1988 - The Pathak Haveli, Varanasi
The humidity of the pre-monsoon season hung heavy over the Ganges, but inside the Pathak Haveli, the atmosphere was even more stifling. It was the day of the "Departure." At fourteen, Ashutosh Pathak was no longer the small child who sat on wooden crates in the spice factory. He had grown tall, his frame filling out with a lean strength, and his eyes had transitioned from the curious spark of a toddler to the steady, unnerving gaze of a strategist.
The sprawling courtyard was a sea of activity. Savitri, his mother, had been awake since 4:00 AM, her kitchen transformed into a production line of travel snacks. Jars of aam ka achaar (mango pickle), carefully wrapped in muslin cloth and tied with twine, sat alongside boxes of homemade laddoos and theplas.
"Maa, please," Ashutosh said, catching his mother's hands as she tried to shove a third sweater into his already bursting leather trunk. "It's New York, not the North Pole. And I'm going in August. It will be hotter there than it is here."
Savitri's eyes welled up instantly. She pulled him into a fierce hug, her head barely reaching his shoulder now. "What do those Americans know about winters? They eat cold bread and drink water with ice! You are my Kanha, Ashu. How will I sleep knowing you are across the 'Saat samundar' (seven seas) where my voice can't reach you?"
He held her tightly, breathing in the scent of turmeric and sandalwood that always followed her. "I'm going so that I can bring the world back to your feet, Maa. In four years, Trinity won't just be a name on a masala packet. It will be a name the whole world knows. I need to learn their 'Magic'—their cameras, their computers, their laws—so they can never look down on us."
In the corner of the courtyard, the male members of the family stood in a more somber circle. Raghunath Pathak, now a man of significant means and influence, looked at his son with a mixture of heartbreak and profound respect. He knew that the only reason the Pathak family had moved from a small grinding unit to a multi-district spice empire was because of the "suggestions" this boy had whispered in his ear since he was five.
"The car is ready, Ashu," Raghunath said, his voice thick. He stepped forward and placed a heavy hand on Ashutosh's shoulder. "I've transferred the initial funds to the New York bank account. Vivek-mama has the details of the legal advisors there."
Ashutosh turned to Vivek-mama, who was now a fully qualified lawyer with a sharp suit and an even sharper mind, thanks to Ashutosh's years of "mentorship."
"Mama," Ashutosh said, his voice dropping into the low, authoritative register he used for business. "Listen carefully. While I am away, the 'License Raj' in India is going to crumble. The government will have to open the markets. When that happens, foreign companies will try to flood India. I want you to use the Trilogy Media shell company to buy every 'Copyright' and 'Trademark' we discussed. The animation frameworks, the quiz show formats, everything. Don't worry about the cost. If you need more capital, tell Papa to lean harder into the 'Red-Gold' export line."
Vivek nodded, a bead of sweat on his forehead. Even after all these years, being "tasked" by his fourteen-year-old nephew felt like standing before a High Court judge. "I have the files, Ashu. The 'Sponge' character, the 'Avatar' bending concepts... I've filed them as 'Cultural Intellectual Property' to keep them safe. But why the hurry?"
"Because once the satellite dishes hit the rooftops of India, an idea will be worth more than a thousand factories," Ashutosh replied.
He then turned to his siblings. Abhishek, the eldest, was now a disciplined young man who managed the logistics of the factory. Aryan was a math prodigy handling the accounts, and Ansh was the resident inventor, already tinkering with early telecommunications.
"Bhaiyas," Ashutosh said, pulling them into a group hug. "Take care of the house. Don't let Papa work too late. And Ansh... keep studying those satellite frequencies. We're going to need our own uplink one day."
Finally, there was Ananya. At thirteen years old, she was the female version of Ashutosh—sharp-tongued, dramatic, and fiercely intelligent. She was clutching a small, handmade doll, her face red from suppressed tears.
"You're a traitor, Bhaiya," she huffed, though she wouldn't let go of his hand. "You're leaving me here with these boring boys. Who's going to help me practice my monologues now?"
Ashutosh knelt down to her level. "Ananya, I'm going to find the best acting school in the world for you. By the time I come back and start my first film, you'll be my secret weapon. But you have to promise to keep practicing. No laziness."
She sniffled and nodded, finally letting a tear fall. "I'll be the best. Better than those Bombay girls."
The family walked him to the gate of the Haveli. Nana Janardhan, the retired Chief Justice, stood at the front, leaning on his cane. He didn't say much, but he handed Ashutosh a small, leather-bound diary.
"Write down every person you meet who has power, Ashu," the old man advised. "In this world, talent is the engine, but 'Connections' are the fuel. Go, win the West. Kashi(Varanasi) will be waiting for its Emperor."
As the Ambassador car pulled away, Ashutosh looked through the rear window. He saw the tall gates of the Haveli, the waving hands of his mother, and the sturdy, hopeful faces of his brothers. He felt a sudden, sharp pang of loneliness, but he quickly suppressed it. He opened the system interface in his mind.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION]
[QUEST: THE FOREIGN SCHOLAR]
Objective: Graduate from NYU Film School & Columbia Law with Honors.
Reward: 25,000 Skill Points + [Skill: Master of VFX & CGI (Locked)].