Chapter 332: The Armada of the Maharaja
(Today I got my Form back so two chapters today ,as i told you if my minds work i can give you 2 chapters pleasantly also pls do write suggestions of world events ongoing events which i am missing like one reminded me of foxbat chapter need ,just tell me to write a chapter on something )
May 7, 1978Bombay; the Chairman's Office at Bombay House; and the specific, electrifying velocity of a national institution that had finally been violently ripped from the suffocating, incompetent grip of the state and handed back to the man who gave it its soul.
The political bloodbath in the sprawling, humid corridors of New Delhi had raged for nine agonizing months, but the war was finally, definitively over.
When Prime Minister Yashwantrao Chavan, heavily and ruthlessly backed by the terrifying, uncompromising geopolitical weight of Karan Shergill, had formally invoked the newly minted National Industrial Restructuring and Commercial Enterprise Privatization (NIRCEP) policy to sell Air India back to the Tata Group, the Indian bureaucracy had erupted in absolute, apocalyptic hysteria.
It was not a polite, procedural disagreement. It was a visceral, screaming, table-pounding revolt.
The Ministry of Civil Aviation instantly realized they were losing their ultimate, untouchable golden goose. For decades, the nationalized airline had been the private, luxurious fiefdom of the political class. It was the magical entity that provided unrestricted free First Class tickets to London for ministers' extended families, the bottomless payroll where powerful bureaucrats dumped their incompetent nephews, and the endless source of illicit kickbacks on everything from jet fuel procurement to catering contracts. When the official gazette notification was drafted, the ministry secretaries practically barricaded themselves in their offices, leaking heavily classified financial documents to the opposition press and furiously attempting to tie the transfer up in decades of supreme court litigation.
But the bureaucratic panic was merely the opening skirmish. The true, existential threat came from the streets.
Within twenty-four hours of the privatization announcement, the massive, deeply entrenched trade union bosses had declared absolute war. They threatened to paralyze the financial capital of the Republic. Across Bombay, the militant aviation unions marched on Santa Cruz Airport, carrying thousands of red flags, blocking the massive entrance gates with burning tires and linked arms. They grounded the entire fleet. They cut the power to the cargo hangars. Union leaders stood on the hoods of jeeps with crackling bullhorns, their voices echoing off the grounded Boeing 747s, screaming to the world about the catastrophic death of the socialist republic, the evils of capitalist monopoly, and the ruthless exploitation of the working class. They promised that not a single aircraft would leave the tarmac until the Tata deal was permanently, legally incinerated.
But Karan Shergill did not negotiate with political extortionists; he crushed them.
While the union bosses expected a traditional, protracted labor negotiation filled with polite government mediators and gradual concessions, Karan executed a campaign of absolute, financial asphyxiation in the shadows. He did not engage with the screaming men on the picket lines. He went directly after their oxygen.
Using the sprawling, terrifying reach of the Shergill industrial empire, Karan systematically dismantled the union blockades by quietly threatening to cut off their political funding networks at the root. He personally telephoned the regional political heavyweights who secretly sponsored the militant aviation unions. He delivered a cold, mathematically precise ultimatum: If this strike continues past forty-eight hours, Shergill Heavy Industries will permanently cancel the three multi-billion-rupee manufacturing corridors currently slated for your electoral districts, and I will personally ensure the regional banks call in every single loan your political party holds.
The political patrons, terrified of losing Karan's massive industrial capital, instantly panicked. Within hours, the shadow funding that paid for the union bullhorns, the transported protestors, and the strike rations evaporated into thin air.
Simultaneously, while Karan was ruthlessly slaughtering the union leadership's political cover in the dark, J.R.D. Tata executed a brilliant, devastating frontal assault in the light.
J.R.D. completely bypassed the corrupt, screaming union bosses. He knew that the actual men who kept the planes in the sky—the master mechanics, the veteran pilots, the exhausted cabin crews—did not actually care about Marxist political theory; they cared about their families, their dignity, and their survival.
On the second morning of the strike, the seventy-four-year-old titan bypassed the burning tires at the main gate and walked directly onto the hangar floor at Santa Cruz, entirely unescorted. The screaming stopped. The sheer, towering, aristocratic gravity of the man who had personally flown the first mail route in 1932 commanded absolute silence.
J.R.D. did not bring government lawyers. He brought cold, hard, incredibly lucrative reality. He stood before the actual workforce and laid out the "Tata Standard." He presented them with ironclad, legally binding transition packages directly underwritten by Tata Sons—a conglomerate that actually possessed infinite liquid capital, unlike the perpetually bankrupt government. He guaranteed every single existing pension. He offered comprehensive, world-class medical coverage. And then, he drove the final nail into the union bosses' coffin: he promised to instantly double their performance incentives and flight-hour bonuses, tying their personal wealth directly to the operational excellence and profitability of the airline.
"The government expects you to be a charity for their incompetence," J.R.D. had told the silent, staring crowd of pilots and engineers, his voice echoing in the massive steel hangar. "I expect you to be the greatest aviation professionals on the planet. Drop the red flags, pick up your tools, and I will make you the highest-paid, most deeply respected airline crew in Asia."
Faced with a stark, undeniable choice between the suffocating, poverty-driven stagnation of a corrupt government bureaucracy, and the immense, wealthy, meritocratic prestige of the Tata empire, the workforce instantly folded. The ideology vanished. The union bosses suddenly found themselves shouting into bullhorns at an empty parking lot, utterly abandoned by their own members.
The strike completely collapsed in three days. The burning tires were cleared, the engines spooled up, and the planes returned to the sky.
By the first week of May 1978, the ink on the sovereign transfer documents was dry. The Government of India was completely, entirely, legally gone.
Tata Sons had purchased ninety percent of the airline at a massive, rigorous independent valuation, pouring hundreds of crores into the national treasury. The remaining ten percent had been quietly but highly visibly acquired by Shergill Capital—acting strictly as a silent financial holding vehicle.
It was the exact, brilliant political armor J.R.D. had requested back in August. It legally and optically wedded the architect of India's booming new economy directly to the privatization, instantly silencing the remaining socialist critics in Parliament who could not dare accuse a "broad national industrial consortium" of being a narrow family monopoly. Yet, crucially, Shergill Capital remained completely, legally firewall-separated from Shergill Aerospace. Karan's engineering empire remained absolutely pristine, completely shielded from any accusations of operational conflicts of interest regarding future fleet procurements.
Air India was finally, irreversibly private. And J.R.D. Tata was a man reborn.
When Karan Shergill stepped out of the brass-gilded, mahogany-paneled elevator onto the top floor of Bombay House on the bright, searingly clear morning of May 7th, he could physically feel the atmospheric pressure of the building had changed.
Bombay House was the historic, beating heart of the Tata empire, a fortress of old money and aristocratic capitalism. But for the last two decades, the sprawling, wood-paneled Chairman's office had possessed the quiet, solemn, slightly funereal atmosphere of a museum.
Today, it felt like a war room.
The energy in the vast executive suite was entirely, fundamentally different from the rain-swept, deeply melancholic dinner the two men had shared in the private dining room at the Taj Mahal Palace nine agonizing months prior. The suffocating weight of bureaucratic despair had vanished, instantly replaced by the terrifying, crackling velocity of a national institution that had finally been violently ripped from the incompetent grip of the state and handed back to the man who gave it its soul.
J.R.D. Tata was seventy-four years old. He possessed the silver hair and the refined, weathered features of an elder statesman. But as Karan walked through the double doors, he saw that the old aviator was moving with the aggressive, blistering, relentless vitality of a man of forty. The haunting, exhausted look of a father helplessly carrying a dying child was completely, miraculously gone. His spine was ramrod straight. His dark eyes blazed with the fierce, absolute, unyielding authority of a titan who had just successfully stormed his own castle and reclaimed his throne.
"I fired forty-two regional directors yesterday, Karan," J.R.D. announced loudly by way of a greeting. He didn't even bother looking up from his massive, leather-topped desk, his gold fountain pen slashing viciously across a towering stack of official termination orders.
"Forty-two of them," J.R.D. repeated, his aristocratic voice dripping with a lethal, highly concentrated disdain. "Political appointees. Patronage hires. Nephews of deputy ministers. Useless, bloated government liaisons who wouldn't know the difference between a jet turbine and a ceiling fan. I cleared out the entire fourth floor of the commercial operations building in Nariman Point before lunch. I told security to give them cardboard boxes, watch them pack their desks, and explicitly told them to invoice the Ministry of Finance for their cab fare home."
Karan slowly closed the heavy oak door behind him, the latch clicking shut with a solid, satisfying finality. A dark, deeply satisfied smile crossed his face as he watched the legendary industrialist gleefully wield the axe.
"A highly productive morning, Jeh," Karan noted, his voice smooth and approving.
"It is not a restructuring, Karan. It is an exorcism," J.R.D. corrected him sharply. He tossed his expensive fountain pen onto the polished wood, stood up, and walked around the desk to greet the younger billionaire.
They shook hands. It was not a polite corporate greeting; it was a firm, heavy, bone-crushing grip between the two apex predators who now effectively, entirely commanded the sovereign skies of the Republic of India.
"I am aggressively, violently purging twenty-four years of accumulated, parasitic bureaucratic rot," J.R.D. declared, his eyes shining with a magnificent, terrible joy. "We are literally ripping out the peeling, government-issued carpets in the airport lounges. I am personally reviewing the flight logs, and I am permanently grounding any senior pilot who fails the new, brutal simulator evaluations I instituted this morning. If they cannot handle a crosswind landing without crying for the autopilot, they will never wear my uniform again. We are throwing the government service manuals into the incinerator and completely rewriting them from scratch. The Maharaja is no longer a depressed, underpaid civil servant, Karan. He is royalty again."
"And how is the actual workforce reacting to the bloodletting?" Karan asked, walking over and taking a seat in a plush leather armchair opposite the massive desk, crossing one leg over the other.
"The bureaucrats in Delhi are weeping to the press, but the engineers, the mechanics, and the actual flight crews? They are electrified," J.R.D. said, his voice ringing with pure, unadulterated operational pride.
J.R.D. leaned against the edge of his desk, looking down at Karan. "I walked the hangar floors at Santa Cruz Airport at three in the morning last night, completely unannounced. I wanted to see the night shift. When those master mechanics—men who have kept our planes from falling out of the sky despite the government's best efforts to bankrupt them—realized that they no longer had to fill out twelve triplicate forms in triplicate, wait for three different departmental stamps, and bribe a clerk just to requisition a simple replacement hydraulic valve... Karan, they cheered. They actually cheered."
J.R.D. took a slow, deeply contented breath, the air of his reclaimed empire filling his lungs.
"We are rapidly restoring the soul of the airline, Karan," the Chairman said softly, the fierce anger momentarily giving way to profound reverence. "But restoring the soul... fixing the service, cleaning the cabins, empowering the mechanics... that is only the first, necessary step."
J.R.D. pushed off the desk and walked slowly across the vast office. He moved toward a massive, custom-built, steeply angled architectural drafting table positioned directly beneath the large, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the bustling, sun-drenched, chaotic streets of Bombay's financial district.
"A world-class service culture, impeccable uniforms, and brilliant mechanics mean absolutely nothing if the aircraft themselves are flying scrap metal," J.R.D. stated, his tone instantly shifting from the joyful zeal of a corporate restructuring to the cold, heavy, multi-billion-dollar reality of deep industrial strategy.
He looked out the window, his jaw tightening. "For the last decade, the Ministry of Civil Aviation ordered airplanes for Air India like a terrified, impoverished clerk buying bruised fruit on a severely restricted budget. They bought two frames here, three frames there. It was never based on route efficiency or aerodynamic supremacy. It was entirely, pathetically dependent on which foreign government was willing to offer the most heavily subsidized export-import loan terms that fiscal quarter. We ended up with a fragmented, Frankenstein fleet of mismatched Boeing and Airbus airframes that are a logistical nightmare to maintain and pilot."
J.R.D. turned away from the window. He looked directly at Karan, his dark eyes locking onto the aerospace magnate with the absolute, unblinking intensity of a general preparing to cross the Rubicon.
"I am not buying groceries anymore, Karan," J.R.D. vowed, his voice a low, thrilling rumble that seemed to vibrate the very glass of the windows. "I am building a global armada. And I want to build it exclusively with you."
Karan stood up slowly from the leather chair and walked deliberately across the Persian rug toward the drafting table.
He knew exactly what this meeting was. The geopolitical table had been set perfectly. Shergill Aerospace had spent the past two years aggressively, violently dominating the global aviation market, shattering the long-held Western duopoly of Boeing and Airbus. Foreign flagship airlines across Europe, the wealthy capitals of Southeast Asia, and the oil-rich kingdoms of the Middle East had been flying Shergill jets for the past six months. Their executives and chief pilots were actively marveling at the unprecedented, physics-defying fuel efficiency of the Sadhak-Max engines and the hyper-advanced, lightweight composite structural superiority of the Indian frames.
Even the dying, government-owned iteration of Air India had previously managed to place a modest, heavily politically constrained, budget-approved order for a handful of Shergill narrow-body frames.
But Karan knew that what J.R.D. Tata was about to propose this morning was absolutely not a state-subsidized, modest, incremental fleet renewal. This was the unleashing of the Tata Group's massive, hoarded treasury. It was a private-sector, multi-billion-dollar capitalization designed to conquer the sky.
J.R.D. reached out and unrolled a massive, heavy, highly detailed blue-ink architectural blueprint across the slanted wooden surface of the drafting table, pinning the curling corners down with solid brass paperweights.
The sprawling schematic detailed the complete, bleeding-edge, three-tiered strategic civilian airliner fleet that Karan's sprawling industrial empire was currently producing. "I have spent the last three agonizing, exhilarating weeks obsessively mapping Air India's new global route network," J.R.D. explained, his voice vibrating with a barely contained, highly kinetic energy. He tapped his index finger sharply against the intricate, sweeping route diagrams bordering the massive document on the drafting table. "We are drastically, violently expanding our footprint. I am personally taking a scalpel to the timetable. We are permanently cutting the unprofitable, politically mandated vanity routes to secondary bureaucratic outposts, and we are heavily, aggressively doubling our flight frequencies on the high-yield, high-density international commercial corridors. But to execute this global strategy, Karan, I cannot use a fragmented, patched-together fleet of mismatched airframes. I need absolute, uncompromising, specialized operational uniformity. I need your entire ecosystem."
J.R.D. leaned over the slanted wooden table.
The blueprint was a masterpiece of industrial art—a stunning, highly classified blue-ink manifesto detailing the complete, three-tiered strategic civilian airliner fleet that Karan's sprawling empire was currently producing. It was covered in complex geometric cross-sections, comparative fuel efficiency progressions, and highly advanced TBC Optimization Analysis graphs.
J.R.D. pointed a perfectly manicured finger at the top right quadrant of the massive schematic, his eyes locked onto the sleek, utilitarian profile of the regional jet.
"First. The domestic trunk routes and the hyper-dense regional Asian corridors—Singapore, Bangkok, Dubai, and the Gulf," J.R.D. specified, stepping flawlessly into the role of a supreme fleet commander strictly outlining his operational theater. "The sheer, crushing passenger volume on these specific sectors requires blistering turnaround times, extreme high-cycle durability, and an aggressive, unparalleled fuel economy that previous generations of aircraft simply cannot physically provide. For this theater, I need the Type 60 Saras."
He traced the elegant, aerodynamically optimized lines of the 6-across hull plan of the regional narrow-body airliner explicitly detailed on the blueprint.
"The internal structural dimensions perfectly match our exact required configuration for a high-turnover, dual-class regional cabin," J.R.D. continued, his mind already visualizing the boarding procedures. "I am entirely throwing out the aging, fuel-guzzling, maintenance-heavy narrow-bodies that the government so clumsily procured. I want the Saras to form the absolute, unbreakable, high-frequency spine of our entire regional network. It will be the workhorse of the new Air India."
"The Type 60 production lines at the Gorakhpur industrial complex are currently running at absolute maximum, three-shift capacity just to fulfill the newly signed export orders from the European flag carriers, Jeh," Karan noted quietly. He wasn't discouraging the older man; he was purely establishing the sheer, staggering industrial scale of the request. "To allocate capacity for a domestic carrier, I need to understand the magnitude. What exact volume are you looking at?"
"I am not placing a phased, incremental order, Karan. I am placing a mass order," J.R.D. said, his voice entirely devoid of a single trace of hesitation, possessing the absolute financial confidence of the Tata treasury. "I want sixty frames of the Type 60. Firm order. No options. No letters of intent. Hard contracts, with delivery staggered sequentially over the next thirty-six months."
Karan didn't blink. He didn't flinch. But behind his calm, dark eyes, his brilliant mind instantly calculated the tectonic impact of the numbers. The sheer, staggering size of that narrow-body order alone would instantly, overnight, make the privatized Air India one of the largest, most formidable private commercial operators on the entire Asian continent.
"Sixty frames," Karan confirmed, his voice smooth and absolute. "Done. I will authorize the immediate, round-the-clock construction of a third, dedicated, heavily automated assembly line at the Gorakhpur complex strictly to handle your specific volume."
"Good," J.R.D. said, barely pausing to acknowledge the multi-billion-rupee commitment before moving his finger decisively down the massive blueprint to the lower-left quadrant. "Second tier. Our primary, high-density intercontinental routes. London, Paris, Frankfurt, Nairobi. These trans-continental sectors require a massive, undeniable leap in raw passenger capacity and dedicated, heavy cargo holds. But they do not require the ultra-long-range fuel loads of a trans-oceanic flight."
He tapped the sleek, muscular, incredibly aerodynamic twin-engine profile of the Type 90 Samudra.
"The long-range wide-body," J.R.D. specified, reading the 'Strategic WIDE-BODY Fuselage' annotations on the schematic. "I have not just looked at your sales brochures, Karan. I have obsessively, quietly monitored the raw flight logs and the dispatch telemetry of the foreign airlines who have been flying the Samudra for the last six months. Its dispatch reliability is flawless. The engine core performance is staggering. I need the 220-to-290 passenger strategic capacity configuration."
J.R.D. traced the twin-aisle cross-section. "This specific twin-aisle wide-body fuselage provides exactly the cavernous internal volume we desperately need to reintroduce true, sprawling, uncompromised spacious luxury into our international business class. And crucially, we will heavily utilize the dual, climate-controlled lower cargo holds for high-yield, high-margin commercial freight—pharmaceuticals, precision textiles, and electronics moving daily to Europe. The cargo belly alone will pay for the flight before a single passenger even buys a ticket."
"How many?" Karan asked, his mind already shifting gears, rapidly calculating the massive supply chain logistics required for the massive, highly complex ultra-high bypass Sadhak-Max engines required to power the heavy twin-jet.
"Forty frames," J.R.D. commanded, his tone absolute steel. "The Type 90 will completely, ruthlessly replace every single aging airframe in our medium-long haul fleet. I do not just want to compete in Europe, Karan. I want Air India to absolutely, undeniably dominate the European airspace. When an international passenger steps off a rainy tarmac in Heathrow and crosses the threshold of my aircraft, I want them instantly surrounded by the absolute, undeniable peak of modern aerospace volume and Indian hospitality."
One hundred aircraft.
In any other corporate boardroom in the world, an order of one hundred state-of-the-art, bleeding-edge jetliners in a single morning would be the absolute, undisputed crowning achievement of a Chief Executive's entire career. It would be the kind of procurement that triggered front-page headlines across the globe.
But J.R.D. Tata was absolutely not finished.
He stood up straight. His dark eyes burned with a fierce, blinding ambition that completely transcended mere commercial profitability or market share. He looked up from the Type 90 profiles and locked eyes directly with Karan Shergill.
"And finally, Karan. The flagship," J.R.D. whispered. His voice was thick with a profound, almost spiritual reverence for the colossal machine he was about to command.
He moved his hand to the extreme top left of the massive blueprint, resting his palm almost tenderly over the colossal, awe-inspiring, dominating profile of the Type 120 Himalaya.
"This is the aircraft that fundamentally changes the world," J.R.D. said softly, his eyes scanning the staggering specifications of the ultra-long-range super-wide-body airliner. "The government bureaucrats could never, in a million years, comprehend the strategic necessity of an aircraft this massive. They thought small. They thought in terms of limits. But Air India's historical destiny is not to merely connect to Europe and stop. Our destiny is the non-stop, unbroken, absolute dominance of the trans-oceanic corridors. New York. Tokyo. San Francisco."
J.R.D. looked at Karan, stepping away from the romance of flight and speaking strictly of his airline's most brutal, highly demanding, unforgiving operational requirements.
"My premier New York route currently requires an agonizing, humiliating technical stopover in Europe for refueling," J.R.D. explained, his face tightening as he mapped out the logistical nightmare. "It wastes incredibly valuable time, it physically exhausts our premium passengers, it exposes us to foreign airport delays, and it absolutely destroys our operational financial margins. I need to obliterate the stopover. I need to erase it from the map. I absolutely, non-negotiably require the 15,000-kilometer unbroken, unrefueled range that only the Himalaya can physically provide."
He tapped the four massive engine nacelles rendered on the blueprint. "I need the sheer, terrifying, physics-defying thrust of the four Sechak-Max-II ultra-high bypass engines to physically push a fully loaded, massive composite frame straight through the highest altitude headwinds and jet streams without a single, fleeting compromise in structural safety."
J.R.D. then traced the massive, double-deck-capable dimensions of the Type 120's sprawling fuselage. "And I need the massive 330-to-450 passenger capacity. Because Karan, when the new Air India flies direct, non-stop from Bombay to New York... we are not just transporting people in a metal tube. We are transporting a flying, high-altitude, five-star hotel. I need the massive physical square footage to install full-service, walk-up lounges. I need the space for fully enclosed, private first-class suites. I need the plumbing and power for advanced galley kitchens that can flawlessly serve multi-course, plated meals at forty thousand feet. The Himalaya is the absolute only airframe on the face of the earth that meets my exact, uncompromising requirements."
Karan looked at the older man, feeling a deep, resonating wave of profound, almost overwhelming respect. This was exactly, precisely what he had promised J.R.D. back in August. The old lion wasn't aggressively cutting costs to please shareholders. He wasn't looking for budget alternatives. He was demanding the absolute, uncompromised, bleeding-edge pinnacle of human engineering to violently reclaim his legacy.
"The Type 120 is the most complex, massive, unforgiving commercial machine we have ever engineered, Jeh," Karan said quietly, ensuring the Chairman fully understood the gravity of the manufacturing reality. "It is a titan. It requires a highly specialized, deeply classified supply chain matrix that stretches across three continents just to source the advanced metallurgical composites required to prevent sheer stress on the wing-roots."
"I do not care how hard it is to build, Karan. You are the architect of this era. You have the factories. Build it," J.R.D. demanded fiercely, his voice ringing with the absolute authority of a man who refused to hear the word 'impossible'. "I am placing a firm, unyielding, fully funded order for thirty Type 120 Himalayas. I want them assembled flawlessly. I want them painted in the pristine, immaculate livery of Air India. I want the Maharaja smiling proudly on the towering tailfin of the largest, most magnificent aircraft to ever pierce the sky."
Karan took a slow, incredibly deep breath, the sheer, astronomical scale of the transaction fully settling into his mind.
Sixty narrow-body regional jets. Forty long-range twin-aisle wide-bodies. Thirty ultra-long-range, four-engine super-wide-body flagships.
A total, combined order of one hundred and thirty state-of-the-art, next-generation aircraft.
It was a multi-billion-dollar capital expenditure that would instantly, violently, and permanently rewrite the entire global aviation hierarchy. It was the largest single private commercial aviation order in the history of the modern world, dwarfing the procurement strategies of the wealthiest Western carriers.
And it was not happening in Seattle. It was not happening in Toulouse.
It was happening in a wood-paneled office in Bombay.
"You have your fleet, Chairman," Karan vowed, his voice a low, heavy rumble as he formally, irrevocably accepted the monumental contract. "Shergill Aerospace will deliver every single frame. Down to the final rivet, to your exact, uncompromising specifications."
J.R.D. Tata slowly closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, letting the immense, staggering, emotional reality of the moment finally wash over him. For twenty-four long, humiliating, agonizing years, he had been forced to beg arrogant, incompetent politicians for financial scraps just to keep the lights on.
Today, using his own private capital and his own sovereign will, he had just purchased an absolute empire of steel, composite, and thrust.
"Thank you, Karan," J.R.D. said softly, opening his eyes. His voice was thick with a deep, profound gratitude that completely transcended mere business or corporate strategy. "Without your ruthless political leverage in Delhi... without your absolute, unyielding insistence to the Prime Minister that Indian aviation must be set free... Air India would have died a slow, miserable, bureaucratic death in the dark. You have given me my life's work back."
"I didn't give it back to you, Jeh," Karan corrected him softly, a dark, brilliant, deeply respectful smile touching his face. "You bought it back. I merely ensured the politicians got out of your way before you ran them over."
J.R.D. smiled, a genuine, radiant expression. He turned away from the massive blueprint and looked back out the window, gazing over the sprawling, chaotic, violently beautiful expanse of Bombay. The monsoon was still weeks away, and the sky above the Arabian Sea was a brilliant, blinding, infinite blue.
"For decades, Karan, I was brutally forced to watch our national carrier operate with a clipped wing," J.R.D. murmured, his hands clasped firmly behind his back, his posture immaculate. "I was forced to apologize to the world for technical delays. I was forced to accept a terrifying standard of mediocrity. I was forced to stand on the tarmac and smile politely while deeply inferior, foreign airlines arrogantly claimed the sky that rightfully belonged to us."
The old aviator turned slowly back to Karan, and the fire in his dark eyes was absolute, unyielding, and terrifyingly bright. It was the fire of a man who was about to conquer the globe.
"No more apologies," J.R.D. Tata declared, the immense, physical weight of the new steel armada anchoring his sacred vow. "When these Shergill jets enter my fleet, the entire world is going to look up. And they will finally, undeniably know that the Maharaja has returned."
Karan stepped forward and stood beside him, looking out through the glass at the exact same infinite sky.
The brutal, exhausting political wars in the capital had been fought and won. The massive assembly lines in Gorakhpur were roaring with the sound of cutting steel and composite curing. The private capital had been violently, aggressively deployed.
There was massive, staggering, earth-shaping work to do to build one hundred and thirty aircraft.
There always was.