First Step
**Location: Mandi, Himachal Pradesh**
**Jatin's Ancestral House**
**Date: August 28, 1940**
Jatin sat at the worn wooden desk in his grandfather's study, the blueprint for the *Basic Biofuel Energy* system glowing faintly on the Tech System's translucent screen before him. The kerosene lamp flickered, casting a warm halo over the scattered papers—scribbled notes, sketches of pipes and tanks, a roadmap for the month ahead. His heart thrummed with a renewed purpose, the pieces of his plan clicking into place like the gears of a machine he'd spent years dreaming of. The lake's murky despair, the villagers' weary faces—they haunted him, but now they fueled him too. He dipped his pen into the inkpot, the scratch of nib on paper a quiet anthem as he outlined his next steps, each word a vow to the land and its people.
The lake remained his first battleground. In a month, the filtration materials would arrive—sand, gravel, carbon, and more—enough to build a system that could breathe life back into the poisoned water. He imagined it vividly: a lattice of pipes snaking along the shore, tanks humming with purpose, filtration beds sifting out decades of filth. He'd be there, hands in the dirt, sweat on his brow, ensuring every layer was perfect. No shortcuts, no mistakes—this was too important.
But the biofuel system tugged at his mind too, a second front opening before the first was won. He traced the schematic with his finger—digesters, methane traps, a marvel of efficiency born from waste. It needed more than blueprints, though. He'd have to rally the village, set up collection points for cow dung and kitchen scraps, teach them how to feed the beast and keep it running. He pictured weathered hands scooping dung into carts, children giggling as they hauled baskets of peelings—a community woven into the work, not just beneficiaries but builders.
Money, though, loomed like a storm cloud. The filtration materials had carved a 10,000-rupee chunk from his inheritance, leaving him with 40,000. The biofuel unit's 500-point cost was paid, but building each one would take 1,000 rupees—50 to 60 units to light Mandi and beyond, a staggering 50,000 to 60,000 rupees he didn't have. His pen paused, ink pooling on the page. He couldn't lean on his dwindling funds forever; he needed income, a river of rupees to keep this dream alive.
A company—that was the answer. He leaned back, the leather chair creaking, and let the idea bloom. *Sharma Energy Pvt. Ltd.*, a name that rang with pride, could sell electricity and fertilizer from the biofuel units, turning waste into wealth. Another, *Varsha Pvt. Ltd.*—his mother's name a soft ache in his chest—could purify and distribute water, a lifeline for every home. But this was British India, a land where every step forward meant tangling with the Raj's greedy fingers. Licenses, permits, bribes—he'd have to dance their dance, at least for now.
The thought twisted his gut. His grandfather's stories echoed—British officers bleeding villages dry, looms smashed to prop up Manchester's mills, famines engineered by cold calculation. Jatin's jaw tightened, his voice a low growl in the empty room. "They stole everything—our wealth, our rivers, our lives. I'll make them choke on their own greed someday." But he caught himself, exhaling sharply. Anger was a fire he couldn't let burn wild—not yet. He'd play their game, smile through gritted teeth, and build something they couldn't touch.
---
The next morning, Jatin stepped into the village, the air buzzing with the clatter of carts and the chatter of merchants. He found Raju near the well, haggling with a wiry man over a sack of grain. The old servant's turban was askew, his hands gesturing wildly, but he straightened when he saw Jatin. "Young Master! I was just—"
"Raju," Jatin cut in, his tone warm but firm, "I need you to come with me today. We're going to the British office in town. I'm starting two companies—energy and water. We'll need licenses, and I can't do it alone."
Raju's eyes widened, then crinkled with a grin. "Companies? Like the sahibs in Shimla? You're full of surprises, beta." He clapped the grain seller on the shoulder—"We'll finish this later, eh, Kishan?"—and fell into step beside Jatin, his stride quick despite his years.
The British administrative office squatted at Mandi's edge, a squat brick building with peeling whitewash and a Union Jack drooping in the heat. Inside, the air was stale, thick with tobacco smoke and the drone of ceiling fans. Jatin clutched his meticulously prepared documents—pages of intent, diagrams, signatures—and approached the counter, Raju hovering like a shadow at his side.
The officer, a paunchy man with a sweat-stained collar and a mustache like a tired broom, barely glanced up from his ledger. "Name?" he barked, his accent clipped and impatient.
"Jatin Sharma," Jatin replied, sliding the papers forward. "I'm registering two companies—Sharma Energy Pvt. Ltd. and Varsha Pvt. Ltd. Here's everything you need."
The officer—Mr. Hargreaves, his desk plate read—peered at the documents through smudged spectacles, his lips pursing. "Energy, eh? And water? Ambitious for a native." He leaned back, folding his arms. "Licenses aren't cheap, you know. Takes time, too. Weeks, maybe months."
Jatin's stomach sank, but he'd expected this. He leaned closer, lowering his voice. "I'd like it expedited, sir. I'm prepared to… assist with the process." He slid an envelope across the counter—20,000 rupees, half his remaining fortune, wrapped in brown paper.
Hargreaves' eyes flicked to the envelope, then back to Jatin, a smirk tugging at his mouth. "Practical lad. Alright, two weeks. Come back then." He snatched the papers and the bribe, waving them off like flies.
Outside, Raju spat into the dust, his voice a hiss. "Thieves, all of them. Twenty thousand rupees for a stamp? Your grandfather would've boxed his ears."
Jatin managed a tight smile, clapping Raju's shoulder. "It's a tax we pay now, Uncle, so we don't pay with our future later. Come on—we've got work to do."
---
The next ten days blurred into a frenzy of sweat and steel. Jatin threw himself into building the first biogas unit, a prototype rising behind his ancestral house. He hauled pipes alongside a burly blacksmith named Dev, whose calloused hands moved with a craftsman's grace. "Never seen anything like this, Sharma-ji," Dev grunted, hammering a joint into place. "You say it'll light my forge? No more charcoal?"
"Better than charcoal," Jatin promised, wiping grime from his brow. "Cleaner, stronger. You'll see."
He recruited a wiry teenager, Arjun, to dig trenches for the pipelines snaking into the village. Arjun's gap-toothed grin flashed as he shoveled. "My ma thinks you're mad, sir, but I told her you're a genius. She'll believe me when the lamps glow!"
The villagers gathered as the unit took shape, their murmurs a mix of curiosity and doubt. An old woman, Kamla, her sari patched and faded, squinted at the digester tank. "What's this contraption, beta? Looks like a demon's belly. Will it eat us?"
Jatin crouched beside her, his tone gentle. "No, Aunty, it eats dung and scraps—turns them into fire for your stove, light for your home. I saw it work abroad. It's safe, I swear."
Her frown softened, but she poked his arm. "Foreign tricks, eh? Better not blow up my kitchen."
The cost came up at a village meeting under the banyan tree, the air thick with skepticism. A farmer, Ramesh, his turban askew, crossed his arms. "Two rupees a month? I feed my family on five for a whole month with wood and kerosene. Why pay for your magic gas?"
Jatin stood, meeting their eyes—70 households, 70 pairs of wary gazes. "Try it free for a month," he offered, his voice steady. "Cook with it, light your homes. If it's not worth two rupees after that, I'll shut it down myself."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. A woman, Lila, cradling a toddler, spoke up. "Free? No tricks?" Her husband nodded beside her, his face etched with years of toil.
"No tricks," Jatin said, smiling. "Just a chance."
---
The biogas unit roared to life ten days later, a soft hiss filling the air as methane flared in a test lamp. The villagers crowded around, gasps turning to cheers as the flame burned steady and bright. Lila boiled water in minutes, her toddler clapping at the stove's clean glow. Ramesh lit a lantern, its light spilling over his weathered face. "By the gods," he muttered, "it's like daylight indoors."
Jatin watched from the edge, his chest tight with something like joy. Seventy households—140 rupees a month starting next month. In a year, his 1,000-rupee investment would return, then turn to profit. He'd build more, spread the light further.
But as the crowd thinned, he pulled Ramesh and Lila aside, his voice low. "Listen, don't brag about this—not yet. The British don't like us getting ahead. Keep it quiet, alright?"
Ramesh nodded grimly. "Seen what they do to uppity types. Lips sealed, Sharma-ji."
Lila hugged her child closer, whispering, "Our secret, beta. Thank you."
---
A week later, the filtration materials rolled in on creaking carts—sacks of sand, barrels of carbon, pipes glinting in the sun. Jatin stood with Raju, hands on his hips, a grin breaking through the exhaustion. "We're ready, Uncle. Water next, then the world."
Raju chuckled, clapping his back. "Your grandfather's spirit's laughing up there, young master. Let's get to it."
The villagers gathered, curious eyes on the pile. Jatin saw Kamla nudge Dev, whispering, "Told you he's no madman." Arjun darted over, grinning. "Water now, sir? Clean like the hills?"
"Soon," Jatin promised, his gaze sweeping the crowd—his people, his purpose. This was the start, a spark in the dark, and he'd fan it into a blaze no Raj could snuff out.