen as soon as they arrived was standing near the dining area, a soft smile on her lips, watching him with quiet satisfaction. She had been waiting for this moment, and it showed in the way her eyes softened when he approached.

"I hope you're hungry," she said, her voice gentle yet firm, as always.

Aryan let out a small chuckle. "I've been waiting for this meal for years."

The dining table was filled with an array of dishes—aromatic biryanis, rich curries, freshly made rotis, and sweets that looked almost too perfect to eat. The servants had done their part, but the main dishes, the ones Aryan had missed the most, had been prepared by his mother's own hands.

As everyone took their seats, the conversations were light, focused on Aryan's return. Karna, seated beside him, nudged him with a smirk. "You should have seen the way our parents prepared for this. If I didn't know better, I'd think a king was returning home."

Shakti, sitting across from him, rolled her eyes. "Well, given his reputation now, they weren't exactly wrong."

Aryan shook his head with a smile but didn't argue. Instead, he reached for his plate, eager to finally taste the food he had dreamed about for so long. The first bite was everything he remembered—flavors balanced to perfection, warmth spreading through him like a long-lost comfort.

He let out a satisfied sigh, glancing at his mother. "Still the best cook I know."

Anjali gave a small nod, clearly pleased, before urging him to eat more. And he did, savoring every bite.

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Once the feast was over, the gathering moved to the estate's main hall, where another group was already waiting. These weren't just friends and family—these were men and women who had dedicated their lives to something greater. Members of the Bharat Swatantrata Sangathan (BSS), his parents' closest allies in their fight for independence.

Aryan recognized almost every face. Many of them had known him since childhood, their voices and laughter once part of the background of his younger years. Some had trained him, taught him, and now, as he stood before them as a man, they looked at him with pride and expectation.

One of the older men, Ramprasad Dutta, stepped forward. "You've returned not just as a son of this family, Aryan, but as a man who has made his mark on foreign soil."

Another voice chimed in, an old associate of his father's. "You made your parents proud, Aryan. And in doing so, you've made us all proud."

Aryan accepted their words with a nod, feeling the weight of their expectations settle over him. They had followed his journey, kept track of his achievements, and now, they wanted to hear about it firsthand.

They asked about America, about Europe. And Aryan, never one to embellish, spoke honestly. He told them of his studies, the advancements he had witnessed, and the knowledge he had gained.

But when the conversation shifted to England, to his time at Oxford, a quiet tension filled the room.

"They doubted you, didn't they?" Ravi Nath Roy, Shakti's father, younger brother of Maharaja of Natore and his parents' friend, asked, his voice steady but sharp. He had always been a man who could read between the lines.

Aryan exhaled slowly, choosing his words carefully. "Yes, they questioned my credibility at every turn. To them, I was always lesser—someone whose presence needed to be justified."

His father's jaw tightened, but he said nothing, waiting for Aryan to continue.

"They built their grand cities on the blood and labor of our people," Aryan went on, his voice calm but firm. "Their wealth, their prestige—it all comes from the suffering of Indians, Africans, and so many others. They hide it behind fine words and polished manners, but underneath, they are terrified. They fear the day we will rise."

The room was silent, absorbing his words.

"But I made sure they wouldn't forget me," Aryan added, a quiet edge to his tone. "I spoke when they expected me to be silent. I carried myself with dignity when they expected me to bow. I let them see what we are capable of. And whether they admit it or not, they will remember."

A murmur of approval spread through the gathering. Ravi exchanged a glance with Aryan's father, both men clearly impressed.

"You didn't just go there to learn," Lakshmi Nath Roy said, her voice thoughtful. "You went there to remind them who we are."

Aryan met her gaze and nodded. "They will have to work hard to forget."

His words settled over the room like an unspoken promise. His parents, the Rajvanshis, the Natore royals, and the BSS members all looked at him with something more than just pride.

It was belief.

A belief that he was not just a scholar, not just a businessman, but a force that could shape the future.

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The room was still charged with the weight of Aryan's words when he took a deep breath, steadying himself for what he knew would be a difficult conversation. The moment felt right—he had to say it now.

"I don't just want to talk about what I saw," he said, his voice firm. "I want to act."

His father, who had been listening quietly, looked up sharply. So did his mother. Around the room, the members of the Bharat Swatantrata Sangathan (BSS) turned their attention to him, sensing something serious.

"I want to join the struggle," Aryan declared, his gaze unwavering. "Not as a bystander or an observer, but as someone actively working to bring down British rule. I want independence for India as soon as possible."

A tense silence followed. His father's expression remained unreadable, but his mother's lips pressed into a thin line.

Aryan continued, his emotions raw. "Everywhere I went, I saw it—the weight of their rule crushing our people. I saw Indians treated like second-class citizens in their own land, forced to bow to a foreign power that sees them as nothing more than laborers, servants, or worse. I can't ignore it anymore. I won't."

Shakti, who had been listening intently, suddenly stood up. "Then I'm joining too."

Karna followed immediately after. "Me too."

Their parents exchanged quick, concerned glances, but neither looked surprised. Perhaps they had known, deep down, that this day was inevitable.

Ravi, Shakti's father leaned forward slightly, his brows furrowed. "This is not a decision to be taken lightly, you all are far too young for this."

"We know," Aryan said, looking at him directly. "But it is one such decision, we have already made."

His father, Surya, exhaled through his nose, his expression betraying a mix of frustration and understanding. "Aryan… you and your friends are still young. The struggle is not just about ideals. It is dangerous, unforgiving. Once you step into this, there is no turning back."

Anjali, his mother, placed a hand on Aryan's arm. "You have seen the outside world, but the battlefield here is different. We have been fighting this war for years, and we know what it takes." Her voice softened slightly. "You are strong, my son. But strength alone is not enough."

Aryan met her gaze with quiet determination. "Bhagat Singh was younger than me when he took his stand. He knew what was at stake, and he still acted. Are we supposed to wait until it's too late? Until more lives are lost? Every day that we wait, the British tighten their grip."

His father sighed, rubbing his temples. Ravi glanced at Lakshmi, his wife, before shaking his head, while Karn's parents also senior members of BSS exchanged worried glances. "You sound just like your parents when we were younger," Ravi finally muttered.

Shakti's mother, Lakshmi, let out a tired breath. "We knew this day would come, didn't we?"

Silence stretched between them before Surya finally spoke again. "We will talk about this later."

Aryan opened his mouth to protest, but his father raised a hand. "No. You have just returned. You are exhausted, and so are we. You may have made up your mind, but we need time to think." His voice carried the authority of a leader, not just a father.

Ravi nodded. "For now, rest. We will continue this discussion another day."

Aryan clenched his jaw but didn't argue. He knew when to push and when to step back. For now, he had planted the seed.

And one way or another, he would see it grow.

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