**May 7, 2002**
**Sharma University, Rewari**
The morning sun hung high over Rewari, its heat seeping through the office window, softening the edges of the wooden desk where Jatin sat. A faint breeze rattled the blinds, carrying the distant hum of students spilling out from their last exam hall, their voices a mix of relief and chatter. He leaned back in his chair, its familiar creak a steady companion, the scent of ink and yesterday's chai lingering in the air. His fingers, rough from weeks of coding and grading, traced the edge of a financial ledger—VedaOS sales ticking up, $300 last week, more trickling in daily. His 140% mind—boosted to a razor's edge on Sunday—hummed with numbers, plans, pride. Today was the final exam; two months of holidays loomed, and for the third-years, a gauntlet of tests awaited: GATE, CUET, XAT, MAT, GRE, JAM.
The brass clock on the wall—still dead, a relic of Grandfather Sharma—mocked the hour, but his watch read 12:45 p.m. The campus buzzed outside, a living pulse he felt through the floorboards. Jatin stood, brushing dust off his jacket, the faint burn of last night's cigarette still on his fingertips. "Time to see them off," he muttered, voice low and gravelly, a grin tugging at his lips. He grabbed a stack of notes—scribbled with 140% clarity—and strode out, boots thumping the worn corridor, the air thick with chalk dust and the earthy tang of Rewari's soil.
At 1:00 p.m., the third-years trickled out of their last exam—Advanced Calculus—their faces flushed with exhaustion and triumph, kurta sleeves rolled up, dupattas loosened. Jatin called out, voice cutting through the din: "All third-years—classroom 3B, now!" Thirty-two students—18 boys, 14 girls, a small but fierce cohort—shuffled in, their sandals scuffing the tiled floor, benches creaking as they settled. The room smelled of sweat and paper, the blackboard streaked with faded equations, a single fan whirring lazily overhead. Jatin stepped to the podium, its wood chipped and warm under his palms, and looked out at them—eyes bright, some shy, others bold, all carrying the weight of a good exam behind them.
He cleared his throat, the sound rough in the quiet, and began, his voice steady but warm, like a fire crackling to life. "First, congratulations—your exams are done, and I saw those papers. You've done yourselves proud." A ripple of smiles spread, a few cheers breaking out—Raman, in the back, ducked his head, glasses slipping, while a girl with a braided ponytail clapped softly, her bangles jingling. Jatin's grin widened, pride swelling in his chest like a tide. "You've worked hard, and it shows. But this isn't the end—it's the start."
He leaned forward, hands gripping the podium, dust motes dancing in the sunlight slanting through the window. "You're third-years now—two months ahead, holidays, yes, but then the real tests: GATE, CUET, XAT, MAT, GRE, JAM. These aren't just exams—they're doors. To IITs, IIMs, Oxford, MIT. To careers that don't just lift you but lift India. We've been underestimated—our ancient knowledge stolen, branded as theirs—but you're proving them wrong. Raman, Rahul—they've shown the world we're not to be messed with. You can too."
The room stirred, a quiet fire kindling. Rahul, near the front, sat straighter, his wiry frame taut with purpose, graphite still smudging his fingers from his last paper. A boy in a faded green kurta—Arjun, lanky and sharp-eyed—nudged his friend, whispering, "He's right—we could do it." A girl in a blue dupatta, Priya, bit her lip, her hands twisting the edge of her notebook, eyes gleaming with hope but shadowed by doubt. Jatin saw it—the spark, the fear—and his 140% mind clicked: money. Their families—farmers, weavers, shopkeepers—couldn't bear the fees of elite schools, the rents of far-off cities.
He took a breath, the air tasting of chalk and anticipation, and raised his voice, firm but gentle. "I know what you're thinking—'How? My family can't pay for it.' Listen: if you take these exams—national, international—and clear them, I'll cover it all. Fees, accommodation, travel. Every rupee." A gasp rippled through, benches creaking as students leaned forward, eyes widening. Priya's hands stilled, her breath catching, while Arjun's jaw dropped, a grin breaking free. "Sir, you mean it?" he blurted, voice cracking with disbelief. Jatin nodded, dust rising as he tapped the podium. "I mean it. You've got the brains—I've got the means."
His thoughts raced, 140% weaving the math: VedaOS sales—$10 a pop, 40 last week, more daily—could fund this. Thirty-two students, even to Oxford, was doable—$20,000, maybe, spread over years. He'd afford it, and more, as VedaOS grew. "You're a small group," he said, voice softening, "but you're mine. I've seen what you can do—Raman cracked Riemann, Rahul took down Euler-Mascheroni. You're next. Prove yourselves, and I'll carry you there."
The room erupted—cheers, claps, Priya's bangles jingling louder as she joined in, tears glinting in her eyes. Raman smiled shyly, Rahul punched the air, his pencil stub rolling off the bench with a soft clatter. A third-year in the back—Kunal, broad-shouldered, usually quiet—stood, voice booming, "Sir, we'll make you proud!" Laughter followed, warm and raw, the fan's whir drowned by their joy. Jatin's chest tightened, a lump rising in his throat—he was happy, happier than he'd been in months, the weight of the university's struggles lifting, if just for a moment.
---
**Outside the Classroom**
Beyond the walls, the campus buzzed with its own life. Kamla Aunty swept the corridor, her broom swishing rhythmically, a faint hum on her lips as she caught snippets of Jatin's speech through the open door. "That boy—he's giving them wings," she murmured, her sari catching the light, jasmine scent trailing as she paused to listen. At the canteen, two second-years lingered over chai, mugs clinking as they gossiped. "Third-years got Sir's promise—fees paid!" one said, tea sloshing as he gestured. "He's got money now—VedaOS, they say," the other replied, steam curling up, eyes wide with awe.
Vikas, passing by, adjusted his glasses, overhearing. "Jatin's building something bigger than this place," he muttered, a half-smile tugging his lips as he scribbled a note—maybe he'd push his own physics kids harder. On the sports ground, the lanky bowler kicked at the dust, his splintered bat a memory, grinning as he recounted Jatin's swings. "Sir's got our backs—third-years are flying!" he said, his friend nodding, sweat glinting on their brows.
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**Inside Jatin's Mind**
Jatin stepped off the podium, boots scuffing the tiles, the students' cheers still echoing in his ears. He clapped Rahul's shoulder as he passed, dust rising, the boy's grin fierce and bright. "You set the bar, Rahul—keep it up," he said, voice low, warm. Rahul nodded, clutching his notebook, graphite smudging his kurta anew. Priya lingered by her bench, her voice soft as she approached. "Sir, my father—he's a tailor. He'd never dream of this. Thank you." Her eyes shone, and Jatin smiled, gentle. "Dream it now, Priya—he'll see it come true."
He walked back to his office, the corridor quiet now, the air thick with chalk and the faint tang of ink from his hands. His 140% senses caught every note—the rustle of leaves outside, the distant clatter of a bicycle, the warmth of the chai mug he'd left behind. VedaOS hummed in his mind—80% friendlier, a decade ahead, earning rupees daily. Forty sales last week, more today—he'd check tonight, but for now, it was enough. Enough to lift these thirty-two, to build the library, the R&D labs, to prove India's worth.
He sank into his chair, the creak a welcome sound, and lit a cigarette, smoke curling into the slanting light. The ledger sat open—grim, but less so now. The third-years' faces flashed—Raman's shy pride, Rahul's grit, Priya's hope, Arjun's spark, Kunal's boom. "They'll do it," he whispered, exhaling, the smoke stinging his eyes. Exams done, holidays ahead, but their fire wouldn't dim. Neither would his.
The campus settled into dusk beyond the window, a breeze carrying the faint scent of neem and chai. Jatin leaned back, boots scuffing the floor, and smiled—a rough, real thing. These kids were his, and they were soaring, step by steady step.