The Paper’s Pulse

**March 26, 2002**

**Sharma University, Rewari**

The morning sun crept over Rewari, spilling a soft golden haze across the campus, and I stood on the porch, the Royal Enfield gleaming beside me, a cigarette smoldering between my fingers. The smoke curled upward, sharp and bitter on my tongue, but it couldn't dim the grin tugging at my lips. My mind and body thrummed at 110%—weekly boosts locked in since Sunday—and half the university, 75 of 150 students, burned with effort. I flicked the cigarette into the dust, sparks skittering across the cracked earth, and swung onto the bike, the engine's growl a steady heartbeat as the cool March air whipped at my jacket.

I parked by the office, the engine ticking as it cooled, and strode inside, boots thumping on the worn wooden floor. The familiar chaos greeted me—exam papers stacked high, ink smudging my fingers as I sorted them with a speed that still jolted me. My 110% mind sliced through tangles like a blade through cloth, a timetable snapping into place in minutes where it once took an hour. I leaned back, the chair creaking under me, a low laugh bubbling up. This was the System's gift—mine every Sunday, climbing higher with each week's chime.

At noon, Kamla Aunty shuffled in, her mustard sari a bright splash against the dim room, her broom swishing softly as she paused by the desk. "Jatin, beta, you're too fast—check your email," she said, nodding at the ancient computer humming in the corner. "Something fancy came." I raised an eyebrow, her knowing smile a quiet anchor, and logged in, the screen flickering to life. An email from the *Journal of Number Theory* stared back, my pulse quickening as I opened it—Subject: *Clarification Requested: Riemann Hypothesis Submission*. They'd reviewed Raman's proof, needing clarification on a section by April 1. "Kamla, get Raman here," I said, voice steady despite the thrill racing through me. She nodded, jasmine trailing her as she left, broom still swishing.

Across the world, in a cluttered London office, the email's origin stirred. Priya Patel, a junior editor at the journal, had sifted through submissions that morning, her chai cooling in a chipped mug as she scrolled. Raman's paper—*"A Proof of the Riemann Hypothesis via Contour Integration"*—stopped her cold. The name "Sharma University, Rewari" rang no bells, but the abstract's audacity—solving a 143-year-old riddle—hooked her. She grabbed her laptop, chai sloshing, and marched to her superior, Dr. Henry Whitaker, a graying mathematician hunched over proofs. "Sir, you need to see this," she said, shoving the screen under his nose. He squinted, glasses slipping, then muttered, "Bloody hell, a contour trick? Email them—clarify the bounds. Now." Priya nodded, typing fast, the email pinging to Rewari by midday.

In the canteen, a first-year dropped his chai, the clay cup shattering, tea splashing his sandals and pooling in the dust. "Exams!" he groaned, friends tossing him a rag as laughter rippled, steam curling upward. My 110% mind sidestepped the echo of my own clumsier past, sharpened now beyond such spills.

---

Raman burst in ten minutes later, his faded kurta patched at the elbows, glasses slipping down his nose as he clutched his notebook, pencil marks smudging his trembling fingers. "Sir, what's wrong?" he asked, voice tight with nerves. I turned the screen, watching his eyes widen, then dart with panic as he read the email. "They liked it, Raman, but there's a snag—notation in the contour integral section. We've got till Monday," I said, clapping his shoulder, the rough fabric warm under my palm. His 110% mind—two weeks of boosts—flickered with fear, then resolve. "Let's fix it," he whispered, sinking into the chair beside me.

---

**March 27, 2002**

Wednesday's gray dawn brought a restless edge. I met Raman after classes in my office, a steel tiffin of Kamla's parathas between us, their buttery scent mingling with the chai steaming in chipped mugs—a lifeline against the late hours ahead. "They're working hard out there," Kamla had said, nodding at the window as she'd left, her broom's swish a soft rhythm in the background. I sipped the tea, its warmth cutting through my fatigue, while Raman pored over his proof, his pencil tapping nervously against the desk.

The Riemann Hypothesis loomed large—did all non-trivial zeros of ζ(s) = Σ(1/n^s) lie on the critical line, real part ½? Raman's approach hinged on the functional equation, ζ(s) = 2^s π^(s-1) sin(πs/2) Γ(1-s) ζ(1-s), paired with a novel contour integral. My 110% mind scanned it fast: the issue was in the boundary condition of his integral, ∫_C f(z) dz, where C traced a semi-circle in the complex plane. He'd written the upper bound as Re(s) > 1, but the journal flagged it—did it hold for 0 < Re(s) < 1? "Here," I said, pointing, my voice calm as ink stained my finger. "You assumed convergence too broadly. Shift the contour to account for the critical strip, and test s = 0.6 + it."

Rahul lingered by the Saraswati statue, wrestling a calculus problem, muttering, "If Raman can, I can," his 110% focus etching lines in his brow as his pencil flew, unaware of the journal's email sparking across campus.

---

Raman nodded, his hand speeding up, graphite smudging as he rewrote the section. "So, if I adjust C to enclose the strip, and use the residue theorem…" he trailed off, scribbling—∫_C (ζ(s) / (s - σ - it)) ds, forcing a contradiction if a zero strayed off ½. "You're right, sir," he said, glasses fogging with effort. We worked late, the office dimming, crickets chirping beyond the window, the air thick with ink, chai, and quiet triumph as the proof tightened.

---

**March 28, 2002**

Thursday, Vikas poked his head in mid-morning, glasses fogged from the heat, curiosity creasing his frown. "Jatin, the first-years are sharper—what's your secret?" I grinned, papers flying under my hands with 110% speed. "Just hard work, Vikas." He nodded, puzzled, and left, his footsteps heavy on the floorboards. Outside, two third-years debated by the canteen, tea sloshing in chipped mugs as their voices rose. "Raman's crazy—math all night!" "He's onto something big—Jatin's in on it." Steam curled upward, whispers spreading like dust kicked up by the breeze.

Raman and I refined the proof, my 110% mind polishing the phrasing—clear, sharp, undeniable. "The integral's residue at s = ½ cancels out off-line zeros," I said, leaning back, the chair groaning. "It's cleaner now." Raman smiled, shy but proud, his 110% brilliance shining through every dense line of complex analysis.

On the field, a volleyball player tripped, the ball bouncing into the dust, teammates jeering as he laughed, brushing off his knees—105% stamina keeping him light, a week behind the leaders but steady. On the other hand jatin also got boost and some skill of volleyball player.

---

**March 29, 2002**

Friday's sun broke through, warming the campus with a golden touch. I wandered to the sports ground at dusk, hands in my pockets, the air cooling fast against my skin. A cricket bat splintered mid-swing, the crack sharp and loud, the bowler groaning, "Third this month!" I smirked—110% budgeting already noting repairs in my head. "Sir, bat with us?" he called, gap-toothed grin flashing. I grabbed a bat, the swing instinctive, leather cracking against wood, their cheers lifting me as dust rose under my boots, clinging to my jeans.

Back in the office, Raman waited, notebook open on the desk. "It's ready, sir," he said, voice trembling with quiet awe. I read it—the contour now traced the strip 0 < Re(s) < 1, residues aligning perfectly, the contradiction forcing all zeros to ½. "This is it," I said, pride swelling in my chest like a tide. "We're sending it tomorrow."

A mangy dog sniffed a first-year's lunch by the lecture hall, her giggles shooing it off as it pawed the dust, her 110% focus unbroken as she returned to her notes, crumbs scattering on the ground.

---

**March 30, 2002**

Saturday, we typed the final draft—*"A Proof of the Riemann Hypothesis via Contour Integration"*—my 110% speed clicking keys, Raman's words tumbling out, nervous but sure as he dictated the expanded section: "For any zero s = σ + it, σ ≠ ½, the integral ∫_C ζ(s) ds diverges unless balanced by symmetry at ½, proven via Cauchy's theorem." "I can't believe it, sir," he said, glasses slipping down his nose. I clapped his shoulder, dust rising from his kurta. "You earned this, Raman." We printed it, the machine's hum a quiet triumph, ink sharp on crisp paper, ready to email back.

Kamla swept by later, broom swishing across the floorboards. "That Raman boy—math genius! You're helping him, Jatin?" I nodded, her smile warm as she left, jasmine lingering in the air like a blessing.

**March 31, 2002**

Sunday, we emailed the revised proof from the office, Raman's hand trembling as he hit send, the screen's glow catching the relief in his eyes. "It's done," I said, grinning as he exhaled, tension melting from his wiry frame. That night, on the porch, cigarette smoke curled into the breeze rattling neem leaves nearby, the System chimed its weekly verdict.

[*Mind Matrix: 75 of 150 students studied seriously. 50% participation. Students at 115%. Host cognition at 115%.*]

[*Body Matrix: 54 of 59 students trained seriously. 36% participation. Students at 115%. Host physicality and skills at 115%.*]

A rush surged through me—thoughts razor-sharp, the proof's logic replaying effortlessly in my head, every integral and bound crystal clear; my body hummed, stronger, ready to swing or sprint. Fifteen percent now, a new plateau.

A breeze swept through campus earlier, rattling neem leaves, students by the canteen sighing as they closed their books briefly—their 115% minds calm, steady, needing no rush under the fading light.

---

**April 1, 2002**

Monday, I strode to campus, boots crunching gravel, my 115% mind whirring—Raman's paper sent, exams looming, repairs planned, all clicking into place like a solved equation. Raman met me by the office, shy pride lighting his dark eyes behind those cracked glasses. "Thank you, sir," he said, voice soft but firm. I clapped his shoulder, dust rising from his kurta, the gesture solid, grounding. "The world's about to know your name, Raman."

On the other hand Rahul sat cross-legged under the Saraswati statue, the late Saturday afternoon sun casting long shadows across the cracked cement, his notebook splayed open on his lap. His pencil, worn to a stub, scratched furiously, graphite smudging his fingers as he muttered to himself,

"If Raman can do it, I can too." Two weeks of serious study had pushed his mind to 115%—105% on March 18, 110% on March 25, and now, since Sunday, sharper than ever.

The campus buzzed with whispers of Raman's Riemann proof, and Rahul, fueled by a mix of envy and grit, tackled his own dragon: an unsolved problem from calculus—the Euler-Mascheroni Constant Conjecture.

The problem gnawed at him: was the Euler-Mascheroni constant, γ ≈ 0.577, rational or irrational? Defined as γ = lim_{n→∞} (H_n - ln(n)), where H_n = Σ_{k=1}^n (1/k) is the nth harmonic number, it had stumped mathematicians since Euler's day—no proof existed in 2002.

Rahul had stumbled on it in a dog-eared library book, its mystery hooking his 115% mind. He'd been scribbling for days, pages littered with sums, logarithms, and failed tries—each a brick wall he'd slammed into, only to climb again.

Today, though, something clicked. The air was thick with dust and the faint tang of chai from the canteen nearby, where two third-years debated Raman's feat, their voices a distant hum.

Rahul ignored them, his pencil pausing as a spark flared. "What if I use the integral test?" he whispered, eyes narrowing. He wrote the harmonic sum as H_n ≈ ln(n) + γ, then considered its growth against an integral approximation: ∫_1^n (1/x) dx = ln(n).

The difference, H_n - ln(n), hovered near γ—but was it a fraction?His 115% mind raced, faster than ever, and he shifted tack.

"Continued fractions," he muttered, recalling a trick from Jatin's physics class weeks ago—patterns in chaos. He expressed γ as a continued fraction: γ = [0; 1, 1, 2, 1, 2, 1, …], its terms irregular, sprawling.

A rational number's fraction would terminate or repeat—γ didn't. He scribbled faster, sweat beading on his brow, testing convergence: if γ = p/q, then q(H_n - ln(n)) should approach an integer as n grew, but his calculations—q = 10, 100, 1000—diverged wildly, oscillating without end.The pencil blurred, his hand cramping as he filled a page: "For γ rational, |qγ - p| < 1/n should stabilize, but the sequence grows unbounded—contradiction."

He stopped, chest heaving, staring at the proof. γ was irrational—proven, here, under a statue in Rewari. His heart thudded, a grin breaking through the exhaustion, and he clutched the notebook tighter, graphite dusting his kurta.

"I did it," he whispered, voice hoarse, the weight of it sinking in—not just for exams, but for himself.Unseen, a mangy stray dog sniffed at a crumb nearby, kicked up by a first-year's lunch, its tail wagging as Rahul's triumph settled into the dusk.

He didn't know Jatin and Raman already mailed their own victory that day, but his 115% mind had carved its own mark—a small, fierce echo of the campus's rising tide.

On other hand Two third-years argued over tea at the canteen, mugs clinking as their voices rose. "Raman's proof—it's real?" "Jatin's behind it, mark my words." Whispers buzzed through the crowd, steam curling upward like the questions in their eyes.

The lanky bowler kicked the splintered bat's remains near the field, dust rising, his 115% swing still crisp in memory—I'd fix it soon, my 115% mind already budgeting the wood.

Vikas passed me in the hall, nodding slowly. "Something's up with you two," he said, a half-smile tugging at his lips. I shrugged, my 115% hiding the truth in plain sight, ink still drying on my fingers from the morning's work.

The campus settled into dusk, students' voices a low hum beyond the window, my 115% senses catching every note—the faint tang of ink, the dust on my boots, the lingering warmth of chai. Raman's spark had lit something, and I'd fanned it into a flame. These kids were mine, and we were climbing higher, step by steady step.