**April 15, 2003**
**Agni University, Rewari**
The spring sun blazed high over Rewari, its heat seeping through the office window at Agni University, casting a sharp glow across Jatin's desk—piles of contracts, a chipped mug of chai, and a small sample of dark, glossy plastic road material. He sat hunched over blueprints, his chair creaking faintly, his fingers—rough with ink and calluses—tracing lines as sweat beaded on his brow.
These past weeks had been a whirlwind. Through Neha's relentless hustle, he'd snagged Bharadwaj Constructions for 20 lakhs, a steal for its contracts, labor, and dusty equipment sheds near Gurgaon. He'd rechristened it Baba Construction, the name a nod to resilience, its sign now gleaming over a modest office buzzing with workers.
Jatin had plunged into the work, his mind alight with A-level physics and B-level chemistry, refining a prototype from Rajagopalan Vasudevan's plastic road vision—2025 memories sharpened by his own grit. In a rented lab, he'd melted Delhi's plastic waste—bottles, bags, wrappers—mixing it with bitumen, tweaking ratios under a hissing burner, the air thick with chemical tang.
The result gleamed—a road slab, tough as steel, its life stretched to 15 years, 40% cheaper than tar alone. He'd tested it under a borrowed truck, tires rumbling, the surface unyielding, his grin raw and wide as he'd slapped the dust off his hands, the prototype a triumph of memory and math.
Now, Baba Construction hummed—laborers hauling gravel, machines grinding plastic, roads sprouting in Gurgaon's outskirts, their dark sheen a quiet revolution. Jatin leaned back, boots scuffing the tiles, and flipped through reports—three small contracts secured, village paths and a bypass, but he craved more, Delhi's sprawl a goldmine of need.
He'd learned the game—bribes flowed like chai, smooth and necessary. Politicians in crisp kurtas pocketed lakhs, their nods greasing tenders; government clerks smirked as cash changed hands, stamps thudding on permits. "Bloodsuckers," he muttered, voice rough, the chai mug warm as he sipped, its bitterness a mirror to his mood.
The office thrummed with purpose—Neha's voice crackled over the phone, chasing bigger contracts, her sandals a distant echo. Jatin stood, stretching, the chair groaning, and crossed to the window, pushing it wide. Below, Agni's campus pulsed—students laughing, dust swirling, the neem tree rustling in the breeze.
Baba Construction's trucks rumbled somewhere, laying plastic roads—cheap, durable, eating Delhi's trash. His 1.5 crore dwindled, but profits loomed, he earned 5 lakhs profit from one road project. Also the construction of academy and football field which have 10 thousands seats for people watching has been 90 % completed.
In the past month, he'd built Bhumi into reality. Neha had sniffed out a textile factory in Gurgaon—teetering on bankruptcy, its looms silent—and Jatin snapped it up for 1 lakh, a bargain for its bones. He'd poured cash into it—new equipment humming, workers hired from Gurgaon's labor pools, their hands soon to weave Radhika's parali cloth into life.
Bhumi Biobags stood ready, its factory sprawling near Baba Construction's buzz, the swastika of Agni etched on its gate. Jatin had tested the process—parali fibers spun into sturdy yellow sheets, stitched into bags—strong, biodegradable, a shield against plastic's chokehold. Production loomed, set to start in days, the air ripe with chemical tang and promise.
He sipped his chai, its warmth fading, and grinned—Bhumi's bags would replace plastic, a market ripe for the taking. Early runs cost more—5 rupees per bag against plastic's 2 rupees in 2003 India, labor and setup gnawing his 1.5 crore—but scale would flip it. Mass production would slash costs—bulk parali at 50 paise per kilo, machines churning 10,000 bags daily, dropping it to 1.5 rupees per bag, undercutting plastic's flimsy reign.
The math sang in his S-level mind—raw parali free from farmers, transport at 10 paise per kilo, processing at 30 paise, stitching at 60 paise—profit blooming as volume soared. Delhi's shops, drowning in plastic at 2 rupees a pop, would turn, Bhumi's bags cheaper, tougher, earth-kind. He'd sell at 1.8 rupees, pocketing 30 paise each, millions in reach.
Jatin stood, boots thudding, and crossed to the window, pushing it wide. Below, Agni's campus thrummed—students laughing, dust swirling, the neem tree swaying. Baba Construction's plastic roads stretched nearby, Bhumi's factory gearing up—bags to join roads, trash turned treasure.
He'd aced it—Bharadwaj became Baba for 20 lakhs, now laying 15-year roads; a failing textile plant reborn as Bhumi for 1 lakh, soon flooding markets. Neha's voice echoed from a call—contracts hunted, bribes paid—his empire weaving tight. The chai mug sat cold, his grin raw and steady, Agni's fire blazing—step by relentless step.
**Microsoft Headquarters, Redmond, USA**
The late afternoon sun sank beyond the sprawling Microsoft campus in Redmond, its last rays glinting off the glass tower where Bill Gates sat in his office, a fortress of screens and sleek furniture. Papers littered his desk—reports, charts, a cold coffee mug—his jaw tight with fury as he glared at the CEO, Steve Ballmer, standing before him.
Jatin was building his empire in Rewari—Baba Construction's roads, Bhumi Biobags' hum—but here, thousands of miles away, Bill's world trembled. "What's the progress with Vedic Technology?" he snapped, voice sharp as a blade, leaning forward, his chair creaking under his restless weight. "Are they ready to sell VedaOS or not?"
Steve shifted, sweat beading on his brow, his suit rumpled from pacing. "Sir," he said, voice low, barely a whisper, "they've declined the offer." His eyes darted to the floor, fear curling in his gut as Bill's face darkened, a storm brewing behind his glasses.
"Declined?" Bill roared, slamming a fist on the desk, papers scattering, the mug rattling. "You can't do one small thing? Pressure them—do anything—but I want that operating system!" His shout echoed off the glass walls, the air thick with his rage, the campus's hum a distant murmur beyond.
Steve swallowed, hands clasped tight, and ventured, "How about hacking? The source code?" His voice trembled, knowing the answer, the weight of failure pressing down as Bill's glare sharpened, cutting through the room's sterile chill.
"We can't penetrate it," Steve admitted, quieter now, shoulders slumping. "Our best hackers—dozens of them—say it's a wall. They can't crack VedaOS." The words hung, a confession of defeat, Microsoft's might stalled by an Indian upstart's code, its infinity logo a taunt.
Bill's fury erupted, his chair scraping as he stood, towering over the desk. "Idiots!" he bellowed, voice a thunderclap, fists clenched. "They can't do such a small thing?" His eyes blazed, the coffee mug trembling as he swept it aside, its clatter sharp against the silence that followed.
Steve flinched, the room stifling, Bill's rage a living thing—Vedic Technology's refusal, Ananta's 70% browser grip, a thorn in Microsoft's side. Jatin didn't hear, didn't know, his Rewari office calm, chai steaming, empire rising—step by steady, blazing step.