A thin whistle cut through the damp morning air.
It came from a boy no older than sixteen, his lips pursed around a tune half-learned, half-invented.
He rolled a wooden drum along the cobblestones, the round shape bumping and wobbling before settling back on course. The boy's shoulder swayed with the motion, his boots slapping against puddles left from the night's rain.
Behind him, more boys did the same — some rolling barrels, others balancing them on edge and thumping them forward with open palms. The air smelled of coal smoke and salt, the twin breath of the port.
Beyond them, a ship's hull loomed like a black wall, thick ropes sagging from its side. Dockhands shouted in clipped English, voices muffled under the hiss of steam pipes. Somewhere up the street, a cart creaked under a load of tea chests, their stenciled letters dripping from the fog.
The boy's whistle faltered as a man in a long coat passed by — pale face, stern jaw, a ledger tucked under his arm. His boots didn't splash; they landed like stamps.
The boy glanced after him, curiosity sparking.
That man's coat bore the faint smell of spices.
The man's eyes flicked to the boy for only a second, pausing at the glint of the cheap brass watch on his wrist.
His voice was low, but it carried:
"East India Company's shipments have arrived."
The boy's hands tightened on the drum's rim. Around them, men glanced up from their barrels and crates, the rhythm of work slowing for a heartbeat.
A cork popped somewhere nearby. The sharp scent of wine cut through the coal smoke.
From the gangplank of the ship, a broad-shouldered man emerged, boots thudding on the planks as if the whole dock were his quarterdeck.
He walked with the sway of someone who'd faced storms and won.
A sailor passed him a bottle, the glass still beading with sea damp. He tilted it back and drank deep — half a bottle gone in one pull, a final swallow clearing his throat.
The last drops stained his moustache red before he stepped onto the cobblestones.
The last drops stained his moustache red before he stepped onto the cobblestones.
He glanced at the bottle in his hand — no more than a crimson smear left at the bottom — then with a lazy flick, sent it clattering onto a crate stamped in black letters:
CALCUTTA — TEA, SPICES, TEXTILES.
The glass rolled once, catching the thin British sun, before settling against the wood.
"Clear the way," he growled without raising his voice.
And they did.
Men shifted, barrels scraped, and the smell of wet rope and brine followed him as he strode into the narrow streets beyond the docks.
From behind, the boy with the drum whispered to another, "That's Captain Hargreaves. They say in India, the ground shakes when he's angry."
---
In a high-ceilinged British mansion, the morning light spilled through tall windows, pooling over a grand oak table.
A world map sprawled across it, the coasts inked in deep navy, trade routes like veins running across the paper.
Beside it lay a set of intricate blueprints — a steam locomotive, but unlike any he had seen before. Sleeker, denser, every bolt and piston precisely annotated.
Near the hearth, a British man sat forward in a leather chair, spectacles sliding down the bridge of his nose.
The fire popped once as he turned the page, eyes narrowing on the words written in an oddly flowing script.
The signature at the bottom read: L. Chandra.
He muttered under his breath,
"Who… in God's name… is this L. Chandra?"
His fingers tightened on the paper. The designs spoke of efficiency at least tenfold the best models of the Royal Railways — yet the measurements… they were unconventional, almost foreign in their reasoning.
Before the thought could settle, a distant commotion rose beyond the mansion gates — the sound of carriage wheels on cobblestone, followed by a voice carried in from the street.
At the city's largest bank, a banker's cry rang out, sharp and indignant:
> "We've been scammed… by a female monkey from India!"
The words echoed down the street, drawing stares and whispers, but no one knew yet that the threads of this insult and the mystery of L. Chandra were already weaving into the same web.
Back in India—deep in the humid south—a boy in royal attire walked steadily across the palace courtyard, a worn Chinese manuscript clutched under his arm.
Behind him, a sudden blast split the air. The tiled roofs trembled, smoke curling upward in a slow, menacing spiral. The scent of gunpowder drifted through the warm breeze.
Indian soldiers froze in shock, their murmurs rippling through the courtyard.
The mantris stood in awe.
One whispered, "Our prince has returned… after gaining the divine will from China."
The prince spared the blast only a brief glance.
From the gates, an envoy emerged, flanked by the rhythmic bhalla of drums and cheering soldiers. Bowing low, he delivered urgent news:
"Rajakumar Raman, word from the Rajputs—they plan to take their revenge… without us."
The Raman's gaze did not linger.
"Lagta hai unhone akele angrezo se ladne ka socha hai," he murmured, almost dismissively.
Then, his eyes sharpened, fixed on the northern horizon.
"Keep watch on their kingdom."
---
In a small Village, far from the prince's reach, a big old tree casting shadow at British office shed its dry leaves like silent rain. Beneath it, Laksh's shoes splashed through a shallow puddle, the muddy scent of the street rising with each step…