The Chrysalis publication was a political and ethical detonation, but its shockwave within the Harsh Group was one of grim validation. The engineers and scientists, particularly the younger ones, saw it not as a loss, but as a brutal, honest triumph. They hadn't just discovered something; they had responsibly defined it, dangers and all. For the first time since the Golden Share vote, the Foresight Institute buzzed with a purpose that felt both cutting-edge and morally coherent. They were pioneering a new kind of science: sovereign, yet transparent; ambitious, yet ethically pre-emptive.
It was in this atmosphere that Harsh made his next, most personal investment.
He found the proposal buried in the "Samanvay Junior" graveyard files—the old, sanitized plan for a children's network he'd killed. A young product manager, Rohan, had appended a new cover page. The title was simple: "Udaan" (Flight). The subtitle: "A digital space for the next generation of Indian minds. Not a walled garden. A launchpad."
Harsh read it in one sitting. It was bold. It proposed a platform for children and teenagers built on three radical principles:
1. Tool-First, Algorithm-Second: Provide powerful, simple creative tools—code editors, music sequencers, 3D modelers, animation studios. The recommendation algorithm would only suggest content based on the tools used, not on engagement or profiling. If you used the animation tool, you'd see great animations, not addictive junk.
2. The Mentor Cloud: A verified network of professionals—engineers, artists, scientists, farmers—who would volunteer "office hours" for live Q&A and project reviews. Not influencers. Practitioners.
3. The Portfolio, Not Profile: No likes. No followers. Each user would build a public portfolio of projects. Value would be measured by project complexity, collaboration history, and helpful peer reviews. A digital Shakuni that measured craft, not popularity.
It was the antithesis of everything the global social media giants were building. It was designed to create creators, not consumers. To build resilience of mind, not dependency on dopamine hits.
Harsh summoned Rohan, a man in his late twenties with tired eyes and a stubborn set to his jaw.
"This would lose money. A lot of it. For years," Harsh stated.
"Yes, sir," Rohan replied, not flinching. "It's not a product. It's… infrastructure. Like a public library for the 21st century mind."
"Why?" Harsh asked, genuinely wanting to hear it. "The market wants babysitting apps and viral dances."
Rohan took a breath. "Because of the Chrysalis paper, sir. We saw how knowledge can be a weapon if its context is hidden. The next generation… they need to understand the tools of their world before the world uses those tools on them. They shouldn't just be users of AI; they should be its shapers. Udaan wouldn't just teach them to code. It would teach them why to code."
He was talking about inoculation. About building a generation with intellectual antibodies against manipulation, with the skills to build, not just consume, their future.
Harsh saw Anya in his mind's eye. In a few years, she would be online. Would she enter a digital world designed to harvest her attention and data? Or would she enter a workshop for her mind?
He approved the project immediately, allocating capital from a special, ring-fenced "Legacy Fund" he'd created, separate from the Group's main finances. Udaan would be a non-profit foundation, answerable to its own board of educators and child psychologists.
The announcement was met with predictable cynicism. "Patel's Pet Project." "Techie Vanity." But in educational circles, in the IITs, and among forward-thinking parents, it sparked fierce excitement.
Priya, for the first time since the Pioneer deal, looked at him with something like hope. "This one is for them, isn't it? Not for the market. Not for the state. For the children."
"For Anya," Harsh admitted. "And for every child who will inherit the world we're building—the magic and the poison. They need to be able to tell the difference."
Udaan's development became his sanctuary. He would spend hours in the design labs, not as a CEO, but as a tester. He'd sit with the developers, trying to break the tools, asking, "Would a curious 12-year-old find this? Would a frustrated 15-year-old give up here?"
He was planting a second seed. Not in the wild frontier of the Pioneer Institute, nor in the sovereign garden of his core empire. This seed was for the soil of the future itself. He was building the school for the gardeners, architects, and maybe even the wise gods of the world to come. After a lifetime of building for survival, for power, for influence, this was the first thing he was building purely for hope.
(Chapter End)