Years passed in moon cycles and wheel turns.
Darshan passed peacefully beneath the cherry blossoms of Darsha Estate, honored as a visionary who birthed a new age. Sharath stood beside his grave—not broken, but reforged, like tempered steel.
He had not conquered kingdoms. He had not built temples.
But he had rebuilt how they moved.
From mountain towns to seaside shanties, the bicycle was no longer a novelty—it was a birthright.
The Ministry of Innovation bloomed into more than just wheels: rail concepts, irrigation engines, even whispers of early flight.
But none were as sacred as the first ride a child took on their own, legs trembling, heart free.
And somewhere, on a muddy village path, an old cycle clattered forward—patched, rusted, loved.
A young boy gripped the handles.
He didn't know who Sharath Darsha was.
But he owed him everything