**April 2, 2002**
**Sharma University, Rewari**
The morning sun filtered through the office blinds, casting thin, wavering stripes across the desk, but it did little to lift the weight pressing on my chest. I sat hunched over financial reports, the pages crisp and cold under my ink-stained fingers, numbers glaring up at me in stark black. Sharma University was teetering—barely meeting payroll, lab supplies, the electric bill. My 115% mind—sharp as a blade since Sunday's boost—crunched the figures fast: revenue trickling, expenses bleeding. I'd dreamed big—a new library wing, R&D labs gleaming with possibility—but these reports mocked me, each digit a brick crumbling my plans.
I leaned back, the chair creaking under me, and rubbed my temples, the faint scent of yesterday's cigarette lingering on my jacket. "How do we climb out of this?" I muttered, voice rough in the quiet. Selling wasn't an option—the System tied me here, its boosts a lifeline I couldn't cut. Then it hit me, a spark flickering in my 115% brain: computers. I'd soaked up Jatin's Oxford tech seminars, my 2025 knowledge layering over it—operating systems, code, interfaces. What if I built an OS? Something lean, fast, sellable. It could pull us out of the red—not today, but soon. A month, maybe, if my boosts kept climbing, feeding off student feedback. I'd call it "VedaOS"—knowledge distilled, Vedic and sharp.
A sharp knock snapped me out of it. "Come in," I called, straightening up, brushing ink off my hands. The door creaked open, and Rahul burst in, his wiry frame buzzing with energy, notebook clutched tight, graphite smudging his kurta. His eyes—wide, bright—darted behind his mop of dark hair. "Sir, I did it!" he blurted, voice cracking with excitement. "I solved something—big!"
I blinked, pulse quickening. "Slow down, Rahul. What'd you solve?" First Raman with the Riemann Hypothesis, now this? He thrust the notebook at me, pages crinkled, scribbled with sums and fractions. I scanned it—γ, the Euler-Mascheroni Constant, lim_{n→∞} (H_n - ln(n)). "You're telling me you proved it's irrational?" I asked, voice low, disbelief threading through.
"Yes, sir!" he said, bouncing on his heels. "I used continued fractions—see here, γ = [0; 1, 1, 2, 1, 2…], no pattern. If it's p/q, q(H_n - ln(n)) should settle, but it oscillates—contradiction!" My 115% mind raced over his work: harmonic sums, integrals, the divergence clear as day. He'd cracked it—a problem unsolved since Euler. I clapped his shoulder, dust rising, a grin breaking through. "Rahul, this is huge. We're getting this published."
---
**April 3, 2002**
Wednesday dawned gray, clouds heavy over Rewari. I met Rahul in my office after classes, a steel tiffin of Kamla's parathas between us, their buttery scent a balm against the financial gloom. "They're buzzing out there—Raman, now you," Kamla said, sweeping by, her mustard sari swishing, jasmine trailing. I nodded, sipping chai from a chipped mug, its warmth steadying me as Rahul spread his notebook. "Let's polish this," I said, my 115% mind already framing it—*"Proof of the Irrationality of the Euler-Mascheroni Constant"*.
He fidgeted, pencil tapping. "Sir, will they take it seriously? I'm just… me." His voice wavered, raw with doubt. I leaned forward, meeting his eyes. "Rahul, you're not 'just' anything. This is genius—your genius. They'll see it." He swallowed, nodding, and we dove in—my fingers typing fast, his words tumbling out, nervous but sure.
That afternoon, I slipped into the computer lab, dust motes dancing in the dim light, the hum of old machines filling the air. My VedaOS project started here: a kernel, basic drivers, a dream of efficiency. Three percent done, I figured, scribbling notes—115% wasn't enough yet. I needed more, from the kids, from the System.
---
**April 4, 2002**
Thursday, the canteen buzzed with whispers. "Rahul's got something too—Jatin's behind it," a third-year said, tea sloshing in his mug, steam curling up. I overheard, smirking as I passed, boots crunching gravel. In the office, Rahul and I refined his proof, my 115% catching a typo—q = 100, not 1000—in his convergence test. "Tighten this," I said, pointing, ink smudging my finger. "Show the oscillation clear—qγ - p > 1/n, growing wild." He nodded, pencil flying, sweat beading on his brow.
In the lab, I coded late, the screen's glow harsh on my eyes, fingers tapping keys with 115% speed. A boot sequence flickered—3.5% now—but it crashed, a hiss escaping me. "One month," I muttered, rubbing my neck. "If the boosts hold."
---
**April 5, 2002**
Friday's sun warmed the campus, cutting through the gray. Vikas poked his head in mid-morning, glasses fogged. "Jatin, what's with these kids? First Raman, now Rahul?" I grinned, papers flying under my hands. "They're waking up, Vikas." He nodded, half-smiling, and left, footsteps heavy. Outside, a volleyball player tripped, the ball bouncing into dust, his laugh ringing—105% stamina lagging, but I felt a flicker of his skill in my hands, 115% weaving it in.
Rahul and I polished his paper, adding rigor: "For γ rational, q(H_n - ln(n)) - p must bound below 1, but terms diverge—e.g., n = 10^6, q = 1000, error > 2—proving irrationality." "It's solid," I said, pride swelling. "We'll send it Monday." He beamed, shy but fierce. In the lab, VedaOS crept to 4%, a file system sketching out—slow, but alive.
---
**April 6, 2002**
Saturday, I wandered to the sports ground, the air cooling fast. A cricket bat splintered mid-swing, the crack sharp, the bowler groaning, "Third this month!" "Sir, bat with us?" he called. I swung a few, leather cracking against wood, dust rising under my boots, their cheers lifting me. My 115% hummed—stronger, sharper.
Back in the office, Rahul waited, nervous energy crackling. We typed his final draft, my 115% speed clicking keys, his voice steadying: "The continued fraction's chaos seals it—γ can't be p/q." We printed it, the machine's hum a quiet victory, ink sharp on paper. "I owe you, sir," he said, glasses slipping. I clapped his shoulder, dust rising. "You owe yourself, Rahul." In the lab, VedaOS hit 5%—a shell prompt blinked. Two months, I reckoned—unless boosts climbed faster.
---
**April 7, 2002**
Sunday, we emailed Rahul's paper to the *Journal of Pure and Applied Mathematics*, his hand trembling as he hit send, the screen's glow catching relief in his eyes. "It's done," I said, grinning as he exhaled, tension melting. That night, on the porch, cigarette smoke curled into the breeze, the System chimed.
[*Mind Matrix: 80 of 150 students studied seriously. 53% participation. Students at 120%. Host cognition at 120%.*]
[*Body Matrix: 55 of 59 students trained seriously. 37% participation. Students at 120%. Host physicality and skills at 120%.*]
A rush surged—thoughts crystalline, VedaOS code replaying effortlessly; body humming, a bat's swing vivid in my muscles. Twenty percent now. A breeze swept campus, students sighing by the canteen, their 120% minds calm under the fading light.
---
**April 8, 2002**
Monday, I strode to campus, boots crunching gravel, my 120% mind whirring—Rahul's paper sent, finances dire, VedaOS at 5%. In the lab, I typed faster, lines of code snapping into place, the OS creeping to 6%. One month, I recalculated—boosts at 5% weekly, 150% by May 6, enough to finish. Rahul met me, pride in his step. "Thank you, sir," he said, voice firm. "You're next, Rahul," I said, clapping his shoulder, dust rising.
The office smelled of ink and chai, the reports still grim. But with Raman, Rahul, and VedaOS, I saw a lifeline—slow, but real. These kids were mine, their sparks lighting my way out of the shadows.