Quick Note
Just a quick heads-up before we start! I've slightly shifted my writing style for this chapter to bring back some of the essence of my first story, 'Return of Dharma.' I'm hoping this gives my OG readers a nice hit of nostalgia! Also, fair warning: this chapter leans a bit more into the drama and features some heavy "Anant glazing" to set up the stakes, so bear with it. Enjoy!
Note: I have also changed the ages of the Ambani children to match Anant's age for the sake of the story.
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Part I: The Weight of Legacy
Isha Ambani stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows of her corner office in Reliance Corporate Park, Mumbai, her reflection ghosting against the sprawling cityscape below. At twenty-five, she carried the weight of empire-building with the same grace her mother had taught her—poised on the surface, churning beneath.
Her tablet displayed the project dossier for the hundredth time that week: JioStar—India's Answer to Global Streaming Dominance. The merger of Hotstar and Viacom18 under the Reliance umbrella wasn't just another business venture. This was the consolidation of India's media future, a platform projected to serve 800 million users across Asia within five years. Netflix had 230 million subscribers globally. Amazon Prime Video had conquered through sheer capital expenditure. JioStar needed to be different—leaner, smarter, technologically superior.
And that superiority hinged on one man.
Isha's finger hovered over the folder labeled MAYA CODEC—TECHNICAL SPECIFICATIONS. Inside were compression algorithms so elegant that MIT's media lab had published three papers trying to reverse-engineer the mathematics. Forty-three percent file size reduction. 99.8% quality retention. Scalable across 4K, 8K, and emerging formats. Licensed to Netflix for $85 million annually, to Amazon for $62 million, to Disney+ for undisclosed sums.
Created as a side project by a twenty-five-year-old actor who needed better rendering speeds for his VFX shots.
She exhaled slowly, her breath fogging the glass. The due diligence report sat beside her tablet—a document her father Mukesh Ambani had personally reviewed twice, highlighting passages with his characteristic red pen.
ANANT SHARMA—COMPREHENSIVE BACKGROUND ANALYSIS
Subject: Male, Age 25, Born Chandni Chowk, Delhi
Education: IIT Delhi, Computer Science & Engineering, AIR 8 JEE Advanced (No Coaching), CGPA 10.0/10.0, Institute Gold Medal
Family: Middle-class restaurant owners. Father—Rajesh Sharma, NSD Gold Medalist 1990 (abandoned acting career for family business). Mother—Meera Sharma. Sister—Anjali Sharma, 13.
Career: 4 films, 4 blockbusters. URI (debut, refused payment), MS Dhoni (₹110 crore earnings), Baahubali Part 1 & 2 (₹8,317 crore combined worldwide gross). Current net worth: ₹33,594 crore ($4.5B USD).
Technology Portfolio: Maya VFX Productions—Advanced Color Grading Filters (₹338 crore Year 1 revenue), Maya Codec (₹1,547 crore Year 1 revenue), Anti-Piracy Filtration System (₹2,213 crore Year 1 revenue). Partnership with Dolby Laboratories for global distribution. Retained 34% equity + 45% technology revenue share. Refused acquisition offers from Apple ($2.3B), Google ($1.8B), Sony ($1.5B).
Personal: No smoking, no drinking, no drugs. No romantic relationships on record. Philanthropic initiatives—₹150 crore committed to theater infrastructure development across India. Currently enrolled as regular student at National School of Drama despite established superstar status.
Her father had written in the margin: "This boy doesn't just build businesses. He builds institutions. Rare quality."
Her mother had added beneath it: "He honors his parents above all success. Even rarer."
Isha had circled one line in the psychological profile section: "Subject displays pathological commitment to excellence across disparate domains—athletics (Kalaripayattu master), classical arts (Bharatanatyam, Kathak trained), linguistics (fluent in 9 languages), technology (self-taught cryptography), performance (method acting discipline). Conclusion: Probable photographic and eidetic memory combined with extraordinary executive function. IQ estimation: at least 165+."
She'd watched every film. She'd studied every behind-the-scenes documentary. She'd analyzed every interview, parsing his body language, the careful way he chose words, the brief flashes of something ancient and exhausted behind those impossibly symmetrical features.
This wasn't obsession. This was what her Harvard MBA professors had called competitive intelligence. Understanding the person across the negotiating table. Finding leverage points, soft spots, the psychological architecture that governed decision-making.
Except Anant Sharma didn't seem to have soft spots.
She'd watched him describe his URI training regimen—real military drills, 4:30 AM wake-ups, three months living in New Delhi forward operating bases. He'd embedded with actual soldiers, learned their cadence, their trauma, the weight of orders that sent men into killzones. When the interviewer asked if he'd been scared, he'd simply said: "Fear is necessary. Paralyzing fear is a choice. I chose differently."
She'd watched him prepare for MS Dhoni's role—two weeks living in Ranchi, shadowing the cricketer's routine, studying his gait, the micro-expressions during press conferences, the way he held silence like a weapon. Dhoni himself had called Anant "the most disciplined person I've ever met and he is like my younger brother" in his autobiography.
And Baahubali.
God, Baahubali.
( Flashback )
Isha had attended the premiere with her family at a private Dolby screening inside their Antilla house. She'd expected spectacle—Rajamouli's signature grandeur, the massive production design, the scale that Indian cinema was finally achieving without apology.
She hadn't expected devotion.
The Nataraja dance sequence had stripped her bare. Anant hadn't performed Lord Shiva's cosmic dance—he'd channeled it. Every mudra precise, every expression calibrated between fierce (Raudra) and serene (Shanta), his body moving through the 108 Karanas like muscle memory from a thousand lifetimes. The sequence was seven minutes of unbroken choreography, filmed in one take, his vegetarian-built physique carving shadows against pyrotechnics that represented the universe's destruction and rebirth.
Her mother Nita had stood during that sequence, tears streaming, hands folded in genuine prayer.
Her father, who prided himself on emotional control, had gripped the armrest hard enough to leave impressions.
Isha had simply stopped breathing.
Because what she'd witnessed wasn't acting. It was worship translated through art. Anant Sharma had surrendered himself completely—ego, vanity, the self-consciousness that plagued even the greatest performers—and become a vessel for something larger.
After the movie, especially during the Eternal War teaser, her younger brother Anant (the coincidence of names always drew comments) had declared: "I want to be like him." He had watched the screen with absolute awe in his eyes."
Her twin Akash had nodded slowly: "Three years of eighteen-hour days. No shortcuts, no stunt doubles for scenes he could perform himself. That's not talent. That's devotion bordering on insanity."
Her father had said nothing until they reached their living hall, then simply: "That young man will shape India's cultural exports for the next fifty years. We need to build bridges, not compete."
Her mother had looked at Isha with an expression she couldn't quite read: Recognition? Hope? Calculation?
( Flashback end )
Now, two months later, they were twenty minutes away from meeting him.
Isha's reflection showed a young woman in Sabyasachi couture—a midnight blue silk saree with minimal jewelry, her Harvard Business School ring, and small diamond studs that had belonged to her grandmother. Her makeup artist had aimed for "powerful but approachable." Her image consultant had suggested "warm authority."
She looked terrified.
A gentle tap on her shoulder made her spin.
Nita Ambani stood there, elegant in a cream Manish Malhotra saree, her expression equal parts amusement and maternal concern. At fifty-three, she carried herself with the quiet power of someone who'd built philanthropic empires while raising children under unimaginable scrutiny.
"Beta," Nita said softly, switching to Hindi. "You're nervous."
It wasn't a question.
Isha tried for a professional smile. "I'm fine, Maa. Just reviewing the—"
"You've reviewed the projections seventeen times," Nita interrupted gently. "I counted. You've memorized every technical specification of the Maya Codec. You've prepared three different negotiation strategies depending on his opening position. You've done everything except breathe."
Isha felt heat creep up her neck. "This is the biggest project I've handled independently. JioStar's success determines whether we can challenge the American streaming monopolies. If I can't secure the Maya Codec licensing—"
"We'll find another solution," Nita said firmly. "There are always alternatives in business."
"Not like this," Isha countered, her analyst brain overriding anxiety. "The Maya Codec isn't just better compression, Maa. It's transformative. Our projections show 40% reduced infrastructure costs, which means we can undercut Netflix and Amazon on subscription pricing while maintaining higher profit margins. We can offer 4K streaming to tier-2 and tier-3 cities where bandwidth is limited. We can localize content in 15 Indian languages without storage penalties. The codec doesn't just make JioStar competitive—it makes us inevitable."
Nita's eyes crinkled with pride. "And you prepared all of that analysis yourself?"
"With Akash's team's help on the technical modeling, but yes."
"Then you already know more about his technology's strategic value than he probably does," Nita said. "Anant Sharma is a creator, beta. An artist who happens to have the mind of an engineer. He builds beautiful things and trusts others to understand their commercial applications. That's where you come in."
Isha glanced at her tablet, at the photograph paperclipped to the dossier. Anant Sharma's official headshot from the Baahubali press kit. Those features that had launched a thousand think pieces about "genetic lottery" and "mathematical facial symmetry." The sharp jawline, the expressive eyes that somehow managed intensity and gentleness simultaneously, the kind of bone structure that made cinematographers weep with gratitude.
She felt her cheeks warm and quickly looked away.
Nita caught the expression and smiled knowingly. "Is that what you're nervous about? Meeting him?"
"Maa!" Isha protested, embarrassed.
"It's okay to be a little starstruck,beta. Even you are human," Nita said, squeezing her shoulder. "I've met presidents and prime ministers, Nobel laureates and tech founders. But I'd be lying if I said I wasn't curious about Anant Sharma. Do you know what your father said after we met with Dolby's chairman in San Francisco?"
Isha shook her head.
"Peter Hanson spent thirty minutes talking about Anant's raw intelligence. He said in forty years of working with audio engineers, cryptographers, and compression specialists, he'd never encountered someone who could hold all the variables in his head simultaneously. Mathematical proofs, codec architecture, market positioning, content protection algorithms—Anant would discuss them while simultaneously suggesting improvements to Dolby's own spatial audio systems." Nita's voice carried genuine wonder. "Peter said it was like watching Mozart discuss his symphonies while casually rewriting Bach."
Isha had read that meeting summary. Dolby had entered expecting to acquire Maya VFX's technology portfolio for $2-3 billion. They'd left as equal partners in a global licensing venture, with Anant retaining creative control and 45% of revenue share.
He'd been twenty-three years old that time.
"But you know what impressed me most?" Nita continued, guiding Isha toward the door where their security detail waited. "Your father's intelligence team called his family's restaurant in Chandni Chowk. Posed as a food blogger. Spoke with his mother Meera for twenty minutes."
Isha's eyes widened. "Papa did background research through—"
"Through the most reliable source," Nita finished. "A mother talking about her son. Meera Sharma spoke about how Anant comes home every Sunday without fail. How he helps his sister Anjali with school projects. How he refused to buy a luxury apartment in Mumbai because 'the money could send fifty underprivileged children to school.' How he still insists on washing dishes after family dinners because 'his hands shouldn't forget honest work.'"
Isha felt something twist in her chest. The ultra-wealthy ecosystem she'd grown up in was filled with people who performed humility for cameras and practised arrogance in private. Genuine modesty—especially combined with that level of success—was almost unheard of.
"He turned down Silicon Valley, Maa," she said quietly. "Apple offered him $2.3 billion for Maya VFX. He said no."
"Because he's not building for an exit," Nita replied. "He's building for legacy. That's what makes him dangerous in negotiations, beta. He doesn't need our money. He doesn't need validation or market dominance. He creates what he believes should exist and trusts the world to catch up."
They entered the private elevator, Z-category security forming a perimeter around them. Isha watched the floor numbers descend, her mind racing through negotiation frameworks, technical talking points, value propositions that might appeal to someone who'd rejected billions.
"Stop strategizing," Nita said, reading her daughter's expression with maternal precision. "We're not going to Maya VFX's office to negotiate. We're going to meet Anant Sharma as he truly is—in his own environment, with his people. I need to see how he treats his employees, his partners, the people who have no power to offer him anything."
Isha frowned. "Why?"
"Because character reveals itself in unguarded moments," Nita answered. "And if we're going to build JioStar with his technology as our foundation, I need to know whether his integrity is real or performed."
The elevator opened to the basement parking where their convoy waited—three armored Mercedes S-Guards, flanked by escort vehicles carrying NSG commandos. The spectacle of India's wealthiest family in motion.
As they settled into the middle vehicle's climate-controlled interior, Isha pulled up Maya VFX's address on her tablet. The office wasn't in Mumbai's glittering Bandra Kurla Complex or Nariman Point's corporate towers. It was in Andheri East, in a converted industrial building that Anant had personally redesigned.
The architectural renderings in her research folder showed something unprecedented: A five-story structure wrapped in living green walls, with an internal courtyard featuring a massive banyan tree. The roof supported a Sanskrit-inscribed mandala solar panel array. Every floor had open-air meditation spaces with small shrines to Saraswati, Ganesha, Laxmi, Vishwakarma and Shiva.
The design philosophy statement, written by Anant himself, read: "Workplaces should nurture the soul, not just productivity. We spend one-third of our lives working. Those spaces should honor our humanity, not diminish it."
Twenty-three minutes later, their convoy turned into Maya VFX's compound, and Isha pressed her face to the tinted window like a child.
The photographs hadn't done it justice.
Part II: The Temple of Creation
The building rose from manicured grounds that resembled less a corporate campus and more a sacred grove. Ancient rain trees formed a canopy over stone pathways. Water features channeled through carved channels inscribed with Vedic shlokas. The central courtyard's banyan tree was massive, its aerial roots creating a natural colonnade, with a marble platform at its base where employees sat cross-legged, some working on laptops, others in meditation.
"My God," Isha whispered.
The building's facade was a living thing—vertical gardens cascading five stories, maintained by a sophisticated irrigation system nearly invisible against the greenery. Through the foliage, she could see large windows where people worked in naturally lit spaces. No cubicles. No hierarchy of corner offices. Just flowing, open collaboration areas separated by soundproof glass pods for focused work.
Their car stopped at the entrance where Ronnie Screwvala and Aditya Dhar waited—Anant's partners and co-founders of Maya VFX.
Ronnie, the veteran producer who'd built and sold UTV to Disney, wore his characteristic linen kurta and warm smile. Aditya, the director who'd launched Anant's career with URI, looked slightly nervous despite his confident posture.
As Isha and Nita stepped out, Ronnie pressed his palms together in respectful greeting. "Nita ji, Isha ji. Welcome to Maya VFX. We're honored."
Nita returned the gesture. "Ronnie, the honor is ours. And please, this is an informal visit before our official meeting. We wanted to see the workspace that's producing technology the entire world is chasing."
"Anant designed every inch of this himself," Aditya said with unmistakable pride. "Drove the architects mad with his requirements. 'No right angles in the meditation spaces—they interrupt energy flow.' 'Every material must be sustainably sourced.' 'The building should breathe like a living organism.'" He gestured toward the green walls. "That irrigation system? Anant wrote the automation software himself. Uses AI to detect which plants need water based on leaf color analysis through cameras."
Isha blinked. "He... built plant-watering AI?"
"Built it in a weekend," Ronnie said, amused. "Said he couldn't concentrate knowing the landscapers might overwater the tulsi plants near Saraswati and Laxmi Maa's shrine. So he solved it like he solves everything—engineered a perfect system and moved on."
They walked through the entrance into a reception area that felt more like a temple antechamber. Soft instrumental music played—Ravi Shankar's sitar compositions. The air smelled of jasmine and sandalwood from discreet incense burners. The receptionist, a woman in her fifties, greeted them with genuine warmth rather than corporate polish.
"The soul of this place is different," Nita observed, her trained eye catching details. "Your employees seem... content."
"Anant's non-negotiable rule," Aditya explained. "Everyone from the janitor to the lead engineers gets profit-sharing bonuses. Free childcare on the fourth floor. Fully covered healthcare for employees and their families. Flexible hours because he believes creativity can't be scheduled. And—" he pointed to a wall displaying a large framed statement, "—that."
Isha read the words, rendered in elegant Devanagari calligraphy:
"No one who contributes honest work to Maya's vision will ever worry about their child's education or their parent's medical care. Our wealth means nothing if our people suffer. Profit is the applause; purpose is the performance."
Below it, Anant's signature, and a date: September 15, 2016—Maya VFX's founding day.
"He meant it literally," Ronnie added. "Last year, our lead compositor's father needed emergency cardiac surgery. Cost ₹18 lakhs. Anant found out from HR and had the entire amount transferred within two hours. Told the employee, 'Focus on your father's recovery. We'll handle everything else.' The man broke down crying in his office."
Nita's expression softened. Isha felt something shift in her chest—the analytical business framework she'd constructed around Anant Sharma beginning to crack, revealing something more complex underneath.
They walked through corridors lined with framed storyboards from URI, MS Dhoni and Baahubali, but also children's drawings. Lots of them.
"Employee kids," Aditya said. "Anant insists we display their art alongside our professional work. Says imagination at age five is purer than anything we'll create with a hundred crore budget."
They emerged into the central courtyard, and Isha stopped breathing.
The banyan tree was magnificent up close, its canopy filtering sunlight into dancing patterns across the marble platform. But it was the scene beneath the tree that made her heart squeeze.
Part III: The Man Who Became a Horse
Anant Sharma, worth ₹33,594 crores, one of India's most recognizable faces, was on his hands and knees.
A tiny girl—perhaps four years old, wearing a pink frock and crooked pigtails—sat on his back, gripping his shoulders like a rider. She was giggling uncontrollably, kicking her heels against his ribs and shouting, "Faster, horse! Faster!"
Anant neighed—actually neighed—and began trotting in a circle, making exaggerated clip-clop sounds. His formal white shirt was wrinkled, his sleeves rolled up, his carefully styled hair falling across his forehead.
Around him, at least eight other children ranging from toddlers to maybe seven years old were engaged in a dramatic reenactment. Two boys had fashioned cardboard swords and shields, decorated with crayon drawings of Mahishmati's royal crest. A small girl wore a paper crown, proclaiming herself "Devasena, the warrior queen!"
"I am Bhallaladeva!" one boy announced, striking a villain pose. "And I will defeat all of you!"
"We are the little Baahubalis!" the others chorused. "We'll protect Mahishmati!"
Anant—still serving as a horse—somehow transitioned smoothly into character. He gently deposited his rider, then stood to his full 6'3" height, stretching his arms wide in mock menace. When he spoke, his voice dropped into the exact cadence he'd used for Bhallaladeva's antagonist Baahubali style in the film: "You think you can defeat the mighty Bhallaladeva? I am the strongest warrior in Mahishmati!"
The children screamed with delighted fear and charged.
Isha watched, transfixed, as Anant let them "fight" him. He staggered dramatically when cardboard swords bopped his legs, clutched his chest when they poked his stomach, stumbled backward with theatrical flair. His physical control was remarkable—every movement calibrated to make the children feel powerful while ensuring no one got hurt.
"No! My strength fades!" he cried, dropping to one knee. "The little Baahubalis are too powerful!"
"Jai Mahishmati!" they shouted, dog-piling onto him.
He collapsed onto the grass with exaggerated slowness, ensuring he took his weight on his arms so no child was crushed, then lay "defeated" while they jumped around him, celebrating their victory.
The little girl with the crown planted her foot on his chest triumphantly. "Mahishmati wins! The bad king is defeated!"
Anant, flat on his back, grinned up at her. "You fought bravely, warrior queen. Mahishmati is lucky to have you."
She beamed, then suddenly leaned down and hugged him. "You're not really bad, Bhaiya. You're the best."
Isha saw Anant's expression shift—the theatrical performance dropping away for just a moment, revealing something raw and genuine. He hugged the girl back gently, patted her head, and whispered something that made her giggle.
"This usually happen when Anant present in Mumbai especially on Sunday afternoon," Ronnie said quietly beside them. "Our employees' children come to the campus. Anant always makes time. Always whenever he is available."
"Most of the time?" Nita asked, her voice careful. "Even during Baahubali's production? That was three years of eighteen-hour days."
"Especially during Baahubali," Aditya confirmed. "He said playing with children reminded him why art matters. That innocence, that pure joy—that's who we're creating stories for. The adults will analyze and critique, but children simply feel. He never wanted to lose touch with that."
Isha watched as Anant sat up, now surrounded by children showing him their drawings, their toys, their stories. He gave each one complete attention—nodding seriously at a boy's explanation of his Lego spaceship, admiring a girl's flower crown with genuine appreciation, listening intently to a toddler's incomprehensible babbling and responding as if it made perfect sense.
One of the older boys produced a cricket ball from his pocket. "Bhaiya, can we play? Please?"
"Of course!" Anant stood, brushing grass from his clothes. "But I should warn you—I trained with MS Dhoni Bhai. I'm an excellent batsman now."
"We'll still get you out!" the boy declared confidently.
They began marking wickets with stones. Anant took a batting stance while one boy prepared to bowl. The makeshift cricket match had the same energy as the fight scene—Anant fully committed, making every shot look difficult, praising every bowl, keeping all the children engaged.
"He's not performing for us," Nita murmured, and Isha realized her mother was right.
Anant hadn't noticed their arrival. This wasn't a photo opportunity or reputation management. This was simply who he was when cameras weren't watching.
The boy bowled—a surprisingly good delivery. Anant swung, connected, and sent the ball sailing toward the courtyard's far end.
"Six runs!" the children shouted. "Run, bhaiya, run!"
Anant took off in an exaggerated sprint, making it to the designated wicket while the fielders chased the ball. He was laughing—a sound of pure, unselfconscious joy that Isha had never heard in any interview or behind-the-scenes footage.
Another bowl. Another hit. This time Anant purposely hit it straight up—an easy catch.
The ball arced high into the air. Three children ran for it, calling, "Mine! Mine!"
The smallest boy reached it first, hands outstretched. The ball dropped toward him.
He caught it.
Then immediately stumbled backward, arms pinwheeling as he lost balance.
Time seemed to slow down.
The boy was going to fall—hard—onto the marble platform's edge.
Isha saw Anant move before her brain registered the danger. He covered ten feet in what seemed like two strides, moving with the speed and precision of the Kalaripayattu master he was. His hand shot out, catching the boy's wrist, arresting the fall.
But his momentum was too much. He'd moved too fast, sacrificed his own balance to save the child's.
Anant was going to hit the marble edge himself.
Isha didn't think. Her body simply reacted like her soul commanded.
She ran.
Her hand caught his free arm just as his weight shifted backward. She pulled, using leverage rather than strength, her Harvard fencing training providing muscle memory for balance and counter-momentum.
Anant's fall arrested. He stumbled forward instead, catching himself, the little boy safe in his other arm.
For a heartbeat, they stood frozen—Isha gripping Anant's forearm, Anant holding the child, both of them breathing hard from the adrenaline spike.
Then Anant looked up.
His eyes met hers.
The world stopped.
[END OF CHAPTER 29]
Author's Note:
I know the cliffhanger is brutal, but don't worry—Chapter 30 drops today at 2 PM.
For my OG readers who followed 'Return of Dharma,' get ready for a wave of pure nostalgia. The resonance between Anant and his soulmate is just beginning, and it's going to get intense.
To those confused by Anant's 'OP' nature or the mysteries surrounding him: there is a method to the madness! If you want to uncover the secrets of Anant's true origins and understand exactly why he possesses this level of power, you'll find the answers in my first story. Everything is connected. See you at 2 PM!