The meeting had ended with the heavy, metallic echo of chairs scraping against marble. Files were gathered, signatures exchanged, and the ministers trickled out of the Situation Hall one by one, their silhouettes swallowed by the orange-grey light of a Delhi afternoon that had begun to resemble the quiet before an epochal storm. Patel left first, muttering to his aide about police postings; Chetty followed with a stack of ledgers; Ambedkar remained behind a few seconds longer, jotting a note on the margin of a constitutional draft; Menon lingered near the doorway, absorbing every shift in the room.
Saraswati gathered her papers last. Her stride was crisp as ever, but Anirban noticed the exhaustion she never let others see—the subtle way her fingers trembled for a moment before they steadied on the folder. She was halfway to the exit when Anirban's voice cut through the quiet.
"Saraswati—stay back."
She paused, turned, and tilted her head in question. Menon stopped mid-step, sensing something significant. Ambedkar closed the file in his hand and remained seated. Even Patel, who had stepped into the corridor, turned back with mild curiosity.
Anirban motioned toward the door.
"You three as well—come back in."
They returned, exchanging brief glances, then took their seats with the deliberate silence of people who knew unexpected dialogues often shaped the most decisive parts of history.
Anirban folded his arms.
"I've been hearing things," he began softly. "About investments. Cultural ventures. Fashion, cosmetics, textiles. About you advising princely houses. And something about a small cosmetics company."
Saraswati raised an eyebrow, expression unreadable.
"What exactly have you heard, Prime Minister?"
"That you've invested in a cosmetics company started by one of your students at Indraprastha University."
"Yes," she replied calmly. "The company is called Lakmé."
Menon's eyes flickered with recognition. Ambedkar leaned forward. Patel simply grunted, waiting for the explanation.
Anirban's tone remained neutral. "Why? Why step into cosmetics and fashion when we are running wars, protectorates, and national consolidation?"
Saraswati set her folder on the table with a quiet thud.
"Because, Prime Minister," she began slowly, "nations collapse or thrive on culture long before they do on economics."
He did not interrupt. She went on.
"India has science. India has soldiers. India has a constitution being written. India has land and people and industry. But what does India have that the world wants?"
Menon opened his mouth to answer, but Saraswati raised a hand gently.
"No. I mean—what do they desire? What do they admire? What do they see and instantly think: 'India'?"
A pause.
"Nothing," she answered herself. "Not yet."
Ambedkar's eyes softened with understanding. "You believe our cultural sector is underdeveloped."
"Underdeveloped?" she repeated with a small, rueful smile. "Dr. Ambedkar, it is abandoned."
She rose from her chair and walked toward the window, where the sunlight illuminated the dust motes in the air like fragments of forgotten memories.
"Prime Minister… Dior launched a collection only months ago, in 1947. You saw it. The French press adored it. They said it was bold, fresh, refined."
She turned.
"And Dior credited India."
A ripple of surprise ran across the room—none of them expected this direction.
"Dior," she continued, "saw beauty in our motifs, textiles, silhouettes. But what about the next European house? What about the next designer? Will they credit us?"
Her voice sharpened just enough to betray frustration.
"Or will they take our fabrics, our block prints, our embroidery, rebrand them with French names, sell them at a thousand times the price—and pretend we never existed?"
Ambedkar murmured, "History repeats itself in markets too."
"Yes," she said darkly. "The British once banned Indian textile imports because our fabrics were draining their treasury. They destroyed our looms, our craftsmen, our weavers. And now, if we are not careful, we will repeat the same mistake—except this time as willing consumers."
She turned fully to Anirban.
"We will buy overpriced foreign cosmetics suited for European skin. Wear foreign designs stitched using our own motifs. Celebrate foreign luxury while our artisans die nameless."
A silence fell.
It was not empty.
It was the kind that forms right before lightning strikes.
"Prime Minister," Saraswati said quietly, "Lakmé was founded because my student—the girl who built it—believed Indian women deserved products for their own climate, their own skin, their own beauty. Not imported chalk masquerading as sophistication."
Menon nodded slowly. "A domestic luxury supply chain."
"Exactly," she replied. "Lakmé will start with skincare and beauty. But it will grow. And others will follow it. Indian textiles, Indian jewellery, Indian couture houses. If European fashion takes our identity, we create our own."
Patel snorted. "Fashion houses and cosmetics. And where do the princely states come in?"
Saraswati met his gaze directly.
"They are dying, Sardarji."
He blinked.
"The abolition of privy purses is coming. Their political authority is gone. Their revenue streams are drying. Their palaces are aging faster than their heirs can afford. If they don't reinvent themselves now, they will vanish."
"And you are telling them to…?" Patel asked.
"To invest," she said simply. "To transform themselves—not into rulers, but into custodians of culture."
She listed them off like commands:
"Repurpose palaces into hotels.
Invest in local handicrafts.
Create luxury brands rooted in their region.
Build museums instead of throne rooms.
Sponsor textile houses instead of private armies."
Ambedkar smiled faintly. "Republican monarchy, turned cultural patrimony."
"Precisely," she said. "And if they want to preserve anything of their names, they will have to contribute to the new India—not cling to the dead one."
Menon scribbled a line. "And the AMC you proposed?"
"A national Asset Management Company," Saraswati explained. "To unify management of palace assets, heritage properties, textile houses, handicraft guilds. Royals contribute their resources, government contributes oversight, and together we build a cultural economy that rivals Europe."
Patel crossed his arms. "Ambitious."
"India needs ambition in culture," she replied. "Otherwise we will end up dressing and grooming ourselves like we belong to someone else's civilization."
Anirban exhaled slowly.
Then he asked the question that had been simmering beneath the surface.
"And why bring this up now—right after we've secured Burma and Ceylon?"
Saraswati's answer came with no hesitation.
"Because protectorates are not just land. They are cultures. And if integration is to happen peacefully, gracefully, and proudly—then we must give them something to belong to, not just something to report to."
Menon murmured, "Culture as the adhesive of empire."
"Not empire," she corrected gently. "Civilization."
The room absorbed that word.
Civilization.
A word too large for speeches, too quiet for television, too ancient to fit in parliamentary debates. Yet here it was, in the air between them.
After a long moment, Patel chuckled under his breath.
"And here I thought you were only building schools and universities."
She smiled. "Schools build literacy. Culture builds loyalty."
Ambedkar tapped the table. "She is right, Prime Minister. A state survives on law. A nation survives on culture."
Anirban leaned back, studying her expression.
"And is this," he asked, "why you supported my Sports Authority of India initiative last month?"
She nodded. "Of course. You created it under the PMO to dwarf the European football club culture. To build our own leagues. Our own icons. Our own competitive identity."
Patel's eyes gleamed with mischief.
"I heard you are planning a mid-level league first," he said to Anirban, "then a nationwide league. Is that why you adopted Mohun Bagan FC?"
Menon couldn't help but grin. "The oldest club in Asia."
"The most Indian club in India," Saraswati added.
Anirban did not deny it.
"Yes," he said. "Mohun Bagan will anchor the whole system. If we want to unite a subcontinent through sport, we begin with the club that once defeated the colonizer barefoot."
Ambedkar murmured, "Symbolism matters."
"And football," Patel added, "is the opium of the masses."
"Only if we do not control its narrative," Saraswati countered.
"And we will," Anirban finished. "That's the point."
For a moment, the room felt almost warm—like a forge glowing with ideas, shaping something unseen but magnificent.
Then Anirban spoke again.
"Saraswati."
"Yes, Prime Minister?"
"You've answered what I asked—but not what I sensed."
She raised an eyebrow.
"What do you sense?"
"That you are not just building cosmetics or fashion houses," he said quietly. "You're building India's cultural armor."
Something flickered in her eyes—not pride, not victory, but relief that he finally understood.
"I am," she whispered. "Because India can win wars with soldiers. But it can only win the world… with beauty."
Anirban did not respond.
He didn't need to.
Menon looked stunned. Ambedkar looked moved. Patel looked grudgingly impressed.
CHAPTER 56 — BLOCK 2
Patel tapped his cane twice on the polished floor, the faint thuds echoing in the quiet room. His brow furrowed, not in disapproval but in that familiar mixture of curiosity and skepticism that only the Iron Man of India could produce.
"I understand," Patel said slowly, "why you are planning leagues. Football. Cricket. National infrastructure. Mohun Bagan. All that makes sense. What I do not understand is this"—he pointed his cane between Anirban and Saraswati—"why you want future states to adopt a game. Not promote. Not fund. Adopt. What does that even mean?"
There was a glimmer in Saraswati's eyes, the kind that always emerged right before she said something mischievous.
"So you did hear that part, Sardarji," she said with a playful grin, tilting her head slightly.
Patel harrumphed, "I hear everything in this building."
"Then yes," Saraswati replied with an amused little wink, "it's true."
"True?" Patel repeated. "You want states to pick their own sports as if they are picking state animals?"
Ambedkar chuckled under his breath. Menon leaned back with visible curiosity. Anirban rubbed his forehead, a laugh threatening the edge of his composure.
Finally, he surrendered with a smile.
"Well," Anirban said, "since Saraswati has outed me—yes. I do want future states to adopt sports."
Patel stared at him with a look that could best be described as I can handle wars, rebellions, and princely integration—but what circus are you creating now?
Anirban's smile widened.
"Sardarji," he said gently, "you of all people should understand. A map is not just a collection of borders. It's a collection of pride."
Patel blinked. "Pride is fine. But this seems—"
"Strategic," Saraswati finished for him. "Very strategic."
She folded her hands neatly on the table.
"Prime Minister," she said with mock formality, "since this was your idea, why don't you enlighten us?"
Anirban sighed dramatically.
"Fine. But if you laugh, I'll make you the chairperson of the National Boxing Federation."
Ambedkar burst out laughing. Menon choked slightly. Patel smirked as if challenging him: Try me.
So Anirban began.
"Look," he said, "we are about to integrate Burma and Ceylon. The Northeast is already culturally closer to Southeast Asia than to Delhi. Kashmir's aspirations are unique. The Himalayan belts have climates that mirror Europe more than the subcontinent. If we want all states—old and new—to feel part of the national fabric, we must let them express their identity in a healthy, productive manner."
Patel raised a hand. "I agree with the principle. But through sports?"
"Yes," Anirban replied. "Through sports. Through competition. Through pride that does not lead to separatism."
Menon leaned forward. "Explain the model."
Anirban walked toward the giant map on the wall—India and her protectorates lit in soft amber.
"I want each region," he began, "to specialize, based on climate, tradition, and environment."
He pointed at Kashmir.
"Kashmir and the Himalayan belts—natural ice. Natural altitude. Perfect for ice hockey, skating, winter biathlon, skiing. Instead of copying Europe, we compete with them."
Patel nodded slowly. "Hmm."
Anirban pointed next to the Northeast.
"The Northeast already breathes football. Their talent is unmatched. Their climate is ideal. So Meghalaya, Manipur, Nagaland, Assam—they become our football powerhouse. We build national academies there. Stadiums. Youth camps."
Saraswati added, "And they already have tribal sports traditions closer to East Asia—wrestling, archery, martial arts. A goldmine waiting to be organized."
Menon scribbled notes rapidly.
"And the plains?" he asked.
"Cricket," Anirban answered without hesitation. "It's already the cultural glue of the north, west, and south. But we systematize it. Regional academies. Leagues. State-owned training programs."
Then, turning back to Kashmir:
"And winter sports become the pride of the north."
Then Burma:
"Burma will excel in long-distance running, martial arts, boat racing. They will produce champions."
Then Ceylon:
"Ceylon can create elite swimmers, divers, and sailors. They're an island—they must use it."
"And football?" Patel asked, still uncertain.
"Football," Anirban replied, "will be the pan-India equalizer."
Saraswati stood beside him.
"That is why he adopted Mohun Bagan," she said. "Not because he loves football—though he does—but because Mohun Bagan is the only Indian club whose existence is a political symbol."
Menon finished the sentence with awe. "They beat the British barefoot."
Anirban nodded.
"If football is to be India's global sport, Mohun Bagan will be the anchor. The first pillar. Next year, by spring, the Indian Football League will launch. A mid-level league first. Then the nationwide league."
Patel blinked. "Spring? That soon?"
"Sport waits for no one," Anirban said.
Ambedkar leaned back, impressed. "This will build unity. Cultural pride. State identities without fragmentation."
"No," Saraswati corrected. "It will build belonging."
---
The atmosphere shifted again—subtle but powerful.
The earlier humor faded, replaced by something deeper, more contemplative. The ministers leaned into the growing vision taking shape between them—a vision not of borders or protectorates, but of civilizations integrated through culture, sport, luxury, identity, pride.
After a moment, Patel finally spoke.
"You know…" he said slowly, "when I was younger, I watched British officers obsess over their football clubs. Arsenal. Chelsea. Manchester United. They fought over them more passionately than they fought for the Empire."
He paused.
"I never understood it. Not until now."
He looked at Anirban with something akin to grudging admiration.
"You want India," he said, "to have that same madness."
Anirban smiled. "Yes. But ours will not be madness for foreign teams. It will be for Indian ones."
Saraswati added softly, "And from Balochistan to Rangoon, every child will grow up supporting a club that belongs to them—not to Europe."
Ambedkar murmured, "That is how nations are threaded."
Menon whispered, "That is how empires are softened."
Anirban turned toward the large window overlooking the circular lawns of the PMO. The noon sun cast long shadows. Tomorrow, he would face Parliament. Next week, he would review naval preparations in the Bay of Bengal. Soon, the referendums in Burma and Ceylon would demand his guidance.
But in this moment, he felt something he hadn't felt in months:
Hope that India wasn't just surviving history—
She was finally shaping it.
He spoke again.
"This is why sports matter," he said. "Not because games win wars, but because games win hearts."
Patel grunted, but this time it sounded approving.
"And what about funding?" Menon asked, always returning to the bureaucratic spine.
"States will fund their specialty sports," Anirban replied. "Kashmir funds ice disciplines. Northeast funds football. Bengal and Maharashtra fund both football and cricket. Southern states invest in athletics, kabaddi, badminton. Protectorates adopt hybrids based on their climate."
"And national leagues?" Ambedkar asked.
"By spring of next year," Anirban said. "Football and cricket both."
Patel raised his eyebrows. "Cricket too?"
"Yes," Anirban confirmed. "Cricket is our existing backbone. Football will be our future. And both leagues will run under the Sports Authority of India."
"And who will own the clubs?" Menon asked.
"A mix," Anirban replied. "Government, private investors, princely houses, universities, cooperatives. Sport must be both passion and economy."
Saraswati snapped her fingers softly. "Just like Lakmé. A domestic product with global ambition."
Anirban laughed. "Everything comes back to Lakmé with you, doesn't it?"
She smiled. "Everything comes back to identity, Prime Minister."
---
The room fell quiet again.
This time, not from heaviness, but from awe.
They all saw it—the invisible blueprint stretching from Kashmir to Rangoon, from palaces turned hotels to cosmetics made for brown skin, from football stadiums in Northeast to fashion houses in Jaipur, from silk weavers in Kanchipuram to ice skaters in Gilgit.
A civilizational ecosystem.
Not European.
Not American.
Not Soviet.
Indian.
Built not on colonization or imitation, but on restoration and imagination.
Menon closed his notebook. "Prime Minister… if we do all this, India will dominate not only geopolitics, but soft power for the next century."
Ambedkar added, "And our constitution will finally have a culture to protect."
Patel leaned back, satisfied. "Then let us begin. I will speak to the states myself."
Saraswati gathered her papers, but her eyes were softer now—perhaps from the realization that she was no longer fighting to convince anyone. They finally understood.
Anirban turned to them all.
"History has given us broken borders," he said. "But destiny is giving us a canvas."
His voice deepened.
"And we will paint it with every color of India."
---
The meeting dissolved.
Patel left with deliberate steps.
Menon left murmuring calculations.
Ambedkar left thinking about constitutional amendments.
Saraswati lingered, just long enough to meet Anirban's eyes.
"You were right to ask," she said softly. "About Lakmé. About fashion. About culture."
"And you were right," Anirban replied. "Culture is armor."
"No," she corrected gently. "Culture is sovereignty."
He did not argue.
She bowed her head and left.
Anirban remained alone for a moment, watching the sun spill over Raisina Hill.
In that brief silence, he saw a vision:
A stadium roaring with green-and-maroon Mohun Bagan banners.
A Lakmé billboard glowing in Rangoon.
A Kashmiri boy gliding over ice like a bird in winter wind.
A Manipuri girl juggling a football under monsoon skies.
A Ceylonese swimmer slicing through the ocean like a spear.
A Burman marathoner running through Mandalay at dawn.
Royal palaces reborn as museums.
Indian fabrics worn on Paris runways—with India credited by name.
A nation so confident in itself that no empire could ever define it again.
He whispered to himself:
"We will not just be a country."
Then he corrected it.
"We will be a civilization again."
Outside, a gust of wind rustled the flags.
Inside, the future stirred.
The silence stretched—soft, electric, sacred.
And that was how the first blueprint of India's future cultural empire was laid out:
In a dim room of the PMO, between a Prime Minister, a scholar, a lawyer, a bureaucrat, and a princess-turned-minister who understood that civilizations rise not only on steel and treaties—but on scent, fabric, skin, beauty, and pride.