Inheriting the University

March 1, 2002

9:00 AM

The morning sun hung low over Rewari, casting long shadows across the dusty streets as I stood in the courtyard of Jatin's house—my house now, I reminded myself.

The air carried a faint chill, a whisper of winter still clinging to early spring, and I pulled the collar of Jatin's worn leather jacket tighter around my neck.

In my hands, I held the keys to his Royal Enfield Thunderbird, its sleek black frame gleaming faintly under the soft light. Jatin had loved this bike—his memories told me that much.

The rumble of its engine, the feel of the wind whipping past him as he rode, it had been his escape, his joy. I could feel a flicker of that excitement stirring in me now, blending with my own restless energy as I prepared to head to Sharma University.

I'd spent the last day sorting through the fragments of this new life, piecing together who Jatin Sharma had been and what I'd inherited from him.

The leather-bound folder with the university deed and his grandfather's will had been a revelation—a concrete anchor in the surreal storm I'd been thrown into.

Sharma University was mine, whether I wanted it or not. The plan was still to sell it, to liquidate everything and chase the future I knew was coming.

But first, I needed to see it for myself, to understand what I was dealing with.

Curiosity, or maybe some stubborn streak from my old self, wouldn't let me walk away without at least looking.I swung my leg over the bike, settling into the seat.

The leather was cool against my thighs, worn smooth from years of use. I turned the key, and the engine roared to life, a deep, throaty growl that vibrated through my bones. For a moment, I just sat there, letting the sound wash over me, feeling the pulse of the machine beneath me.

It was alive, raw, and real—something solid in a world that still felt like a dream. I kicked up the stand, twisted the throttle, and rolled toward the gate.The iron gate creaked as I pushed it open, the hinges groaning from years of rust and neglect.

I guided the bike out onto the narrow street, the tires crunching over loose gravel, when a familiar voice called out.

"Hey, Jatin! How are you, beta?" I turned my head and saw Tiwari Uncle standing in the doorway of his general store, a small, cluttered shop just across the road.

He was a wiry man in his late fifties, with a thick mustache and a warm smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes.

Jatin's memories flared up—he'd known Tiwari Uncle since he was a kid, sneaking over for candy after school, later chatting about cricket scores or the weather.

The old man had been a constant, a friendly face in a life that had seen too much loss.

"Uncle, I'm fine," I said, my voice steady despite the strangeness of speaking with Jatin's tongue.

"How are you?""I'm good, I'm good," he replied, stepping closer and wiping his hands on a faded cloth tucked into his waistband.

"Where are you off to so early this morning?"I hesitated, then decided there was no point in hiding it.

"I'm going to visit the university," I said, resting my hands on the bike's handlebars.Tiwari Uncle's eyebrows shot up, his smile widening.

"Oh-ho! So you're going to inherit Sharma University? Take it over and run it now?"I nodded, keeping my tone casual.

"Yeah, I'm thinking about it." It wasn't a lie—not exactly. I was thinking about it, just not the way he assumed. Selling it was still the goal, but I'd play the part for now.He clapped his hands together, delighted.

"Good, good! Your grandfather would be proud, Jatin. That university was his heart. He always said you'd do big things." His voice softened, a flicker of sadness crossing his face.

"He missed you when you were at Oxford, you know. Talked about you all the time."The words hit harder than I expected, a pang of something—guilt, maybe—twisting in my chest.

I hadn't known Dr. Ramesh Sharma, not really, but Jatin had. His memories carried the old man's voice, deep and firm, his rare laughter, the way he'd ruffle Jatin's hair even when he was too old for it. I swallowed, forcing a small smile.

"Thanks, Uncle. That means a lot."We chatted for a few more minutes—about the weather, the price of tea, a stray dog that had been sniffing around the store. Normal, grounding things.

Tiwari Uncle's easy warmth made it hard not to like him, and by the time I waved goodbye and kicked the bike into gear, I felt a little steadier.

The engine growled as I pulled away, the wind tugging at my jacket as I headed toward the university.The ride took about thirty minutes, the narrow streets of Rewari giving way to wider roads lined with fields and scattered houses.

The Royal Enfield handled beautifully, its steady hum blending with the rhythm of my thoughts. I let Jatin's muscle memory guide me, the turns and dips of the route familiar to his hands even if they were new to my mind.

The air smelled of earth and faint smoke, the horizon stretching out flat and endless under a pale blue sky. It was peaceful, in a way Delhi never had been.When I reached Sharma University, I slowed the bike, taking it all in.

A large iron gate loomed ahead, the words "Sharma University" arched across the top in bold, weathered letters.

Beyond it, the campus sprawled out—a modest but functional setup.

Three main buildings stood in a loose triangle: the office building in the center, a lecture auditorium to the left, and a lab and computer building to the right.

A small canteen sat off to one side, its roof sagging slightly, and a wide, open ground stretched out behind, marked with faint lines for cricket and volleyball. It wasn't grand—not like MIT or even Delhi University—but it had a quiet dignity, a sense of purpose etched into its bones.

Students trickled through the gate, their voices a low hum as they carried books and backpacks.

There weren't many—maybe a hundred or so, far fewer than I'd expected. They looked young, eager, some casting curious glances my way as I rolled the bike into the parking area and cut the engine.

I swung off, my boots crunching against the gravel, and took a deep breath. The air here was cleaner than in town, tinged with the faint scent of grass and chalk dust.In the center of the campus stood a statue—a ten-foot-tall figure of Saraswati, the goddess of knowledge, carved in white stone.

Her serene face gazed down at the grounds, a veena resting in her hands, her pedestal surrounded by a low platform of cracked cement.

Jatin's memories stirred again—he'd touched that base countless times as a student here, a quiet ritual of respect before exams or big days.

I found myself doing the same, my fingers brushing the cool stone as I murmured a half-remembered prayer under my breath.

"Saraswati Maa, give me clarity," I whispered, feeling a little foolish but oddly comforted.

As I straightened, I caught a few students watching me—girls, mostly, clustered near the auditorium building. Their whispers carried on the breeze, soft giggles and curious glances.

"Who's that?" I heard one say. "He's handsome—new student, maybe?" Another laughed.

"No way, he looks too serious." I kept my expression neutral, ignoring the heat creeping up my neck, and started toward the office building.

Inside, the air was cooler, the walls lined with faded notices and a few framed photos of past events.

A middle-aged woman sat at a reception desk, her hair pulled back in a tight bun, her eyes sharp behind thick glasses.

She looked up as I approached, sizing me up with a practiced glance.

"Yes? What work do you have here?" she asked, her tone brisk but not unfriendly.

"I'd like to meet Vice Principal Mohan Das," I said, resting my hands on the edge of the desk.She nodded, gesturing to a chair.

"Wait here." She disappeared into an inner office, her footsteps echoing faintly, and returned after a couple of minutes. "You can go in now."I stepped into Mohan Das's office, the door creaking as I pushed it open. He was a stout man in his early sixties, with a neatly trimmed beard and tired eyes that brightened when he saw me.

"Jatin!" he exclaimed, rising from his chair.

"My boy, it's good to see you." He clasped my hand in both of his, his grip firm and warm.

Jatin's memories filled in the blanks—Mohan Das had been his grandfather's right-hand man, a steady presence at the university for years. He'd known Jatin since he was a gangly teenager, cheering him on through his studies.

"Uncle Mohan," I said, returning the handshake.

"It's good to see you too."He waved me to a chair, settling back into his own with a small groan.

"So, why are you here? Come to inherit the university? Take your grandfather's place?"I nodded, keeping my voice even.

"Yeah, I'm planning to take it over." The words felt heavier than I'd meant them to, but Mohan Das didn't seem to notice. His face lit up, a mix of relief and pride washing over it.

"Good, good," he said, leaning forward.

"This place hasn't been the same since your grandfather passed. We've kept it running, but it needs someone with vision. He always said you'd come back for it."

The sincerity in his voice tugged at me, but I pushed it aside. Vision wasn't the plan—profit was.

Still, I let him talk, nodding as he filled me in on the university's state: enrollment was down, funds were tight, but the staff was loyal and the students hardworking. When he finished, he clapped his hands together.

"Let's introduce you properly. The staff and students should know their new principal."Before I could protest, he was on the phone, arranging a meeting with the teaching staff. Within an hour, I found myself in a small room with a dozen teachers—men and women with weathered faces and curious eyes.

Mohan Das beamed as he explained that I, Jatin Sharma, was inheriting the university and stepping into the principal's role. Surprise rippled through the group, followed by cautious smiles and murmured congratulations.

I shook hands, exchanged pleasantries, and tried to ignore the growing weight in my chest.Next came the students.

Mohan Das led me to the auditorium, a cavernous space with rows of wooden benches and a stage at the front. The students filed in, their chatter filling the air with a restless buzz. They looked confused, whispering to each other as they took their seats.

I stood off to the side, hands in my pockets, feeling the weight of their stares as Mohan Das stepped up to the microphone.He spoke briefly, his voice steady and clear, recounting Dr. Ramesh Sharma's passing and the university's struggles since. Then he turned, gesturing to me.

"And now, I'm proud to introduce your new principal—Jatin Sharma, grandson of our founder, returned from Oxford to lead us forward."A ripple of surprise ran through the crowd, eyes widening as I stepped onto the stage.

I was young—too young, probably, for a role like this—but I squared my shoulders and took the mic.

"Hello, everyone," I began, my voice echoing slightly in the room.

"I'm Jatin Sharma. I studied physics at Oxford, and before that, I was a student here, just like you. I know this university means a lot to Rewari, and I'm going to do my best to improve it—to make it a place where you can learn, grow, and succeed."

It wasn't a long speech—just five minutes, simple and to the point. I didn't promise miracles, just effort. The students clapped, some with enthusiasm, others with polite skepticism, and then they were dismissed, streaming out in a wave of noise and energy.

I stepped off the stage, exhaling, and turned to Mohan Das.

"Uncle, can you arrange the inheritance process? Get the university officially in my name?"He nodded, patting my shoulder.

"Of course. Give me three days—it'll be done."For the next three days, I threw myself into the role. I shadowed Mohan Das, sat in on classes, reviewed budgets and schedules.

The university was small—barely 150 students, a skeleton crew of teachers, and buildings that needed repairs—but it had heart. The students were earnest, the staff dedicated.

I told myself it didn't matter—I wasn't staying—but a part of me couldn't help admiring what Jatin's grandfather had built.

March 4, 2002On the fourth day, Mohan Das knocked on the door of the principal's office—my office now—and stepped inside, a stack of papers in his hands. "It's done," he said, setting them on the desk with a satisfied smile.

"Sharma University is yours, Jatin. Officially."I flipped through the documents, the weight of the deed and title settling into my hands.

My name—Jatin Sharma—stared back at me in crisp black ink, binding me to this place. I opened my mouth to thank him, but before I could, a voice cut through the room—clear, mechanical, and unmistakable.

[Congratulations, Host, for becoming a Principal and owning a University. The System has been activated.]

I froze, my breath catching in my throat. Mohan Das didn't react—he hadn't heard it. The voice was in my head, just like before, sharp and precise. I stared at the papers, my pulse quickening as the words sank in. The System. It was real, and it was awake.

"What the hell," I muttered under my breath, my hands tightening on the desk. Mohan Das raised an eyebrow, but I waved him off with a forced smile.

"Just… tired. Thanks, Uncle. This means a lot."He nodded, oblivious, and left me alone with the documents—and the mystery now humming in my mind.

The System had started. Whatever it was, whatever it wanted, I was in it now. One impossible step deeper.