Ananta

**December 9, 2002**

**Agni University, Rewari**

The late afternoon sun slanted through the office window at Agni University, casting a warm, golden hue across Jatin's desk, cluttered with papers, coffee mugs, and a flickering laptop screen. For the past three months, his life had been a whirlwind—not just juggling university duties and Vedic Technology's growth, but diving into a new obsession: a web browser, a creation to leap a decade ahead of its time. Dust motes danced in the light as he hunched over the keyboard, his fingers—rough with ink stains and calluses—tapping a relentless rhythm, the faint hum of the laptop blending with the distant clang of construction outside. The air smelled of stale coffee and the sharp tang of solder from late-night tinkering, a soldering iron still warm on a side table where he'd fused circuits for testing.

It had started in September, a spark ignited during a quiet evening on his porch, cigarette smoke curling as he'd scrolled Netscape on his clunky lab PC, its lag and crashes grating on his nerves. "Ten years ahead," he'd muttered, stubbing out the cigarette, his mind already racing—security tighter than a vault, speed like a bullet, features no one else dreamed of. He began with the core—writing a lean, custom engine in C++, nights bleeding into mornings as code flowed from his fingertips, the infinity logo sketched on napkins pinned to his wall.

By October, he'd layered in encryption—128-bit, a fortress against 2002's feeble hackers—his eyes burning from screen glare, chai going cold as he tested protocols. November brought the interface—clean, intuitive, tabs stacking like books on a shelf, a search bar pulsing with Vedic simplicity, the swastika's fire in his veins. He'd scavenged old PCs, tweaking hardware drivers, the lab a mess of wires and discarded boards, until Ananta—Infinite in Sanskrit—took shape, its infinity logo glowing on boot-up.

Today was the finish line. Jatin leaned back, the chair creaking under him, and clicked "run," his breath catching as Ananta flared to life—smooth, fast, a sleek beast purring on his screen. Pages loaded in blinks, no stutters, no freezes; he tested a dummy hack—blocked cold, the system's walls unyielding. He grinned, raw and wide, lighting a cigarette, smoke curling into the dusk as he surfed—news, forums, a grainy video streaming without a hitch.

Ananta was secure, a vault; fast, a hawk; advanced, a glimpse of 2012 in 2002. He exhaled, the sting sharp in his eyes, and murmured, "Infinite—ours." The lab's hum faded, the campus alive beyond—dust, hammers, possibility—and Jatin knew this was just the start, another blaze for Agni's fire.

Oxford's Call

Across the hall from his office, Jatin's boots thudded on the tiles as he strode to a meeting room, the air thick with the scent of chalk and old wood, a faint breeze rustling papers pinned to a corkboard. For three months, he'd split his focus—Ananta's code by night, students by day—and today, he'd called the third-years, the 32 who'd graduated in July, their entrance test results still fresh in his mind. The room buzzed as they filed in—Raman, quiet and bespectacled, clutching a notebook; Rahul, wiry and fierce, his grin sharp; Priya, her dupatta a soft blue flutter; Kunal, broad-shouldered, eyes glinting with code dreams; others trailing, their chatter a low hum. Jatin stood by a chipped table, newspaper in hand, ink smudging his fingers from that morning's AIR column—Raman 49, Rahul 94, Priya 198, Kunal 344, Aditya 699, Pooja 800. Six stars, shining bright.

He cleared his throat, voice rough but warm, and said, "Big news—Raman, Rahul, Oxford's called you direct. Invitations, full ride. Priya, Kunal, you applied and qualified—Oxford too. I'm covering everything—fees, lodging, travel—till you're done." Gasps rippled, Raman's glasses slipping as he blinked, Rahul punching the air, Priya's hands trembling, Kunal's jaw dropping. "And the rest," Jatin added, eyes sweeping the room, "whoever wants to study—India, Germany, anywhere—I've got you. Fees, all of it." Cheers erupted, chairs scraping as students surged, some teary, others laughing, the room alive with hope. He'd tapped VedaOS's millions—20 lakhs online, Gateway's cash flowing—his wealth a bridge for their dreams. Gateways device sales have skyrocketed. Many computer company approached jatin but Jatin declined and said he had contract with Gateway for 3 years.

The news broke the next day—*The Hindustan Times* screamed it: "Agni University Funds Students to Oxford, Beyond." India buzzed, headlines spreading like wildfire—Rewari's unknown igniting curiosity, pride, awe. Parents whispered over chai, students scribbled Agni's name, reporters called Neha nonstop, her phone a lifeline as she juggled it all. Popularity spiked—Agni University's glow now a beacon. This year, 150 students had enrolled—double last year's 75—a 100% leap, drawn by new majors (biology, zoology), stellar results, and two math papers—Raman's Riemann, Rahul's Euler—shaking the world. Jatin grinned, boots scuffing as he paced, the newspaper crumpled in his hand. "Next year, more," he murmured, smoke curling from a cigarette as he pictured it—halls packed, Agni rising, step by steady step.

The Vedic Empire

In a quiet corner of his office, Jatin sat at dusk, the sun sinking beyond Rewari's skyline, its last light glinting off a brass plaque on his desk: *Vedic Foundation*. For months, he'd built—not just browsers or student futures, but a legacy. Three weeks ago, he'd signed the papers, ink drying as he'd fused his empire under one banner—Vedic Technology, Agni University, Agni Sports Academy, and Agni Education, now limbs of the Vedic Foundation. The air smelled of dust and fresh paint from new shelves, the foundation's charter pinned to the wall, its swastika logo a quiet vow—knowledge, strength, India reborn. He'd lit a cigarette then, smoke swirling as he'd exhaled, the weight of it settling—his vision, vast and rooted, a tree spreading shade.

Neha had been his spearhead. In four months, she'd bought 20 private schools—scattered across Haryana like embers—Agni National School Hisar, Rohtak, Gurgaon, more, their gates now bearing the swastika, classes humming under his name. Ten more would rise, built from scratch—foundations poured, bricks stacked—set to open before next session, March 2003.

She'd stormed Gurgaon too, locking the 100-acre plot for Agni Sports Academy, haggling landowners down with sharp words and sharper cash, licenses inching closer with KMP's greased nods. Jatin leaned back, chair creaking, the faint tang of ink on his fingers as he flipped through her report—20 schools under Agni Education, 10 to come, the academy's stadium a blueprint of steel and turf.

He'd called her yesterday, her voice crackling over the phone, tired but fierce. "It's done, Jatin—20 bought, 10 building. Stadium's next." He'd grinned, chai steaming as he'd replied, "You're gold, Neha—Vedic Foundation's alive because of you." Now, he stood, boots thudding as he crossed to the window, pushing it wide. The campus thrummed below—construction dust swirling, the neem tree rustling, students' laughter drifting from the canteen. Vedic Technology churned rupees—Gateway's $5 a device, online sales ticking—fueling Agni University's growth, the academy's rise, schools spreading like roots. He lit a cigarette, smoke curling into the twilight, its sting sharp in his eyes, and murmured, "Foundation's set—now we soar." Agni burned bright—step by steady, blazing step.

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