Chapter 40 - Chapter 40: The Night History Bowed

[AUTHOR'S NOTE BEFORE WE BEGIN]

Hello everyone! Before you dive into this massive 13,000+ word colossus, I need to drop a quick disclaimer.

First, grab a snack and take your time reading this. It is the longest chapter of the novel so far, and I want you to enjoy every single moment of it without rushing.

Second, I need you to leave your logical minds at the door! Yes, winning 13 Academy Awards across a live-action drama and an anime in the exact same year breaks every Academy rule in the real world. But this chapter is my complete fandom imagination and the ultimate wish fulfillment. We are here for the epicness, not the rulebook!

Finally, consider this your official warning: there is a SERIOUS level of Anant-glazing in this chapter. We are talking peak, God-level hype. He is going to conquer Hollywood, and they are going to thank him for it. So bear with the extreme flexing, embrace the aura, and enjoy the night history bowed! 🦅🏆

Enjoy the chapter

PART I: THE PREPARATION — SABYASACHI AND MANISH MALHOTRA

The Beverly Wilshire Hotel, Presidential Suite, 2:00 PM (Oscar Day).

Anant stood in the center of the sprawling living room, surrounded by organized chaos. The Baahubali team occupied the east wing. The Chhichhore team had claimed the west. And in the middle, two of India's most celebrated fashion designers had transformed the suite into an impromptu atelier.

Sabyasachi Mukherjee and Manish Malhotra had arrived from Mumbai the previous night, each carrying garment bags that contained months of conceptualization, weeks of craftsmanship, and the weight of representing Indian fashion on the world's biggest stage.

"Anant," Sabyasachi said, his voice carrying that particular blend of artistic authority and genuine affection, "I need you to understand something. What you wear tonight isn't just fashion. It's a statement about identity, about cultural pride, about refusing to conform to Western standards of formal dress."

Manish nodded from across the room, where he was steaming a deep midnight blue sherwani embroidered with gold thread so fine it looked like captured starlight. "The Academy Awards have a dress code—tuxedos for men, gowns for women. We're proposing you break that code. Respectfully. Elegantly. But definitively."

Anant looked between the two designers, then at the three outfits they'd prepared—each a masterpiece, each a different vision of contemporary Indian formal wear.

The first was Sabyasachi's creation: a black bandhgala with intricate zardozi embroidery in deep crimson and gold, the pattern inspired by Mughal miniature paintings. The collar stood high and proud, the cut so precise it looked architectural.

The second was Manish's midnight blue sherwani, paired with churidar pajamas and a silk dupatta that could be draped over one shoulder—traditional yet modern, elegant yet bold.

The third was a collaborative piece: an ivory raw silk kurta with subtle gold threadwork, paired with a structured Nehru jacket in charcoal grey, the combination of textures creating a visual symphony.

"Try the bandhgala first," Sabyasachi instructed.

Twenty minutes later, Anant stood before the full-length mirror, and the room fell silent.

The black bandhgala fit him like a second skin—broad shoulders emphasized, narrow waist defined, the high collar framing his face in a way that made his sharp features even more striking. The crimson and gold embroidery caught the light with every movement, creating the illusion that he was wrapped in captured fire.

Shraddha Kapoor, who'd been having her makeup done in the adjacent room, walked in and stopped dead.

"Oh," she breathed. "Oh my God."

Parvathy appeared behind her, still in her robe, hair in curlers. She stared for a full five seconds before managing: "That's... that's not fair."

Tamannaah emerged from the bedroom, took one look, and pressed her hand to her chest. "Anant, you look like you're about to conquer kingdoms. Plural."

Varun Sharma whistled from the doorway. "Bhai, if you wear that, every other man on the red carpet is going to look underdressed."

Rajamouli walked over, circling Anant slowly, studying the outfit from every angle. "Regal. Warrior King. But perhaps too intense? This is the Academy Awards, not a coronation."

"Try the sherwani," Manish suggested.

Another twenty minutes. Another transformation.

The midnight blue sherwani turned Anant into something otherworldly. The gold threadwork traced patterns across his chest like constellations, the silk dupatta draped over his left shoulder adding a flowing elegance that softened the martial precision of his physique.

Tahir Raj Bhasin shook his head in disbelief. "How is it possible for one person to look equally good in completely different styles?"

Sudheer Babu laughed. "Because God decided to beta-test human perfection and forgot to delete the prototype."( Hahaha that's my intention Sudheer but readers forget that Anant is OP Incarnate)

Nitesh Tiwari stepped forward, his director's eye evaluating. "Elegant. Accessible. But maybe too soft? We need something that balances strength and grace."

"The third option," Sabyasachi said quietly.

The ivory and charcoal combination was the revelation.

The raw silk kurta had an almost monastic simplicity, the subtle gold threadwork visible only when light hit it directly. But the structured Nehru jacket over it added gravitas—the charcoal grey creating a frame that transformed the simplicity into sophistication.

When Anant looked in the mirror this time, even he paused.

"This one," he said simply.

Sabyasachi smiled. "I knew it would be."

Manish approached with a small velvet box. "One final touch."

Inside was a pocket square—raw silk matching the kurta, with a single line of the same gold threadwork that adorned the jacket.

As Sabyasachi folded it into the jacket's breast pocket, he spoke softly: "You're going to walk into a room full of tuxedos wearing this. Some will call it bold. Some will call it defiant. But what it actually is—what we designed it to be—is honest. This is who you are. Indian. Unapologetic. Respectful of the occasion but unwilling to erase your identity for it."

Anant met the designer's eyes in the mirror. "Thank you. Both of you."

Manish placed a hand on his shoulder. "Make us proud, Anant."

"I'll try."

Behind them, Shraddha whispered to Parvathy: "How is he still humble wearing that?"

Parvathy whispered back: "Because humility isn't about what you wear. It's about who you are underneath."

PART II: THE ARRIVAL — PRIYANKA CHOPRA AND THE ROLLS-ROYCE

The hotel's private entrance, 4:00 PM.

A Rolls-Royce Phantom in midnight black pulled up to the curb with the whisper-quiet precision that only a £400,000 vehicle could achieve. The door opened, and Priyanka Chopra Jonas stepped out in a shimmering silver gown that looked like liquid mercury.

Behind her, Nick Jonas emerged in a perfectly tailored Tom Ford tuxedo, his expression amused as he watched his wife scan the entrance for her target.

Priyanka spotted Anant immediately—standing with Rajamouli and Nitesh, going over the evening's logistics—and her face lit up.

"ANANT!" she called out, drawing every eye in the vicinity.

Anant turned, his expression shifting from focused to genuinely pleased. He walked over and pulled Priyanka into a warm hug.

"PC," he said, using the affectionate nickname. "You didn't have to come all the way here."

"Are you kidding?" Priyanka pulled back, holding him at arm's length. "Fourteen Oscar nominations? India's biggest night in Hollywood history? I wouldn't miss this for anything."

Nick stepped forward, extending his hand. "Anant, congratulations. Priyanka hasn't stopped talking about you for weeks."

Anant shook his hand firmly. "Nick, good to see you again. How's the tour prep?"

"Intense. We're launching a new Jonas Brothers tour next month—first one in three years." Nick grinned. "But enough about me. Tonight is yours."

Priyanka looped her arm through Anant's and leaned in conspiratorially. "So, Isha told me to deliver a message."

Anant's expression became wary. "What message?"

"She said, and I quote, 'Tell him the Rolls-Royce is just the beginning. When he gets back, I'm upgrading us to the Phantom VIII with the starlight headliner and the picnic tables.'"

Anant's face went through several expressions in rapid succession—surprise, resignation, mild horror, and finally amused acceptance.

"She's going to parade me around in luxury cars, isn't she?" he said, more statement than question.

Priyanka laughed delightedly. "Oh, absolutely. She's already planning which events to take you to. The Forbes India Rich List gala. The Ambani Foundation charity dinner. The Jio annual shareholder meeting."

Anant buried his face in his hands. "I'm dating a woman who thinks investor meetings are appropriate venues for relationship displays."

"You're dating a woman," Priyanka corrected, "who is proud of you and wants the world to know it. Accept your fate, Sharma."

Nick chuckled. "For what it's worth, man, Priyanka did the same thing to me. I showed up to our first public event in a Honda. She had me in a Maybach by the second one."

"See?" Priyanka gestured at her husband. "It's a sign of affection."

Anant shook his head, but he was smiling. "How is Isha? Really?"

Priyanka's expression softened. "Nervous for you. Proud of you. Wishing she could be here. She's watching from Mumbai with her family—her parents, Akash, Anant. They've turned Antilia's screening room into an Oscar watching party."

"Of course they have," Anant murmured.

"But seriously, Anant—" Priyanka's voice dropped, becoming more intimate. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"For being the reason I'm getting better roles in Hollywood. Since your films started breaking through internationally, since the Academy recognized Indian storytelling, the calls I'm getting have changed. Not 'exotic love interest' or 'token diversity casting.' Actual characters. Substantial parts. Because you've proven that Indian talent isn't a risk—it's an asset."

Anant looked uncomfortable with the praise. "PC, you did that yourself. Your work speaks—"

"My work spoke into a void," she interrupted gently. "You created the space where people actually listened. So thank you."

Before Anant could respond, the Chhichhore team emerged from the hotel entrance—Shraddha in a flowing emerald gown, Varun in a classic tuxedo, the others dressed to various degrees of formal elegance.

Shraddha saw Priyanka and squealed. "Oh my God, PC! You look amazing!"

The two actresses embraced while the men shuffled awkwardly, and Nick caught Anant's eye with a look that said: Welcome to the world of successful actress girlfriends and their successful actress friends.

Anant's expression replied: Send help.

PART III: THE RED CARPET — THE CROWD

Dolby Theatre, 5:30 PM.

The red carpet stretched before the venue like a river of crimson possibility. Barriers lined both sides, holding back the massive crowd that had been gathering since dawn.

But this wasn't a typical Oscar crowd.

Yes, there were the usual entertainment reporters, celebrity watchers, and film enthusiasts. But scattered throughout—concentrated in particular sections—were faces that didn't quite fit the typical Hollywood premiere demographic.

Men and women in their forties and fifties, dressed in expensive but understated business attire. Younger people—late twenties, early thirties—with the particular intensity in their eyes that marked high achievers. Teenagers dragged along by parents, initially reluctant, now watching the arriving celebrities with varying degrees of interest.

A reporter from Variety conducting preliminary crowd interviews noticed the pattern.

"Excuse me, sir," she approached a distinguished-looking Indian man in a tailored Armani suit. "Are you a fan of cinema?"

The man smiled politely. "I'm a fan of excellence. I'm Raj Subramaniam, CEO of FedEx. I'm here to see Anant Sharma."

The reporter blinked. "The CEO of... you're here for Anant Sharma?"

"My children insisted," Raj said, gesturing to two teenagers beside him—a boy and a girl, both wearing Stanford hoodies. "But having watched his films and followed his work in technology, I'm equally interested. The man is revolutionizing multiple industries simultaneously."

The reporter moved to another group—a woman in her thirties with two younger women beside her.

"Dr. Neha Patel," the woman introduced herself. "Cardiologist at Cedars-Sinai. These are my sisters—both at UCLA, one in computer science, one in bioengineering. We're here for Anant."

"Are you film fans?"

"We're fans of people who break barriers," one sister said. "Anant proved that brown kids can compete at the highest levels in any field. Not just STEM—everything."

The pattern repeated:

Arvind Krishna, CEO of IBM: "He's an inspiration to the next generation of Indian innovators."

Sundar Pichai's extended family: "Our children see him as proof that you don't have to choose between artistic expression and intellectual rigor."

A group of MIT students: "He's Gold Medalist from IIT Delhi. He speaks our language. But he also speaks the language of art. That combination is rare."

Harvard medical students: "He made a film about suicide prevention that's actually saving lives. As future doctors, we respect that."

And among them, scattered like hidden gems, were the teenagers—many of South Asian descent, brought by parents who wanted them to see what excellence looked like.

Some were clearly bored, scrolling through phones.

Others watched with analytical interest.

But all of them would remember this night.

At 6:00 PM, a murmur rippled through the crowd.

The Rolls-Royce Phantom—the same one Priyanka had arrived in earlier—pulled up to the red carpet entrance.

The door opened.

Anant Sharma stepped out.

The roar was instantaneous, primal, shocking in its intensity.

But it wasn't the screaming of teenage fans at a pop concert. It was something more complex—a mixture of pride, recognition, celebration, and relief. The sound of a community seeing one of their own standing at the pinnacle.

Anant stood for a moment, taking in the crowd, and then pressed his palms together in namaste.

The gesture was so simple, so sincere, that several people in the front rows started crying.

He walked toward the barrier, and the crowd surged forward—not violently, but eagerly.

Someone in the front row—a teenage girl, maybe sixteen—fainted.

Her father caught her, fanning her face, while her mother called out: "It's okay! She's okay! She just saw him!"

Anant noticed, concern crossing his face, and started to move toward them, but security gestured that they had medical personnel on standby. The girl recovered within seconds, looking mortified.

"I'm so sorry," she called out in Hindi. "I didn't mean to—"

Anant smiled at her—a real smile, warm and genuine—and called back in Hindi: "No apology needed. But drink some water, okay? It's a long night."

The girl burst into fresh tears.

Her father, a distinguished man with greying hair, called out in English: "Mr. Sharma, I'm Dr. Vikram Mehta, Chief of Surgery at UCLA Medical Center. This is my daughter Priya. She wrote her college application essay about your film Chhichhore and how it changed her perspective on failure."

Anant walked closer to the barrier. "Where did you apply?"

"Princeton, MIT, Stanford, and UCLA," Priya managed, her voice shaky.

"Smart choices. What do you want to study?"

"Biomedical engineering."

Anant's smile widened. "That's noble work. The world needs more people dedicated to healing." He paused. "Remember—the grades matter, but so does why you're doing it. Don't lose the 'why' in the pressure of the 'how.'"

Dr. Mehta's eyes filled with tears. "Thank you. You have no idea what that means to her."

Anant moved along the barrier, greeting people in multiple languages:

To a group of Chinese students: "你们今晚过得愉快吗?" (Are you enjoying the evening?)

Their faces lit up, and they responded in rapid Mandarin, thanking him for representing Asian excellence.

To Korean fans: "오늘 밤 여기 와주셔서 감사합니다" (Thank you for coming tonight)

To Japanese attendees: "あなたのサポートに感謝します" (I appreciate your support)

To Vietnamese cinema students: "Cảm ơn vì đã yêu thích phim" (Thank you for loving cinema)

Each greeting was perfect—not just linguistically accurate, but culturally appropriate in tone and formality.

A reporter from The Hollywood Reporter watched in astonishment. "He's speaking six different languages naturally. Who is this guy? I mean, I know who he is, but this level of global stardom... it's absolutely mind-boggling."

Her cameraman, a grizzled veteran of twenty Oscar ceremonies, shook his head. "I've never seen anything like this. The crowd isn't just excited—they're emotional. Like he represents something bigger than himself."

Near the center of the barricade, Anant stopped in front of a cluster of serious-looking young men and women—all South Asian, all wearing badges from Stanford, MIT, Caltech, and Harvard.

"STEM scholars?" Anant asked in English.

One of them, a tall Sikh man with a MIT hoodie, stepped forward. "Jai Singh, electrical engineering PhD candidate. Mr. Sharma, we're here because you've proven something our entire community needed to see."

"Which is?"

"That Indians can dominate in art the same way we dominate in technology. That our parents' insistence on STEM careers wasn't the only path to excellence. That creativity and intellect aren't opposing forces."

Anant studied them for a moment—seeing in their faces the pressure, the expectations, the weight of immigrant parents' sacrifices.

"The opposite is also true," he said quietly. "Your work in STEM is art. There's creativity in algorithm design, beauty in mathematical proofs, poetry in elegant code. Don't let anyone tell you that what you do is 'just' technical. You're artists too."

Jai's eyes widened slightly. "I... never thought of it that way."

"Start," Anant said simply. "The world needs engineers who think like artists and artists who think like engineers."

He moved on, but behind him, he heard one of the students say: "Did he just validate our entire existence in thirty seconds?"

Another replied: "I think he did."

Anant's voice, when he addressed the crowd collectively, carried across the red carpet with surprising power—not shouted, but projected with the breath control of years of theater training.

"Thank you," he said, and the crowd quieted to hear him. "Thank you for coming. Thank you for your support. Thank you for believing that our stories deserve to be told on the biggest stages."

A roar of approval.

"I see many familiar faces here—people I've admired from afar." His eyes found specific individuals in the crowd. "Dr. Subramaniam, your logistics innovations have fed the world. Dr. Patel, your research in cardiology has saved countless lives. Mr. Krishna, your leadership in technology has connected billions."

Each person he named looked shocked to be recognized.

"You honor me with your presence," Anant continued. "But I want you to know—the honor is mine. Because you represent the best of what our community offers the world: excellence, dedication, and the refusal to be limited by others' expectations."

In the crowd, a teenager who'd been scrolling through his phone stopped, looked up, and actually listened.

His mother noticed and elbowed his father, whispering: "He stopped texting. He's actually paying attention."

The father whispered back: "Good. Maybe he'll understand why we pushed him so hard in school. This is what's possible when you commit to excellence."

PART IV: THE INTERVIEWS — GRACE UNDER PRESSURE

The press line stretched the length of the red carpet—dozens of outlets, each with their designated spot, each reporter desperate for meaningful quotes.

Anant approached the first station—Entertainment Tonight.

The reporter, a woman in her early thirties named Sarah Jenkins, visibly steadied herself as he drew near.

"Anant Sharma," she said, her professional composure slipping slightly as she took in his appearance. "Wow. You look... that outfit is stunning."

"Thank you. Sabyasachi and Manish Malhotra—two of India's finest designers."

"It's very different from the traditional tuxedo."

"It's who I am," Anant said simply. "I wanted to honor the occasion while staying true to my identity."

Sarah consulted her notes, but her eyes kept drifting back to his face. "Fourteen nominations across two films. How does that feel?"

"Surreal. Humbling. Like watching history happen to someone else."

"But it's happening to you. You're making history."

"History is being made by the teams behind both films," Anant corrected gently. "I'm just fortunate to be part of it."

Sarah bit her lip slightly—a gesture of frustration at her own distraction—then pressed on professionally. "Both films are so different. Baahubali is a visual spectacle, mythological, epic in scope. Chhichhore is intimate, realistic, focused on mental health. How do you switch between those modes?"

"You find the emotional truth at the core of each story. In Baahubali, the truth is about duty, sacrifice, the weight of legacy. In Chhichhore, it's about failure, friendship, the courage to continue living. The settings change. The truth doesn't."

Sarah was nodding, but there was something in her expression—a mixture of professional admiration and something more personal.

"Last question," she managed. "What does tonight mean to you personally?"

Anant paused, considering. "It means that the stories we tell matter. That pain and joy and struggle and triumph are universal languages. That a film about Indian students and a film about Indian mythology can speak to the whole world. That's what tonight means."

Sarah exhaled slowly. "Good luck tonight. I mean that sincerely."

"Thank you."

As Anant moved to the next station, Sarah's cameraman muttered: "You okay?"

"No," Sarah admitted. "How is one person that articulate, that handsome, and that genuine? It's unfair."

The cameraman laughed. "Welcome to the Anant Sharma effect. Every reporter who's interviewed him says the same thing."

The pattern repeated down the press line:

ABC: "Your outfits from both films are going into the Academy Museum. How does it feel to have your costumes preserved as part of cinema history?"

Anant: "It's an honor for the designers, the craftspeople, everyone who brought those characters to life through fabric and thread. Costume design is storytelling. I'm glad it's being recognized."

CNN: "You've been called the future of cinema. That's a lot of pressure. How do you handle it?"

Anant: "By focusing on the present. The future will take care of itself if the work today is honest."

BBC: "British audiences have embraced both your films. What do you think transcends cultural barriers in storytelling?"

Anant: "Authenticity. Emotional truth. If you tell a story that's genuinely felt, that's rooted in real human experience, people everywhere will recognize themselves in it."

Vogue: "Let's talk about the outfit. You're breaking the traditional Oscar dress code. Was that intentional?"

Anant: "Yes. I respect the Academy and this ceremony deeply. But I also believe that respecting an institution doesn't require erasing your identity. This is who I am. I wanted to bring my whole self tonight."

And then he reached the Variety station, where the reporter—a sharp-eyed woman named Kate Morrison—had a more challenging question ready.

"Anant, there's been some discussion in Hollywood about whether fourteen nominations across two films represents fair distribution of recognition. Some have suggested that the Academy is overcorrecting for years of overlooking international cinema. Your response?"

Anant met her eyes directly, his expression serious but not defensive.

"I think merit speaks for itself. Both films were judged by their individual qualities by separate voting branches of the Academy. Baahubali earned its technical nominations through innovation and execution. Chhichhore earned its acting and writing nominations through emotional resonance and craft."

"But you don't think there's any element of the Academy wanting to make a statement about diversity?"

"I think the Academy recognizes good work," Anant said firmly. "If my being Indian makes that recognition more visible, I'm glad. But the nominations weren't charity. They were earned. By teams of hundreds of people who poured their souls into these films."

Kate nodded slowly. "Fair answer. Last question—if you win tonight, what will you say?"

"I haven't prepared a speech."

"Really? Most nominees have something ready."

"I'll speak from the heart," Anant said simply. "That's all I know how to do."

PART V: THE LEGENDS — MEETING HOLLYWOOD ROYALTY

Keanu Reeves was waiting near the entrance to the Dolby Theatre, and when he spotted Anant, his face split into a genuine smile.

"Anant," Keanu said, pulling Anant into a tight hug.

"You were right," Anant said into his shoulder. "You called it at the Chhichhore premiere in Mumbai."

Keanu pulled back, gripping Anant's shoulders. "I didn't call anything. I observed what was already there. You did the work. The Academy just recognized it."

At Keanu's feet, Barnaby the rescue dog let out a happy, familiar woof. He was looking impossibly sharp, wearing a tiny, custom-made Oscar tuxedo collar.

Anant's intense aura instantly melted into a warm grin. He crouched down, raising his hand. Without missing a beat, Barnaby lifted his paw and delivered a perfect, red-carpet high-five.

"You're looking like a winner tonight too, buddy," Anant chuckled, scratching the dog behind the ears.

Keanu laughed, his eyes crinkling with warmth as he gestured to a cluster of people nearby—legends of cinema who had been watching the wholesome exchange with absolute fascination.

"Come on," Keanu said, leading the way. "There are people who want to meet you."

Christian Bale approached first, his transformation for his latest role—a weathered detective—still visible in his lean physique.

"Anant," Christian said, his accent still carrying Welsh undertones despite decades in Hollywood. "I've been following your work. The physical transformations you undergo—that's method work without the pretension. I respect that."

Anant looked slightly starstruck despite his composure. "Mr. Bale, your work in The Machinist, The Fighter, Vice—the commitment to physical transformation you bring to roles is legendary. I'm honored."

"Call me Christian. And I watched Chhichhore. The way you age fifty years old father without prosthetics? That's embodiment. Most actors rely on makeup. You changed your posture, your breathing, your presence. That's the real work."

Tom Hanks stepped forward next, that trademark everyman warmth radiating from him.

"Anant Sharma. The man who made me cry over Indian college students." Tom extended his hand. "That's no small feat. Chhichhore is a masterpiece of emotional storytelling."

"Mr. Hanks, I grew up watching Forrest Gump, Cast Away, Saving Private Ryan. Your ability to find humanity in every character—that's what I aspire to."

"You're doing more than aspiring, son. You're achieving." Tom's eyes were kind but serious. "And that speech you're going to give tonight—make it count. You have the platform. Use it."

Anant looked surprised. "How did you know I'm going to—"

"Because you're going to win Best Actor," Tom said simply. "I've been to enough of these to know. And when you do, say what needs to be said."

Meryl Streep appeared, regal in a silver gown that somehow made her look both timeless and contemporary.

"Anant," she said, and he immediately pressed his palms together in namaste.

"Ms. Streep. It's an honor."

"Meryl, please. And the honor is mutual. I watched both your films. The range—mythological warrior to grieving father—that's not versatility for the sake of it. That's understanding character from the inside out."

"You've set the standard for that understanding," Anant said. "Twenty-one nominations. Three wins. But more importantly, characters that live in the audience's memory forever."

Meryl's smile was genuine. "You're well on your way to building that same legacy. Different stories, different cultures, but the same commitment to truth."

Arnold Schwarzenegger materialized from the crowd—still impossibly large, still radiating that unique combination of Austrian precision and California confidence.

"Anant!" Arnold's voice boomed. "Come here!"

Anant walked over, and Arnold extended his hand. Anant gripped it firmly.

The handshake that followed made several onlookers stop and stare.

It wasn't a normal Hollywood handshake—the brief, professional grip of industry networking. This was something else. Arnold had clearly intended it as a friendly gesture, but when Anant matched his grip, the Austrian bodybuilder-turned-actor's eyes widened slightly.

"Ho!" Arnold laughed, genuinely delighted. "Somebody's been doing their training!"

The handshake intensified—not aggressively, but as a mutual test of strength. Both men smiled, neither backing down, until finally Arnold released with a hearty laugh.

"I heard you trained for Baahubali like a warrior. Now I believe it!" Arnold clapped Anant on the shoulder—a gesture that would have staggered a lesser person, but Anant stood firm. "That's real strength. Not gym muscles. Functional, trained, disciplined."

"I learned from the best," Anant said. "Watching your training documentaries for Conan, Terminator—you showed what dedication looks like."

"And you learned well!" Arnold's expression grew more serious. "You know what I like about you? You understand that the body is part of the performance. So many actors today want everything done with CGI, with stunt doubles. You do the work yourself. Like the old days. Like me, like Sly, like the action stars who built Hollywood."

Sylvester Stallone had been watching the exchange, and now he stepped forward.

"He's right," Sly said, his iconic gravelly voice unmistakable. "You remind me of the actors who understood that physicality tells the story. Mind if I test that grip myself?"

Anant extended his hand again, and another legendary handshake ensued—this one slightly less intense than Arnold's, but still carrying weight.

Sly nodded approvingly. "Solid. Real solid. You train martial arts?"

"Kalaripayattu. Indian martial art. Fifteen years."

Arnold let out a booming laugh, clapping Sly on the shoulder. "I told you, Sly! Jackie was right!"

Arnold turned back to Anant with a wide grin. "Jackie Chan called us a few months ago. He wouldn't stop talking about this Indian kid who actually understands the soul of martial arts. He called you his student and his friend."

Sly nodded, pointing a thick, weathered finger at Anant with newfound reverence.

"When Jackie Chan calls someone his student, you pay attention. He told us you have the heart of an old-school Hong Kong stuntman wrapped in a leading man's body. After watching Baahubali, I see exactly what he meant. You move like a fighter, not an actor playing a fighter. You understand combat. Real combat, not movie combat."

"I learned from studying your work in Rocky, Rambo. The way you made fighting look desperate and real, not choreographed."

Sly smiled. "And you took those lessons into something completely new. Mythology, animation, but the heart is still there. The warrior's heart."

Tom Cruise joined the growing circle, his energy somehow both relaxed and intensely focused.

"Anant!" Tom's handshake was firm, his smile genuine. "I've been wanting to meet you. Heard you do your own stunts."

"When the story requires it," Anant said. "But nothing compared to your work. Mission Impossible—you've set a standard that's almost impossible to match."

"Almost," Tom grinned. "But you're getting there. I saw the behind-the-scenes footage from both Baahubali and URI. You trained with actual Special Forces and Baahubali insane three years pure dedication?"

"The Para SF Regiment. They taught me that authenticity requires understanding the reality, not just imitating the aesthetic."

Tom's grin widened. "Exactly! That's exactly it! Too many actors want to look like soldiers without understanding what soldiers actually do. You get it."

Legendary Directors and Producers

James Cameron materialized from the crowd, his height and presence immediately commanding attention.

"Anant Sharma," Cameron's voice carried that particular blend of artistic vision and technical precision. "The man who's proving that technology serves story, not the other way around."

Anant looked genuinely honored. "Mr. Cameron, your work—Avatar, Titanic, The Terminator—you've shown how to push technical boundaries while never losing emotional truth."

"And you're following that path," Cameron said. "I've studied the Maya VFX system. The LED volume stages, the real-time rendering, the integration of practical and digital. You're not just using technology. You're innovating it. While also delivering performances that make people cry. That's rare."

Steven Spielberg joined them, his expression contemplative behind his signature glasses.

"I have to say," Spielberg said quietly, "watching Baahubali reminded me why I fell in love with cinema. That sense of wonder, of mythology coming alive, of storytelling that transcends language. And Chhichhore—that reminded me why cinema matters beyond spectacle. Both films, different purposes, same heart."

Anant looked like he might actually be overwhelmed. "Mr. Spielberg, I don't know what to say. Your work has been my film school."

"Then you've been an excellent student," Spielberg said simply. "Keep making films that matter. Keep taking risks. Keep refusing to choose between art and commerce. You're proving they can coexist."

Guillermo del Toro appeared, his enthusiasm unmistakable.

"Anant! The mythology in Baahubali! The visual language! You understand that fantasy isn't escapism—it's truth dressed in wonder!"

Christopher Nolan, ever precise, added: "And the narrative structure in both films. Non-linear when it serves the story, linear when clarity matters. You're not playing with structure for novelty. You're using it to enhance meaning."

Zack Snyder nodded. "The visual composition. Every frame in Baahubali could be a painting. That's not accident. That's intentionality. Vision backed by execution."

Anant looked around at the circle of legendary directors, and for the first time all night, his composure seemed to genuinely crack slightly.

"I... this is surreal. You're the artists who taught me what cinema could be."

"And now you're teaching the next generation," Cameron said firmly. "That's how it works. We learn, we create, we pass it forward."

True Female beauties

The actresses had formed their own cluster, and when Anant approached to greet them, Frances McDormand spoke first.

"The outfit," she said approvingly. "Not conforming to the tuxedo standard. I like it. Identity over convention."

Cate Blanchett added: "And the work. Chhichhore was the kind of emotionally honest performance we don't see often enough from male actors. Vulnerability without performance. Grief without manipulation."

Viola Davis stepped forward, her presence commanding despite her elegant simplicity.

"Anant Sharma. I want you to know something." Her voice was serious. "When you talk about actresses the way you did in your Variety interview—emphasizing craft over appearance, talent over beauty—that matters. Male actors who publicly value our work as artists, not just our looks? That's too rare. Thank you."

Anant looked genuinely moved. "Ms. Davis, your work speaks to that value better than any words I could say. The characters you inhabit—they're not performances. They're lived truths."

"Which is exactly what you do," she said firmly. "We're cut from similar cloth, you and I. We refuse to fake it."

Julianne Moore smiled. "He's right, though. We've spent decades trying to be taken seriously as craftspeople, not just beautiful faces. Having a young male star actively champion that? It helps."

Hollywood Owners

And then, through the crowd, Kevin Yeaman—CEO of Dolby Laboratories—emerged.

When he spotted Anant, his professional composure gave way to genuine warmth. He crossed the distance in long strides and pulled Anant into an embrace that surprised several onlookers.

"Anant!" Kevin's voice carried real affection. "Fourteen nominations! I knew it! I told the board you'd make history!"

The crowd around them—actors, directors, producers—watched with interest.

Kevin pulled back, still gripping Anant's shoulders. "Do you know how many requests we're getting for the Maya Camera? We're backlogged two years. Two years! We can't manufacture them fast enough!"

"That's good for business," Anant said with a smile.

"It's transformative for cinema!" Kevin corrected. "Studios are committing to the technology before they even have the cameras. And the Maya Shield—Anant, we're preventing over $4 billion in piracy losses annually. The entire industry is grateful."

Several producers in the nearby cluster perked up at this.

One of them—a senior executive from Warner Bros—stepped forward.

"Mr. Sharma, I wanted to personally thank you. Maya Shield has protected our slate entirely. No significant piracy breaches in months. That's unprecedented."

Another producer from Universal added: "Same. The technology is flawless. You've solved a problem we thought was unsolvable."

Kevin beamed proudly. "He's not just an artist. He's an innovator. And the partnership between Dolby and Maya Tech is the most exciting thing we've done in decades."

PART VI: INSIDE THE DOLBY THEATRE — THE CEREMONY BEGINS

The Dolby Theatre's interior gleamed with carefully calibrated elegance—3,400 seats arranged in tiers, each offering sightlines to the stage where cinema's biggest night would unfold.

The Baahubali team sat in one section, the Chhichhore team in another, separated by logistics but united in nervous anticipation.

Anant sat with the Chhichhore contingent—Nitesh on his left, Shraddha on his right, the rest of the team filling out the row.

As the lights dimmed and the ceremony began, Shraddha leaned over and whispered: "Are you nervous?"

"Terrified," Anant admitted quietly.

"You don't look it."

"I'm very good at hiding terror."

She squeezed his hand briefly. "Whatever happens tonight, you've already won. You know that, right?"

"I know the work mattered. That's enough."

The opening monologue began—the host making the expected jokes, the crowd laughing at the appropriate moments. Around the world, over two hundred million people were tuning in.

In India, the number was astronomical. Every major city had organized public screenings. Movie theaters were showing the Oscars live. Homes across the country had gathered family and friends.

In their highly secured sea-facing Mumbai villa, Rajesh and Meera sat in their private home theater. They could have watched with the Ambanis at Antilia, but they had chosen to watch this intimately, just as a family.

Rajesh sat in his favorite chair, hands clasped, eyes fixed on the screen.

Meera sat beside him, holding his hand, occasionally wiping tears she didn't realize were falling.

Anjali sat on the floor at their feet, phone in hand, live-tweeting the ceremony to her 500,000 followers.

At IIT Delhi, the Ankahi Dramatic Society had organized a viewing party in the main auditorium.

Over eight hundred students packed the space—current members, alumni, faculty.

Aisha—now a full professor and the director of the program—sat in the front row, flanked by Kabir and Vivek, the theater veterans who'd been present at Anant's first audition.

On the screen, they'd projected a split view—the live Oscar ceremony on the right, and on the left, archival footage of Anant's first audition for Ankahi.

"Look at him then," Vivek murmured, watching young Anant recite his monologue with raw, untrained intensity.

"Look at him now," Kabir replied, as the camera cut to present-day Anant in the Dolby Theatre, composed and regal in his Indian formal wear.

Aisha wiped her eyes. "He's the same person. That's what gets me. Despite everything, he's still that curious boy who wanted to understand drama."

At the National School of Drama, a similar gathering had formed.

Anant's graduating class, his instructors, the administrators who'd watched him complete the intensive six-month program with a gold medal.

When the camera panned across the audience and lingered on Anant, the entire room erupted in applause.

At Antilia in Mumbai, the Ambani family had converted their private screening room into an Oscar watching party.

Mukesh and Nita sat in the center, flanked by Akash and Shloka on one side, and Anant Ambani on the other.

Isha sat slightly apart, leaning forward, barely breathing.

She'd dressed in a simple elegant saree—midnight blue, the same shade as Anant's sherwani—unconsciously matching him despite the distance.

Nita noticed and smiled, reaching over to squeeze her daughter's hand.

"He's going to win," Nita said softly.

"I know," Isha whispered. "I just want to be there when he does."

"You are," Mukesh said. "In every way that matters."

Back in the Dolby Theatre, the ceremony progressed through the technical categories.

Best Visual Effects was announced.

The nominees were read:

Dune

Free Guy

Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings

Spider-Man: No Way Home

Baahubali: The Eternal War

The envelope opened.

"Baahubali: The Eternal War! Maya VFX and Ufotable!"

The Baahubali section erupted. The entire Maya VFX team surged toward the stage—twenty people, Indian and Japanese, artists and technicians.

The lead supervisor gave the acceptance speech, but ended with: "This award belongs to Anant Sharma, who didn't just produce this film—he built the technology that made this level of visual storytelling possible. Thank you for believing in innovation."

The crowd applauded.

Anant, watching from his seat, smiled quietly.

Best Sound went to Baahubali as well.

The Dolby Atmos team accepted, praising the integration of traditional Indian instruments with cutting-edge spatial audio.

Best Original Score.

"Baahubali: The Eternal War, MM Keeravani!"

The elderly composer walked to the stage, tears streaming down his face, clutching his Oscar like a sacred object.

"I've been composing for forty years," Keeravani said in accented English. "In Telugu cinema, in Tamil cinema. And the world is just now listening. Thank you to Anant Sharma and SS Rajamouli for giving Indian music a global platform."

Best Cinematography.

"Baahubali: The Eternal War, KK Senthil Kumar!"

Senthil's acceptance speech was brief: "To every cinematographer who's been told their work is 'too Indian' for international audiences—this is proof that authenticity transcends borders. And to Anant Sharma—thank you for the Maya Camera system. It's the future of cinema."

Best Animated Feature.

The category had massive competition: Disney's latest, a Pixar masterpiece, DreamWorks' offering.

The presenters opened the envelope.

A pause—genuine surprise crossing their faces.

"Baahubali: The Eternal War, SS Rajamouli, Makoto Shinkai, and Anant Sharma!"

The Dolby Theatre erupted.

Rajamouli and Shinkai walked to the stage together—the Indian director and the Japanese auteur, united by a shared vision.

Rajamouli spoke first, his voice breaking: "Animation is not a lesser form of cinema. It is pure cinema—every frame intentional, every moment designed. We proved that mythology can be animated without losing emotional truth. Thank you to Anant Sharma for believing in this impossible dream."

Shinkai added in Japanese, with English subtitles appearing: "This film taught me that cultural collaboration doesn't dilute authenticity—it amplifies it. Thank you to India, to Japan, and to the audiences who believed in this story."

Best Director.

This was the big one for Rajamouli.

The nominees included some of the industry's biggest names. The competition was fierce.

The envelope opened.

"SS Rajamouli and Makoto Shinkai, Baahubali: The Eternal War!"

Rajamouli stood, pulled Anant up from his seat, and embraced him fiercely before walking to the stage.

At the podium, he could barely speak through tears.

"I'm a director from Telugu cinema. Regional cinema. I was told Hollywood would never recognize our work. Anant Sharma told me that was a lie. He said, 'Make the best film you can make. The world will find it.' I believed him. And here we are."

He held up the Oscar.

"This is for every regional filmmaker in India. Every director told your stories are too local, too cultural, too Indian. This is proof that excellence speaks every language."

By the time the ceremony reached the final categories, Baahubali had won six Oscars.

Chhichhore had won Best Original Screenplay (Anant had walked to the stage in a daze, accepted the Oscar, thanked his team, and returned to his seat barely remembering the experience).

Best Production Design had gone to Chhichhore.

Best Film Editing had gone to Chhichhore.

The count stood at nine Oscars total between the two films.

And then came the announcement everyone was waiting for.

PART VII: BEST ACTOR — THE MOMENT

The presenters for Best Actor were Anthony Hopkins and Jodie Foster—legends presenting to the future.

Hopkins opened the envelope, read the name, and a slow smile crossed his face.

"Anant Sharma, Chhichhore."

The Dolby Theatre exploded.

Shraddha and the rest of the 'Losers' team engulfed him in a hug, while Nitesh pulled him into a crushing embrace.

Anant stood, moving toward the stage as if in a dream.

As he walked the aisle, he passed the legends who'd welcomed him earlier:

Arnold stood and applauded, nodding with approval.

Sylvester raised his fist in a fighter's salute.

Meryl stood with smile while nodding towards him.

Tom Hanks was on his feet, applauding with genuine joy.

Keanu grabbed his hand as he passed, whispering: "Told you. Now go say what needs to be said."

Anant climbed the stairs, accepted the Oscar from Hopkins (who whispered, "Well deserved, young man"), and stood at the podium.

He looked at the golden statuette in his hands—heavy, solid, real.

Then he looked up at the audience.

And began to speak.

PART VIII: THE SPEECH THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING

"Thank you," Anant began, his voice steady despite the emotion. "Thank you to the Academy. Thank you to my Chhichhore family—Nitesh, Ashwani, Shraddha, Varun, Tahir, Naveen, Prateek, Tushar, Saharsh, everyone who believed in this story."

He paused, collecting his thoughts.

"Thank you to my Baahubali family—Rajamouli sir, Rama ma'am,Sudheer, Parvathy, Tamannah, Senthil, Keeravani sir, the entire team who proved that Indian mythology belongs on the world stage."

Another pause.

"Thank you to my parents, Rajesh and Meera Sharma, who taught me that excellence and humility aren't opposing forces—they're partners. Thank you to my sister Anjali, who keeps me grounded."

His voice grew more serious.

"I grew up watching Hollywood films. Rambo. Terminator. Alien. The Exorcist. Lord of the Rings. Harry Potter. Star Wars. These films shaped my imagination and my understanding of what cinema could achieve."

The audience was listening intently now. This wasn't a typical acceptance speech.

"But what I loved most about those films was that the action was real. The stunts were performed by actual human beings pushing their bodies to extraordinary limits. The effects enhanced reality—they didn't replace it."

He gestured toward Arnold and Sylvester in the audience.

"Sylvester Stallone transformed his body for Rocky and Rambo. He wrote the scripts. He did the training. He lived the characters."

"Arnold Schwarzenegger was a champion bodybuilder who brought real physicality to his roles while building a business empire and eventually governing California."

"Tom Cruise continues to perform stunts that professional stunt performers won't attempt. These actors understood that physical commitment translates to emotional authenticity on screen."

The camera cut to the mentioned actors—Arnold with tears in his eyes, Sly nodding slowly, Tom smiling with appreciation.

"I see a trend in modern cinema that concerns me."

The room went very quiet.

"Green screens replacing locations. CGI replacing practical effects. Stunt doubles performing increasingly larger portions of action sequences. Body doubles, face replacements, digital de-aging—technology allowing actors to avoid the difficult work of physical transformation."

He held up a hand before anyone could react.

"This technology is valuable when used to enhance storytelling. But when it replaces the fundamental work of acting—the commitment to physically and emotionally inhabit a character—we lose something essential."

Murmurs rippled through the younger section of the audience. The older actors and filmmakers were nodding.

"I'm equally concerned about the emphasis on appearance over skill. Many talented performers, especially young actresses, are told their primary value is their beauty."

The camera cut to several young actresses in the audience, their expressions ranging from surprised to grateful.

"But the actresses I admire most—" He looked directly at the section where the legends sat. "Meryl Streep. Frances McDormand. Cate Blanchett. Viola Davis. Julianne Moore. They're magnificent because of their talent, their range, their commitment to craft. Their beauty is undeniable, but it's not their primary currency. Their skill is."

Meryl was openly weeping now. Viola had her hand over her heart. Cate was nodding firmly.

"Previous generations of Hollywood were rawer, more real, more committed to the physical and emotional truth of performance. Those were the films that made Hollywood legendary. Those were the artists who created this institution we're celebrating tonight."

Anant's voice grew stronger, more passionate.

"I want to honor some names that younger audiences may not know, but that older artists remember:

"Charles Bronson. Steve McQueen. Lee Marvin—actors who brought genuine toughness and authenticity to their roles.

"Grace Kelly. Ingrid Bergman. Audrey Hepburn—actresses who combined beauty with profound talent and grace.

"Sidney Poitier, who broke barriers with dignity and extraordinary skill.

"Paul Newman, who was as committed to his craft in his seventies as he'd been in his twenties.

"Katharine Hepburn, who defined what it meant to be fierce and independent while remaining true to artistic integrity."

The older generation in the audience was standing now—not in ovation, but in respect for the names being spoken.

"These artists built Hollywood. Their commitment to craft, their willingness to do the difficult work, their understanding that acting is more than looking good on camera—that's the foundation this institution rests on."

He looked around the Dolby Theatre—at the young actors, the streaming executives, the new generation of filmmakers.

"To the current generation of filmmakers and actors: Please don't abandon that foundation. Technology is a tool, not a replacement for skill. Beauty is a gift, but talent is a discipline. The shortcuts might be tempting, but the difficult path produces the meaningful work."

His voice became almost pleading:

"Respect the artists who came before you. Learn from them. Honor the traditions they established while pushing the art form forward."

He paused, looking down at the Oscar in his hands, then back up at the audience.

"Don't kill the Hollywood that made Hollywood great. The Hollywood that taught the world how to make films, how to tell stories, how to move audiences. That Hollywood is worth preserving."

Anant lifted the Oscar.

"This award represents that Hollywood—the one that recognizes craft, commitment, and storytelling. I'm grateful to be part of that tradition, and I'm committed to honoring it in my future work."

He took a breath.

"Thank you."

For three full seconds, there was absolute silence.

Then it began.

A single pair of hands clapping—Arnold Schwarzenegger, standing in the third row.

Then Sylvester Stallone joined.

Then Tom Cruise.

Then Meryl Streep.

Then the entire older generation of Hollywood was on their feet, applauding not just with their hands but with tears streaming down their faces.

The younger actors looked uncertain—some standing, some sitting, some clearly processing what they'd just heard.

But the legends—the people who'd built Hollywood, who'd dedicated fifty, sixty, seventy years to cinema—they understood.

Anant had articulated what they'd felt but couldn't say without sounding bitter, without being dismissed as out-of-touch veterans bitter about the new generation.

But coming from a twenty-six-year-old actor at the absolute peak of his powers, having just won his first Oscar—it carried undeniable weight.

Martin Scorsese stood, applauding through tears.

Steven Spielberg stood, applauding with a smile of pride.

Clint Eastwood—rarely emotional—stood with visible tears in his eyes.

Francis Ford Coppola stood, nodding slowly.

The applause continued for over two minutes—longer than any standing ovation of the night.

Anant stood at the podium, holding his Oscar, and simply nodded his acknowledgment—humble even in his most defiant moment.

PART IX: THE REVERBERATIONS — AROUND THE WORLD

MUMBAI VILLA

Rajesh Sharma stood in his private theater, hands pressed to his face, shoulders shaking with sobs.

Meera wrapped her arms around him from behind, her own tears falling freely.

"He said it," Rajesh whispered. "He said what needed to be said. On the biggest stage in the world, he defended art. Defended craft. Defended truth."

Anjali looked up from her phone—the notification count had exceeded 50,000. Her last tweet: "My brother just gave the most important Oscar speech in decades."

Around them, the neighbors and friends who'd gathered to watch erupted in cheers and applause that matched what was happening in Los Angeles.

IIT DELHI

The Ankahi auditorium erupted.

Eight hundred students on their feet, cheering, crying, applauding.

Aisha stood at the front, hands clasped to her chest, tears streaming.

"That's our Anant," she whispered. "That's our Anant. Still asking the uncomfortable questions. Still challenging assumptions. Still refusing to accept the easy path."

Kabir nodded. "We taught him to question. He's questioning the entire industry."

Vivek smiled through tears. "No. Hollywood taught him cinema. He's thanking them by reminding them what they've forgotten."

NATIONAL SCHOOL OF DRAMA

Similar scenes. Standing ovation. Tears. Pride.

The director of NSD, watching with faculty and students, turned to his colleagues: "He graduated 8 months ago with a gold medal. Now he's teaching Hollywood about craft. Just who is he, is he really the God of Acting?"

An older instructor smiled. "Someone who actually listened when we taught him. Someone who took our lessons about honoring tradition while innovating and applied it to the global stage."

ANTILIA, MUMBAI

Isha had her hands pressed to her mouth, tears streaming down her face, unable to speak.

Nita wrapped an arm around her daughter. "He's magnificent."

Mukesh nodded slowly. "He just challenged the entire modern film industry to return to craftsmanship. Do you know how many enemies that speech will make? How many streaming executives, CGI companies, lazy actors are going to resent him?"

"And how many legends will love him for it," Nita countered. "Did you see Spielberg's face? Scorsese? Meryl Streep? He just became their champion."

Anant Ambani spoke up from his seat: "He also just became every young actor who actually wants to learn craft's hero. The ones who are tired of being told appearance matters more than skill."

Akash added: "This speech is going to be studied in film schools for decades."

Isha finally found her voice, barely a whisper: "I need to call him."

Nita smiled. "Give him time. He needs to process what he just did."

PRIME MINISTER'S OFFICE, NEW DELHI

Narendra Modi sat in his private office, having watched the ceremony on a secure feed.

His media secretary entered. "Sir, shall we prepare a statement?"

Modi was quiet for a long moment, then: "Yes. But make it substantial. Anant Sharma just did something rare. He used a platform of celebration to issue a challenge. To defend craft over convenience. To honor the past while pushing for a better future. That deserves acknowledgment."

Within thirty minutes, the PMO released a statement:

"Anant Sharma has made India proud not just through his unprecedented fourteen Oscar nominations and his historic wins, but through his courageous defense of artistic integrity. His speech at the 94th Academy Awards will be remembered as a turning point—a young artist respectfully but firmly challenging his industry to return to the values of craft, commitment, and truth that made cinema great. This is leadership. This is vision. India celebrates not just his victories tonight, but his voice."

The statement was signed personally by the Prime Minister.

TOKYO, JAPAN

Inside the darkened, hyper-modern Ufotable animation studios in Tokyo, it was mid-morning. The entire animation team—over two hundred artists who had spent months bleeding over digital drawing tablets to create the Dharmic Anime Style for Baahubali with Anant—were gathered around a massive projection screen.

They had just celebrated wildly when they watched their director, Makoto Shinkai, stand on the Hollywood stage alongside SS Rajamouli to accept the Best Animated Feature award. But as Anant's Best Actor speech echoed through the studio, the cheering stopped. A profound, reverent silence fell over the room.

When Anant defended the "difficult work" and the "artists who built the foundation," several older, veteran Japanese animators actually bowed their heads toward the screen. In Japanese culture, the concept of Shokunin—the artisan's absolute dedication to mastering their craft over a lifetime—was sacred. To hear the biggest star in the world fiercely defend that exact philosophy on a Western stage was overwhelming.

"He isn't just defending actors," the lead animation supervisor whispered in Japanese, wiping a tear from his eye. "He is defending the pencil. The brush. The sweat. He is defending the soul of creation."

On Japanese social media, the trending hashtags immediately shifted from the awards to the speech. Entertainment critics praised him universally: "The way he honored actors that younger generations don't even know about—that shows genuine respect for cinema history, not just current trends. He possesses the discipline of a samurai and the heart of a poet."

BEIJING, CHINA

Across China, a massive emotional catharsis was taking place.

For the Chinese students who had wept during Anant's legendary Tsinghua University speech—students like Li Mei, who had torn up her suicide note with him—watching Anant conquer the West was deeply personal. They weren't watching a foreign actor; they were watching their "Healer."

In the dormitories of Tsinghua and Peking University, students huddled around laptops, translating his speech in real-time.

The cultural response was explosive. Anant's emphasis on honoring elders resonated perfectly with deep-rooted Confucian values. Within an hour, Chinese state media, including the People's Daily, blasted the headline across the country:

"Indian Actor Anant Sharma Demonstrates Eastern Values at Western Awards Ceremony."

The editorial below it read: "His call to respect elder artists and honor tradition reflects values that are central to Asian cultures. While Western entertainment often celebrates youth and novelty over experience and wisdom, Sharma reminds the global industry that foundations matter."

Across Beijing, Shanghai, and Shenzhen, Chinese parents who had been using Anant as the ultimate academic benchmark now had even more ammunition.

"See?" mothers told their exhausted children. "He won the biggest award in the world, and what did he do? He bowed his head, honored his elders, and talked about hard work and discipline! That is how a true Emperor acts!"

SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA

In the 24-hour study cafes of Seoul, thousands of Korean university students had paused their brutal study sessions to stream the Oscars on their laptops.

When Anant had visited Seoul months ago, he had openly attacked the crushing culture of Hell Joseon, begging them to survive the pressure and value their own humanity over their test scores. Many had wondered if a man so powerful could truly understand their struggle.

But watching him stand before the billionaires and elites of Hollywood, completely unbothered by their wealth, choosing instead to champion raw, honest struggle and hard work—it validated everything he had taught them.

Korean entertainment shows immediately dedicated their morning segments to analyzing the speech. Cultural critics marveled at how perfectly Indian and Korean values aligned under Anant's philosophy.

"Both our cultures understand that respecting those who came before you isn't about being subservient," a prominent Korean sociologist stated on live television. "It's about recognizing that you build on foundations others created. Anant Sharma's speech embodies that understanding. He is proving to our youth that you can conquer the world without losing your Eastern soul."

HOLLYWOOD

In the Dolby Theatre, as Anant made his way back to his seat, something remarkable happened.

The older actors and filmmakers he passed didn't just applaud. They reached out to touch his shoulder, to grip his hand, to whisper thanks.

Arnold pulled him into a brief, fierce hug. "You said what we couldn't. Thank you."

Meryl kissed his cheek, tears still flowing. "You beautiful, brave boy. Thank you for honoring us."

Clint Eastwood, a man of few words, simply gripped his shoulder and nodded.

When Anant finally reached his seat, the Chhichhore team surrounded him.

Shraddha was crying. "Anant, do you know what you just did?"

"I said what I felt," he replied quietly.

Nitesh shook his head in amazement. "You challenged Hollywood. At the Oscars. While accepting your first Oscar. Who does that?"

"Someone who actually believes in what he said," Varun answered. "That's who."

PART X: BEST PICTURE — THE FINAL VICTORY

There were still categories remaining, but the energy in the room had shifted.

Anant's speech had reset the emotional tenor of the entire ceremony.

When Best Picture was announced, the final category of the night, the envelope was opened by last year's Best Actress winner.

She read the card, smiled, and said: "Chhichhore, produced by Anant Sharma and Nitesh Tiwari."

The tenth Oscar of the night.

The Chhichhore team walked to the stage together—all of them, every actor, every producer, everyone who'd poured their souls into a film about failure and friendship and choosing to live.

Nitesh gave the acceptance speech, but he ended by pulling Anant forward.

"This is his vision," Nitesh said simply. "This is his story. His heart. His soul on screen. Anant, say something."

Anant stepped to the microphone, holding his second Oscar of the night—Best Actor in his left hand, Best Picture in his right.

He looked exhausted, overwhelmed, but present.

"This film," he said quietly, "was made to save lives. Every life it saved is worth more than every award it could ever win. If you're struggling, if you're in pain, if you're thinking about ending your story—please don't. Please call someone. Please hold on. Because your story matters. You matter."

He held up both Oscars.

"These are beautiful. But they're just metal. You—every person watching who chose to keep living despite the pain—you're the real victory. Thank you."

The applause that followed was different—not celebratory, but reverent. Grateful. The applause of people who understood that some truths transcend entertainment.

FINAL TALLY:

Baahubali: The Eternal War: 7 Oscars

Best Picture

Best Animated Feature

Best Director

Best Visual Effects

Best Sound

Best Original Score

Best Cinematography

Chhichhore: 6 Oscars

Best Picture (tie) ( I know it's impossible but it's a fiction)

Best Actor (Anant Sharma)

Best International Feature Film

Best Original Screenplay (Anant Sharma)

Best Film Editing

Best Production Design

Total: 13 Oscars in one night.

For one person: Anant Sharma—Actor, Writer, Producer, Visionary.

(Note: Best Picture was announced as a historic tie between both films, an unprecedented Academy decision)

As the ceremony ended and people filed out into the Los Angeles night, the conversation had already shifted.

Not about who wore what dress.

Not about which celebrity said what.

But about one twenty-six-year-old actor from Chandni Chowk who'd stood on the world's biggest stage and reminded Hollywood what it used to be—and challenged it to become that again.

The reverberations would echo for years.

But in that moment, Anant Sharma simply walked out of the Dolby Theatre, Oscar in each hand, and looked up at the Los Angeles sky.

Somewhere across the world, in a villa in Mumbai, Isha was calling his phone.

In their Mumbai villa, his parents were crying with joy

In every IIT, NSD, film school, and theater across India, students were watching and thinking: If he can do it, maybe I can too.

And in Hollywood, the legends were smiling.

Because cinema had found its voice again.

And it spoke with an Indian accent.

PART XI: THE VANITY FAIR AFTER-PARTY — THE EMPEROR'S CHOICE

The Wallis Annenberg Center in Beverly Hills was currently holding the most concentrated collection of wealth, fame, and ego on planet Earth.

The Vanity Fair Oscars After-Party was the ultimate Hollywood inner circle. Billionaire tech investors, supermodels, legendary directors, and A-list actors packed the dimly lit, ultra-exclusive venue. It was a room where careers were made with a single handshake and egos were stroked with champagne.

At 11:30 PM, a ripple of pure electricity went through the room.

The heavy double doors opened, and Anant Sharma walked in. He was no longer holding his two Oscars—they had been safely secured in his Rolls Royce—but he didn't need them. Still wearing his impeccable ivory Sabyasachi kurta and charcoal Nehru jacket, he radiated the absolute, terrifying gravity of an Emperor who had just conquered their city.

The room practically stopped. A-list celebrities and studio heads literally paused mid-sentence, turning to look at the twenty-six-year-old who had just lectured them on live television and walked away with thirteen Academy Awards.

He didn't swagger. He didn't gloat. He walked toward the main bar with the calm, predatory grace of a Megalodon swimming through a school of highly decorated fish.

Before he could even order a drink, he was intercepted.

"Anant Sharma!" Robert Downey Jr.'s energy was electric as always, a drink already in his hand as he approached, flanked by Chris Hemsworth and Chris Evans. "The man, the myth, the legend! Tell me—are you secretly Tony Stark? Because the genius-billionaire-philanthropist thing seems a little too on the nose." (Yes Robert, he is also Anant Stark in the Marvel World, the elder brother of Tony haha).

Anant laughed genuinely, the tension of the ceremony finally bleeding out of his shoulders. "I assure you, I'm not building arc reactors in my basement."

"But you are building revolutionary technology," RDJ pressed, raising his glass in a toast. "The Maya Camera system, the anti-piracy shield, the VFX innovations. That's real-world Tony Stark energy."

Henry Cavill, who'd joined them at the bar, grinned broadly. "Or maybe he's Clark Kent. Humble, talented, impossibly good-looking, hiding his true power. I'm just saying, we've never seen you and Superman in the same room."

"I don't know about Superman," a warm voice interrupted as Gal Gadot stepped into the circle, a champagne flute in hand, "but he definitely has superpowers. Anant, I had to meet the man who made my husband cry at Chhichhore."

She smiled warmly. "He called me after watching it and said, 'I understand now why this matters.' You made emotional storytelling accessible to men who usually resist it."

Scarlett Johansson leaned against the bar next to Evans, raising her glass toward Anant. "And in Baahubali, the way the female characters were written—they had agency, power, complexity. Even in a mythological epic, you made them people, not plot devices. That is a superpower in this town."

Anant shook his head humbly. "That's Rajamouli's vision. I just supported it."

"You supported it by being part of it," Scarlett countered with a knowing smile. "By not demanding the story center only on the male hero. By allowing the women in the story to be as complex as the men. That's allyship through action."

Chris Evans laughed, taking a sip of his drink. "So we're all in agreement, then? We're seriously debating whether this guy is a real-life superhero?"

Chris Hemsworth clapped Anant on the shoulder, the physical impact bouncing off Anant's Kalari-trained frame without moving him an inch. "I'm just impressed by the physicality, mate. The training for Baahubali—that's Thor-level commitment."

"Without the CGI abs," RDJ added with a wink.

Anant smiled, clearly enjoying the relaxed banter. "I appreciate the comparisons, but I'm just an actor who believes in doing the homework."

"The homework," RDJ repeated, shaking his head in amusement. "He calls revolutionizing global cinema and tech infrastructure 'homework.' Classic superhero humility."

As the Marvel and DC titans joked among themselves, Ben Affleck approached the edge of the circle, his expression much more serious and weathered.

"Anant, can I ask you something personal?" Affleck asked quietly.

"Of course."

"How do you handle the pressure? The expectations? Everyone in this room watching, everyone judging, everyone waiting for you to fail?"

Anant met his eyes, recognizing the heavy weight behind the question—the understanding of someone who had been chewed up and spit out by public scrutiny.

"I focus on the work," Anant said simply, his voice cutting through the party music. "Not the noise around it. The work is the only thing I control. Everything else is just... noise."

Ben nodded slowly, taking a sip of his bourbon. "That's wisdom it took me twenty years to learn. You've already got it at twenty-six."

"I had good teachers," Anant said. "Family who kept me grounded."

Affleck raised his glass in silent respect and melted back into the crowd.

As the superhero actors got pulled away by their publicists for Vanity Fair portrait photos, Anant found himself momentarily alone near the edge of the VIP lounge. He leaned against the wall, observing the party.

He watched a famous director desperately pitching a script to a streaming executive. He watched influencers staging candid photos to prove they belonged. He watched the pure, unfiltered vanity of a system that measured human worth by box office returns and designer labels.

It was the pinnacle of Western success. It was everything the world told him he should want.

And Anant felt absolutely nothing.

It contradicted his Dharma. It was hollow. He looked down at his Sabyasachi suit—a piece of authentic Indian craftsmanship in a sea of identical European tuxedos—and made his decision.

He placed his untouched glass of water on a passing waiter's tray, pulled his phone from his pocket, and sent a single text message to Nitesh Tiwari and SS Rajamouli:

I'm leaving. Meet me at the address I just sent.

Anant Sharma, the undisputed King of Entertainment, didn't say goodbye to anyone. He slipped out a side exit, bypassed the screaming paparazzi at the front door, and slid into his waiting car.

"Where to, Mr. Sharma?" his driver asked.

"Just drive east," Anant said, unbuttoning his high collar. "Find somewhere quiet."

Forty-five minutes later, lightyears away from the glamour of Beverly Hills, a neon sign buzzed in the window of a cheap, 24-hour retro diner on the outskirts of Los Angeles.

Inside, the diner was completely empty except for one massive corner booth.

Anant sat squeezed into the red vinyl booth, his ultra-expensive ivory raw silk kurta rolled up at the sleeves, eating a plate of greasy French fries.

Sitting across from him was SS Rajamouli, laughing so hard he was wiping tears from his eyes, and Nitesh Tiwari, who was happily devouring a massive cheeseburger.

Sitting right next to Anant was Keanu Reeves, who had traded his red-carpet suit for a comfortable black jacket. Resting his head happily on Anant's lap, wearing his custom Oscar bowtie and eating a plain piece of diner bacon, was Barnaby the rescue dog.

Anant's phone was propped up against a ketchup bottle in the center of the table. On the screen, a massive group FaceTime call was currently active. Mukesh and Nita Ambani, Isha, Akash, Anant Ambani, and Rajesh and Meera Sharma from their Mumbai villa were all squeezed into the camera frames, watching the Emperor of Hollywood eat diner food at 2:00 AM.

"Beta, you are at the biggest party in the world!" Rajesh's voice crackled through the phone speaker, though his smile was impossibly wide. "Why are you eating fries in a roadside dhaba?"

Anant popped a fry into his mouth and looked around the booth. He looked at the director who had taught him mythology, the director who had taught him vulnerability, the Hollywood legend who had taught him kindness, and the family who had given him a soul.

"I'm not at a roadside dhaba, Papa," Anant smiled, scratching Barnaby behind the ears as the dog let out a happy sigh. "I'm exactly where I belong."

The Oscars had crowned him a King, but the diner proved he was a God. Because true power wasn't about who invited you to their party; true power was knowing you didn't need them at all.

PART XII: BEIJING, CHINA — THE TWIN GODS OF AI

In a subterranean, highly classified cyber-warfare laboratory beneath Tsinghua University, the Oscars were not being celebrated. They were being analyzed.

A massive multi-monitor array dominated the dark room. On the center screen, the live feed from Los Angeles showed Anant Sharma standing on the Dolby stage, holding two golden statues, offering a perfectly humble, respectful Namaste to the weeping Hollywood legends.

Wu Chen stood in front of a secondary monitor, lines of complex, heavily encrypted code scrolling rapidly across his glasses. He wasn't watching the ceremony; he was analyzing the global data packets being transmitted by Dolby Laboratories.

"Look at them," Wu Chen scoffed in Mandarin, his voice dripping with pure, concentrated venom as he watched Dolby CEO Kevin Yeaman cheering wildly in the front row. "The Westerners are celebrating. They think they are controlling his technology. They actually believe Yeaman brokered the corporate deal of the century to secure the Maya Shield."

Wu Ying sat in her ergonomic chair, sipping a cup of black tea. Her cold, analytical eyes never left Anant's face on the main broadcast.

"The Americans are not stupid, brother," Wu Ying said quietly. "Silicon Valley houses the greatest software engineers on Earth. They have tried to reverse-engineer the Maya Camera codec. They have tried to deconstruct the anti-piracy shield to build their own versions."

"And they failed," Wu Chen snarled, his fingers flying across his mechanical keyboard. "Because they don't understand what he actually sold them. They think he is just a genius who releases a new software patch every financial quarter for 'optimization and improvement.' But we found it, didn't we, Ying?"

Wu Ying's lips curled into a slow, terrifyingly predatory smile. "The ghost in the machine."

It was the most brilliant, sociopathic piece of software architecture the Twins had ever seen.

Anant Sharma had not just licensed an anti-piracy shield to Hollywood. He had built a deliberate, undetectable degradation matrix—a digital parasite—directly into the core architecture of the Maya Tech. If any Western studio tried to isolate the code, reverse-engineer it, or sever their contract with Anant, the software would invisibly begin to unravel.

It would slowly become buggy. Renders would fail. Servers would crash. The code was designed to rot from the inside out.

"The quarterly updates he sends them aren't just for optimization," Wu Chen said, a twisted mix of hatred and profound professional respect in his voice.

"The updates reset the decay. He is keeping the virus dormant. If Sharma ever gets angry and decides to withhold a quarterly patch, the entire digital infrastructure of Warner Bros, Disney, and Universal will collapse in six months. They can't even find the trapdoor to remove it. It is absolute, terrifying technological supremacy."

Wu Ying leaned forward, her eyes locked on the screen.

The broadcast zoomed in on Anant's face. He looked exhausted, deeply moved, and impossibly humble. He looked like an artist who cared only about the purity of cinema. The perfect saint from the East.

"They call him the God of Acting," Wu Ying whispered, her breath fogging the edge of her teacup. "But they are fools. They don't even realize his greatest performance isn't on a cinema screen. It is right there, on the Dolby stage."

"A mask," Wu Chen agreed darkly.

"Look at his eyes, Chen," Wu Ying said, leaning closer to the monitor. "He bows to them. He smiles humbly. But look at the reality. He has just monopolized their industry. He holds their digital infrastructure hostage. He has wrapped his fingers completely around the throat of Western soft power, and he is making the legends of Hollywood weep with gratitude while he chokes them."

The Twins shared a cold, deeply unsettling look in the dark laboratory.

They finally understood the true scale of the monster they were dealing with. The humble artist was an illusion. The terrifying, arrogant Emperor who intended to conquer the world was the reality.

"Let the Americans applaud," Wu Ying said softly, taking a final sip of her tea. "The real Anant Sharma is coming. And we will be the only ones ready for him."

EPILOGUE - WHO ARE YOU ??

Back in the diner, after finishing his fries and hanging up the FaceTime call with his parents, Anant excused himself from the booth. A single drop of ketchup had threatened the pristine ivory cuff of his Sabyasachi kurta.

He stepped into the cramped, dimly lit diner restroom. The door clicked shut, the deadbolt sliding into place with a heavy, metallic thud.

The contrast was jarring. The undisputed Emperor of Hollywood, the man who had just conquered the Western world and subjugated its technological infrastructure, was standing over a stained, cracked porcelain sink at two in the morning.

He turned on the tap. The water sputtered, running over his hands. He dampened a rough paper towel and gently dabbed the stain away. The fabric was saved.

He reached out to turn off the faucet.

But his hand stopped.

The water flowing from the tap began to slow down. Not from a lack of pressure, but as if time itself had suddenly turned into thick, unyielding amber. The drops of water suspended in mid-air, defying gravity, hanging frozen above the drain.

The cheap, buzzing hum of the fluorescent tube overhead began to distort. The pitch dropped lower, and lower, until it fell into a subsonic frequency—a heavy, rhythmic thrumming that bypassed his ears and vibrated directly inside his bone marrow.

The air pressure in the small bathroom plummeted so violently it felt like the room had been dropped to the bottom of the Mariana Trench. The temperature crashed, frost instantly crystallizing across the edges of the porcelain sink.

Anant slowly lifted his head and looked into the cracked, water-spotted mirror.

He blinked.

His reflection did not.

A cold, primal dread—the kind of terror reserved for prey realizing it has wandered into the jaws of a leviathan—should have seized him. But Anant's Kalari-trained heart did not race. It slowed. It matched the subsonic, apocalyptic thrum of the room.

The mirror began to warp. The Euclidean geometry of the reflection broke down, the glass rippling like the surface of a dark, bottomless ocean. And then, the image of Anant Sharma fractured.

The reflection split, pulling apart like tearing reality, leaving two distinct entities staring back at him from the void within the glass.

On the left stood an entity of blinding, oppressive light.

It wore Anant's face, but it was not human. It radiated a celestial, incandescent aura that burned with the terrifying purity of a dying star.

This was the Maryada Purushottam.

The Saint.

The Healer of Kota. The Saviour of Youth.

Its eyes were pools of liquid gold, overflowing with an infinite, agonizing compassion. But there was nothing comforting about it. It was a love so vast, so uncompromising, and so absolute that it was fundamentally destructive.

It was the gaze of a deity that would burn a thousand corrupt worlds to ash just to preserve the innocence of a single child. The sheer, suffocating weight of its righteousness brought a physical, crushing ache to the chest.

On the right stood something infinitely worse.

It did not radiate light; it consumed it. The entity on the right was a monolithic void, a walking singularity.

This was the same entity who terrified Twins.

The architect of the digital parasite.

The apex predator of the global chessboard.

Its posture was perfectly relaxed, but its eyes were endless, emotionless black holes—the cold, calculating machinery of the cosmos personified. When it looked back at Anant, it did not see a human being. It saw variables. Lines of code. Prey.

It possessed an arrogance so deep, so quiet, and so terrifyingly absolute that it made the concept of a "God" feel small. It was pure, eldritch apathy.

The diner bathroom had vanished entirely from the mirror. The two entities stood in a boundless, black expanse, staring out through the glass into the physical world.

The psychological horror of the moment was absolute.

No human mind could contain the paradox of infinite, burning compassion and infinite, freezing cruelty without shattering into a million psychotic fragments.

A normal man would have clawed his own eyes out just to escape the psychic pressure of looking at them.

But the Real Anant, standing in the freezing diner bathroom, did not look away.

He gripped the edges of the porcelain sink. His knuckles turned white.

In the glass, the Saint of Light and the Predator of the Void slowly turned their heads. They stopped looking at the universe, and they locked their terrifying, inhuman gazes directly onto the Real Anant.

For one agonizing, universe-spanning second, the cosmic balance hung suspended in the flickering light of the bathroom. The silence was deafening. The pressure was capable of crushing diamonds.

And then, the impossible happened.

The entity of infinite, burning compassion closed its golden eyes and slowly lowered its head.

Beside it, the entity of absolute, crushing void bowed its shoulders, lowering its gaze in complete submission.

The Saint and the Predator. The Light and the Abyss.

Both of them, bowing to the twenty-six-year-old boy from Chandni Chowk.

They were not his masters. They were not his demons. They were just his tools.

The Real Anant stood at the sink and finally smiled.

It was a smile that did not reach his eyes, a smile of such terrifying, quiet supremacy that the frost on the mirror instantly cracked.

Slowly, the mirror dissolved like liquid mercury. The two bowing entities stepped forward out of the void, collapsing into the center, melting effortlessly into the physical reflection of the Real Anant.

A cosmic shudder rippled through Anant's spine as the psychic weight of a billion souls and a billion calculated variables crashed back into his human mind.

When he opened his eyes, the merger was complete.

For three long seconds, he stared at the ultimate psychological paradox in the glass. His eyes held the warm, boundless kindness of a savior, but his lips were curved into the dark, terrifying, absolute arrogance of a world-ender. He was a cosmic deity wearing a tailored human skin, masquerading as an actor.

The God of Acting.

Then, Anant simply blinked.

The heavy, crushing pressure in the room vanished in an instant. Gravity restored itself. The frozen water droplets crashed into the sink. The fluorescent light returned to its normal, cheap, irritating hum. The temperature spiked back to a comfortable room level.

The terrifying, omnipotent smile melted away, replaced instantly by the soft, polite, perfectly humble expression of a tired actor who had just won a big award.

Anant picked up the damp paper towel, tossed it into the trash can, adjusted his perfectly clean Sabyasachi collar, and unlocked the door.

He walked back out into the neon-lit diner, sliding into the red vinyl booth to laugh with his directors, scratch Barnaby the dog behind the ears, and eat cold French fries, leaving the abyss locked safely behind the bathroom door.

END OF CHAPTER 40

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Surprised? Shocked? Numb?

You are probably sitting there right now wondering: Just who is Anant Sharma really? The truth is, nobody knows. Not his family and certainly not the Twin Gods of AI in Beijing who mistakenly think they have him figured out except HER.

Consider this chapter a massive turning point. Our story is slowly transitioning into a darker, much more complex world. As the chapters progress, the "real" Anant—or rather, that terrifying other side of him you just caught a glimpse of in the mirror—is going to step further into the light. Here is your roadmap for what is coming:

First, we are heading straight into the Durga / MeToo Arc, where Anant will confront the very real, very dark underbelly of the industry.

Then, the chessboard expands entirely with Project Dhurandhar. We are talking global scale: multiple countries participating, intense geopolitics, and an all-out Tech War.

Do not worry—the magic of filmmaking, acting, and cinema will always remain a core part of this novel. But moving forward, the story is going to encompass so much more. The Megalodon has officially outgrown his pond.

Take a deep breath, process the Oscar sweep, and buckle up. The real game is just beginning!