Chapter 1: The Rumble Across the Bay

The distant boom of Japanese artillery rolled over the Bay of Bengal, making the walls of Kaveripur tremble as if a mischievous child had kicked over a row of matka pots. Yet, inside the Summer Bungalow, Rani Indira Devi remained undisturbed, engrossed in the elaborate preparations for her sixtieth birthday banquet.

Outside, the earthy perfume of rain-soaked mitti mingled with the faint hum of the ceiling fan, the bright scent of marigold garlands, and the sharp, sweet aroma of sandalwood incense curling from a brass holder near the door. Servants hurried about, arranging silver thalis and weaving mango leaves into decorative torans, while a distant tabla beat echoed through the wide corridors. Draped in a pale blue saree that shimmered in the monsoon light, Rani Indira Devi surveyed the arrangements, her gaze flickering briefly to the darkening sky but her mind unwavering from the details of her milestone celebration.

Arjun Singh, who had somehow found himself reborn into the waning years of the Raj, clenched his fists in secret, determined to overthrow the British and restore the old glory.

His heart burned with the quiet anger of a man out of time. Sometimes, as he walked the corridors lined with fading portraits and the sharp scent of sandalwood, he wondered if the ancestors in those frames could see him plotting in silence. "Bas, this time, we won't let them walk over us again," he would mutter, biting back the urge to shout, his thumb tracing the edge of his old kada. The weight of the old warriors’ gaze pressed against his back, pushing him towards destiny.

Who would have thought, yaar? One day, Raja Rajeev just up and launched the Red Fort Coup—after that, abolishing the Zamindari system was just another evening’s news for the chaiwallah.

The news came like a shock through the grapevine of loyal retainers and sharp-tongued aunties sipping chai in shaded courtyards. People whispered, some with hope, others with disbelief. The old order had been toppled overnight, the very men who once commanded respect now reduced to stories for the evening news hawker to retell at the chai tapri outside the Red Fort walls.

He declared his ancestry to be from the Maurya line, changed his surname to Maurya, cut off his shikha, drilled new regiments, embraced Western learning, and proclaimed the nation’s name as Maurya.

The city buzzed with gossip: "Accha, you heard? Rajeev babu says he’s descended from Chandragupta Maurya, no less!" At the local chai tapri, old men argued over the headlines, while the college boys rolled their eyes, saying, "Let’s see if this Maurya Raj actually changes anything for us." Banners in bold Devanagari script fluttered above the main bazaar, and for the first time, hope and confusion mingled in the air with the tang of frying samosas.

Arjun Singh:

To overthrow the British and restore the Maurya—wasn’t that supposed to be my job?

His fists balled tighter. Under the flickering tube-light in his small study, he glared at the yellowing maps pinned to the wall, red lines circling old battlefields, a school notebook scribbled with strategy notes. "Arrey, what is this circus? If I can’t overthrow the British and restore the Maurya, then no one gets to be emperor. Mark my words."

Fine, you want to play it this way? If I can’t overthrow the British and restore the Maurya, then no one gets to be emperor.

He stared at his reflection in the cracked glass of the almirah, squared his shoulders, and thought of his father’s stern face, the old man’s voice echoing, "Beta, never forget your roots."