The dust from the NetScape windfall began to settle, leaving behind a landscape forever altered. The $90 million fortress of the Aethelred Trust was not just wealth; it was a gravitational force, bending the world around it. Harsh Patel, the sovereign of this new domain, now felt the full, isolating weight of the crown.
The influx of capital solved old problems but created new, more complex ones. The first was internal. The sheer scale of the "Sanskrit" project's new budget, and the aggressive, cost-is-no-object mandate for Patel Holdings' expansion, began to strain the fabric of his team.
Deepak, the engineer, thrived. The blank check for Bharat Labs was a dream. But Sanjay, the marketer, found himself adrift. The products he was so proud of—the radios, the televisions—now felt like trivial toys next to the world-altering technologies Harsh was funding. The passion that had once fueled their partnership was being diluted by the sheer, overwhelming scale of their new reality.
"Harsh Bhai," Sanjay ventured one day, "the new advertising campaign for the 'Bharat' television... it feels small. Are we still a consumer electronics company?"
Harsh looked at him, and for a moment, he saw the eager young man from the Lamington Road market. "We are whatever we need to be, Sanjay," he said, his voice gentle but distant. "The television pays for the labs. The labs build the future. Your work is the foundation. Never forget that."
It was the truth, but it was a cold, managerial truth. It failed to reignite the old fire.
The second problem was external. The "Patel Anomaly" had transformed from a curiosity into a target. The $90 million figure, while not publicly confirmed, was widely speculated upon. It drew the attention of a different kind of predator: not corporate rivals, but political ones.
A new, ambitious opposition politician named Mr. Vardhan began giving speeches. He didn't mention Harsh by name, but the references were clear. He spoke of "shadowy trusts in tropical islands," of "national champions who seemed more loyal to foreign markets than to their own soil," and questioned where the "real benefits to the common man" were.
Minister Shinde delivered the warning personally. "He's building a narrative, Harsh. He's calling you a symptom of a corrupt system. Your success makes you a target. You need to be seen giving back. Publicly."
Harsh understood the game. He had amassed power; now he had to legitimize it in the eyes of the populace. He instructed his team to establish the "Bharat Foundation," with an initial endowment of 50 crore rupees—a staggering sum for a philanthropic venture in 1995. Its mandate: to fund computer literacy and science education in rural schools.
It was a calculated move. It addressed the criticism directly, positioning him as a nation-builder. But it felt like just another transaction, another variable in the sovereign's calculus of power.
The third, and most profound, problem was personal. The Aethelred Trust's success had created a chasm between Harsh and everyone else. He could no longer discuss his biggest triumphs, his most significant decisions, with anyone but Rakesh. The loneliness of his position was absolute.
He found himself walking through the bustling, vibrant factory floor of Bharat Electronics. He saw the workers, their lives defined by the rhythm of the assembly line, their worries about their children's school fees or a family wedding. Their reality was tangible, immediate. His reality was a series of digital balances, legal structures, and geopolitical calculations. He envied their simplicity.
He had everything he had ever wanted. He had surpassed his wildest ambitions from his first life. Yet, standing at the pinnacle, the view was not of triumph, but of a vast, silent, and empty landscape. The weight of the crown was not its jewels, but its solitude.
The sovereign's calculus had accounted for markets, for politics, for competition. But it had no equation for the human heart, for the cost of ascending so high that you could no longer hear the voices of those you left behind. The empire was secure, its foundations deeper than ever. But the emperor, in his gilded citadel, had never felt more alone. The harvest was complete, but the feast was a solitary one.