**March 14, 2003**
**Agni University, Rewari**
The morning sun filtered through the office window at Agni University, casting a soft glow across Jatin's desk, strewn with papers, a cooling mug of chai, and Radhika's yellow cloth sample glowing like a promise. Jatin sat back in his chair, its creak a quiet rhythm, his fingers tracing the fabric's weave as Radhika stood before him, her dupatta fluttering slightly in the breeze from an open window.
He'd spent the night reviewing her process—cellulose extracted from parali, spun into fibers, tested for strength—its details sharp in his photographic memory, a gift of his B-level potential. The air smelled of dust and chai, the campus humming beyond with students' chatter and the distant clang of construction, but here, a new spark burned.
"Radhika," Jatin said, voice steady, leaning forward, "I'll invest in your invention. I'll handle the licenses, company setup, factory—everything. I'll take 55% stake, you get 45%. You don't have to lift a finger." His eyes met hers, the cloth soft in his grip, its yellow hue catching the light.
Radhika's jaw dropped, her hands trembling as shock flashed across her face, joy chasing close behind. "Sir?" she whispered, blinking fast. Universities usually claimed more—research on their turf, their tools—but 45% was hers, a fortune from parali's dust. Her voice steadied, "Sir, I have no problem."
Jatin grinned, raw and wide, and set the cloth down, the desk warm under his palms. "Good. What's the company name? Any ideas?" He tilted his head, the chai mug's steam a faint curl, his mind already spinning—factories, markets, a new stream to refill his 1.5 crore well.
Radhika paused, her sandals scuffing the tiles, then smiled shyly. "Sir, I want Bhumi—my mother's name. It means earth, fits the cloth." Her voice softened, pride threading through, the yellow fabric a bridge between her past and this moment.
"Bhumi," Jatin repeated, nodding, the name grounding him. "Good choice. Now, go to your classes. I'll set up Bhumi—factory near Gurgaon, licenses, all of it. One or two months, it'll be ready." His tone was firm, the plan clicking into place, a physical venture at last.
Radhika beamed, relief washing over her, and turned, her dupatta swaying as she slipped out, the door clicking shut behind her. Jatin sat alone, the office quiet save for the fan's hum, happiness swelling in his chest—this was it, a new way to earn, small now but a seed for the future, 5-10 years a game-changer.
He grabbed the phone, its cord twisting as he dialed Neha, his voice sharp when she answered. "Neha, set up a company—Bhumi. Buy factory land near Gurgaon, start construction, handle licenses—move fast." She'd make it real, his 1.5 crore stretching to Bhumi's roots, Agni's fire spreading—step by steady, blazing step.
The late afternoon sun dipped low, casting a warm amber glow through the office window at Agni University, bathing Jatin's desk in soft light. He sat back in his chair, its familiar creak a steady pulse, the yellow cloth from Radhika's parali invention still resting beside a cooling mug of chai.
Her breakthrough had ignited something in him—a flicker of possibility, a way to turn small ideas into rivers of profit. His mind, sharp with S-level math, A-level physics, and B-level chemistry, buzzed with potential, dormant from months of relentless work—VedaOS, Ananta, schools, academies—leaving no room for invention.
He sipped his chai, its warmth fading, and stared at the cloth, the campus humming outside—students' laughter, the rustle of a neem tree. Radhika's success whispered to him: he could create, profit, build. His high potential ached for release, but time was a thief, stealing his hours.
For two or three minutes, he leaned forward, elbows on the desk, papers crinkling, his brow furrowed as he wrestled with ideas—what to invent, what to forge? His brain burned, a furnace of equations and reactions, until a spark flared, bright and simple, cutting through the haze.
Why strain for originality when the future's blueprint lay within him? He grinned, raw and wide, the chai mug clinking as he set it down—Rajagopalan Vasudevan, the "Plastic Man," flashed in his memory, a 2025 echo. Vasudevan's plastic roads—waste turned to durable, cost-effective pavement—glowed as a beacon.
Jatin's mind raced—roads were gold mines, costly to build, fat with profit. Delhi choked on plastic daily, a future mountain of garbage looming, while its underbelly and beyond craved roads—new highways, village paths, urban veins. Plastic roads could slash material costs, devour waste, and outlast bitumen, a triple win.
He stood, boots thudding on the tiles, resolve hardening. "Plastic roads," he muttered, voice rough, the swastika of Agni burning in his vision—sustainable, strong, his next blaze. Delhi's trash would pave its growth, his 1.5 crore stretching further, Bhumi's roots deepening alongside.
But a shadow loomed—contracts and labor. Starting from scratch meant months, resources he couldn't spare, the football field's 60% skeleton already mocking his purse. He needed speed, a foothold, not a slow grind. His hand grabbed the phone, cord twisting as he dialed Neha.
"Neha," he said, voice sharp when she picked up, "find a road construction company we can buy—fast. Look near Delhi, Gurgaon, anywhere close. I want plastic roads, and we're not building from nothing." She'd hunt, her sandals tapping a fierce beat, his empire pivoting—step by steady, blazing step.