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❤️ ——————————————- The executive suite of MVR Xperience was quiet, bathed in the soft, ambient glow of a single desk lamp.
Vihaan sat behind his heavy desk, his fingers flying across the keyboard of his silver laptop in a frantic, rhythmic blur.
Perched directly on his right shoulder, visible only to him, was a small, glowing blue holographic cube with a pixelated face.
“Host, your typing speed is highly inefficient,” Moody critiqued, a digital pair of reading glasses appearing on its face (⌐_⌐).
“If you let me integrate with the laptop, I could transcribe your thoughts directly into a word processor at ten thousand words per minute.” “And if I do that, Moody, the creative soul dies,” Vihaan murmured, not taking his eyes off the screen.
“Typing forces me to pace the story.
It forces me to feel the isolation of the character.
Besides, you’re a system, not a stenographer.” Moody pouted, transforming into a tiny digital parrot and flapping its wings.
“Fine.
But you have been staring at this document for more then a month.
What are you even writing?
A sequel to Andhadhun?
A romantic comedy?
Oh!
Are we doing a space opera with laser swords?!” “Better,” Vihaan smiled faintly.
“We are doing science.” Before Moody could ask another question, the heavy glass door of the office clicked open.
Moody instantly fell silent, though it remained floating on Vihaan’s shoulder.
To anyone else in the world, Vihaan was simply a young director working late.
Naman walked into the room.
The Business Manager looked as sharp as ever in a tailored navy-blue suit, though there were faint shadows under his eyes.
He had just stepped off a red-eye flight from Chennai, holding his sleek leather briefcase like a shield.
Vihaan stopped typing and closed the laptop halfway.
“Welcome back, Naman.
How was the South?” “Hot, humid, and highly profitable, Boss,” Naman smirked, taking a seat across from the desk.
He opened his briefcase and pulled out two thick, heavily stamped contract files.
“The premieres in Chennai and Hyderabad were absolute masterstrokes,” Naman reported, his voice thrumming with corporate satisfaction.
“When they heard the sheer quality of the Tamil and Telugu dubs…
the skepticism vanished.
The A-Grade audio mixing completely erased the stigma of it being a ‘Hindi film’.” Naman slid the first file across the desk.
“Tamil Nadu and Kerala distribution rights are locked,” Naman announced.
“Sun Pictures.
They are absolute titans in the South.
They have the television network, the radio stations, and the theaters.
They are going to push this movie to the moon.” He slid the second file over.
“Andhra Pradesh and Karnataka,” Naman continued.
“Geetha Film Distributors.
Allu Aravind’s machinery.
They control the single screens in the Telugu states with an iron fist.” Vihaan nodded, incredibly pleased.
Getting Sun Pictures and Geetha Arts on board for an indie Hindi thriller was a historic coup.
“And the international markets?” “Yash Raj Films is handling the International markets in US, UK, and UAE for the English release,” Naman explained.
“But for the few diaspora in Malaysia, Singapore, and Sri Lanka, I brought in Ayngaran International.
They have a complete monopoly there.” Vihaan tapped the files.
“The commission rates?” “That is where we had to concede slightly,” Naman admitted, adjusting his tie.
“For the Hindi and English belts, we are locked at the 10% commission rate we negotiated with YRF.
We keep 40% of the Net Box Office Collection.
But Sun Pictures and Geetha Arts played hardball.” Naman leaned forward.
“They argued that despite the flawless dubbing, pushing a Unknown Bollywood face like Ayushmann Khurrana in the deep South is a massive financial risk.
To secure their premium theater networks, I had to cap their distribution commission at 12%.” “Which leaves us with 38% of the Net Collections from the South,” Vihaan calculated instantly.
“Exactly,” Naman nodded.
“It was the absolute lowest I could negotiate without losing their premium screens.
38% is still a staggering return for a dubbed feature.” “It’s a fair trade,” Vihaan agreed without hesitation.
“We aren’t just buying screens, Naman.
We are buying market penetration.
Once the South Indian audience realizes the quality we produce, they will trust the Our logo for our next film.
12% is a cheap price to pay for building a pan-India empire.” Naman smiled, closing his empty briefcase.
“We have the army, Boss.
Now, we just need to sound the war horn.” “Agreed,” Vihaan said, standing up.
“The viral ‘Phantom Pianist’ campaign has done its job.
The internet is curious.
Now, it’s time to show them the product.
Sit with Aman and Raman first thing tomorrow morning.” Vihaan began pacing behind his desk.
“I want the teaser to be dropped on Friday.
Keep it cryptic.
Keep it dark.
Two weeks later, drop the main theatrical trailer.
Blast the multi-lingual posters across Mumbai, Chennai, and Hyderabad.
Buy the front-page ad spots in the Bombay Times and The Hindu.
Empty the marketing war chest.
I want Andhadhun to be the only thing this country talks about by the time January ends.” “Consider it done,” Naman said, standing up and offering a crisp nod.
“Get some sleep, Boss.
You look like you’ve been living in that chair.” “I have some final work to do,” Vihaan smiled tiredly.
“Goodnight, Naman.” As the glass door shut behind the Business Manager, the quiet hum of the air conditioning returned to the room.
Moody immediately popped back into a digital cube, hovering over the laptop.
“Oooh!
38% from the South!
40% from the North!
Host, we are going to be swimming in System Points!” Vihaan chuckled, sitting back down and opening his laptop fully.
He didn’t look at the financial models.
He didn’t look at the marketing budgets.
He looked at the bottom right corner of his word processor.
Page 369.
For the last month and a half, while the studio was busy editing Andhadhun and securing distribution, Vihaan had been stealing hours in the dead of night.
He had poured the sprawling, limitless knowledge of his upgraded mental library onto the digital pages.
But he wasn’t writing a screenplay.
A script was just a blueprint for a movie.
He was writing a novel.
A massive, scientifically accurate, sprawling manuscript.
Because Vihaan knew a fundamental truth about Hollywood and the global entertainment market: they didn’t respect foreign scripts, but they bowed down to globally best-selling novels.
If he wanted to cross the ocean and build an international empire (His Own Upcoming Universe), he needed an Intellectual Property that belonged entirely to him.
He scrolled up to the title page.
THE MARTIAN By Vihaan Malhotra The story was a masterpiece of survival, isolation, and human ingenuity.
It was set during the Ares 3 mission to Mars in 2035.
A violent, catastrophic dust storm forces the NASA crew to evacuate immediately.
During the chaos, astronaut Mark Watney is struck by flying debris and presumed dead.
His crewmates, heartbroken but desperate to save their own lives, leave him behind and launch back into orbit.
But Watney survives.
He wakes up entirely alone on a hostile, barren planet with no way to communicate with Earth.
His supplies are severely limited, and the next rescue mission isn’t planned for another four years.
It wasn’t a story about laser swords or alien monsters.
It was a story about a man using pure science, botany, and sheer, unbreakable willpower to grow potatoes on a dead planet and “science the shit out of this.” It was a story that, in Vihaan’s past life, had become a global publishing phenomenon and a billion-dollar Ridley Scott blockbuster.
And now, in 2008, it was sitting on Vihaan’s hard drive.
“Host,” Moody whispered, its digital eyes scanning the text at lightning speed.
“This…
this is brilliant.
But the CGI required for a Mars landscape…
the zero-gravity simulation…
the rover designs…
it would cost hundreds of millions of dollars!
We don’t have that kind of money!” “Not yet,” Vihaan murmured, his eyes heavy but his vision crystal clear.
“I’m not shooting this next month, Moody.
This is Phase Three of the empire.
I am going to publish this as a novel first.
I’m going to let the world fall in love with Mark Watney.
I’m going to let the Hollywood studios read it and beg me for the film rights.” Vihaan placed his fingers on the keyboard for the final time.
He scrolled to the very bottom of Page 369.
He typed out Watney’s final log entry—the joyous, exhausted realization that he was finally going home.
He typed the final period.
Save Document.
Vihaan let out a long, slow, shuddering breath.
The creative marathon was finally over.
He had planted the seed that would eventually force the entire global entertainment industry to look toward Mumbai.
He pushed the laptop away, standing up and stretching his arms high above his head.
His joints popped, and a wave of pure, undeniable exhaustion crashed over him.
He didn’t even have the energy to walk down to his car.
Vihaan stumbled over to the plush leather couch in the corner of his office, kicking his shoes off.
He collapsed onto the cushions, throwing an arm over his eyes to block out the desk lamp.
“Goodnight, Moody,” Vihaan mumbled, his consciousness already slipping away.
The blue hologram floated over to the desk.
Moody looked at the sleeping host, then looked at the glowing screen of the laptop displaying the title of the manuscript.
The digital face shifted into a soft, admiring smile ( ˘⌣˘).
“Goodnight, Host,” Moody whispered.
“Dream of the stars.
We’ll conquer them tomorrow.” – – – – – – – – – – POV: Vihaan Malhotra With a swift, fluid motion, Vihaan pulled back the heavy, blackout curtains of his hotel suite.
Instead of the chaotic, sun-baked, smog-filled skyline of Mumbai, he was greeted by the cold, steel-grey drizzle of central London.
The architecture was sharp, historic, and entirely foreign.
Down below, black cabs and red double-decker buses navigated the wet asphalt of the city streets.
Vihaan took a sip of his black coffee, holding his sleek cell phone to his ear.
“The timeline is holding, Boss,” Naman’s voice crackled through the international line, sounding as crisp and corporate as ever.
“The cryptic teaser we dropped on January 31st did exactly what we wanted.
It went massively viral.
The Orkut forums are crashing with theories about the rabbit and the piano.” “Good.
Keep them starving for context,” Vihaan smiled, leaning against the cold glass of the window.
“What about the theatrical trailers?” “Trailer One drops worldwide on February 11th.
Trailer Two on February 18th,” Naman confirmed, reading off his meticulously planned schedule.
“And for the theatrical push, I’ve struck a deal with the distributors.
Next week is Valentine’s Day.
The theaters are going to be packed with couples watching the new romantic comedies.
We have attached the Andhadhun trailer to play right at the interval and the ending of every major romantic release.” Vihaan chuckled.
“Nothing kills a romantic mood quite like a murder thriller.
It’s perfect counter-programming.” “The release date is locked,” Naman finished.
“Thursday, February 28th.
A long, extended weekend to maximize the box office collections.” “Hold the fort, Naman.
I’ll be back in Mumbai in a few days,” Vihaan said.
“I have a meeting to catch.” Vihaan ended the call.
He turned away from the window, grabbing his heavy trench coat and a thick, securely bound leather briefcase from the bed.
Ten minutes later, he was sitting in the back of a classic London black cab, watching the rain streak across the window as the vehicle navigated toward the prestigious publishing district.
He rested his hand on the leather briefcase.
Inside sat nearly four hundred printed pages.
Thanks to the miraculous soul-transfer that had merged Namit’s consciousness into Vihaan’s body, his mental library was flawless.
He possessed an absolute, photographic recall of his past life.
He hadn’t just written a story inspired by the future bestseller; he had flawlessly transcribed the exact, brilliant, scientifically accurate masterpiece of The Martian word by word.
The pacing, the botany, the brutal humor was a 1:1 replica of the novel that would eventually take Hollywood by storm.
But having a masterpiece on a hard drive was useless without a publisher.
And walking into a massive Western publishing house as an unknown, 20-year-old Indian kid was a guaranteed way to get the manuscript thrown into the slush pile.
He needed an ‘in’.
He needed a contact.
As the cab rolled past Hyde Park, Vihaan thought about the bizarre stroke of luck that had secured him this meeting today.
It had happened a month ago.
A random, international call had come through the studio switchboard.
Sanjay had picked it up, struggling slightly with the heavy, booming accent on the other end, before transferring it to Vihaan.
The man on the phone was Ivan.
In the 1990s, when Rajesh Malhotra’s films were at their peak, Bollywood had a massive, cult-like following in Russia.
Ivan had been Rajesh’s primary, though slightly gray-market, Russian distributor, shipping thousands of CDs and DVDs of Malhotra Motion Pictures across Eastern Europe.
But times changed.
The DVD market died.
Ivan had pivoted, leveraging his logistics network to build a massive, highly legitimate food distribution empire supplying supermarkets across Moscow and St.
Petersburg.
Ivan had called out of nostalgic respect, having heard rumors that Rajesh had passed away and the studio was going under.
“I am sorry for your loss, little Vihaan,” Ivan had boomed over the phone.
“Your father made good movies.
Good dancing.
Sad to hear the studio is dying.” “It isn’t dying, Ivan,” Vihaan had replied smoothly.
“I took over.
I made a movie.
We cleared the debt, and we are currently sitting on a multi-crore profit.” There had been a pause on the line, followed by a booming, joyous Russian laugh.
“Wallah!
Amazing!
The blood of the tiger flows in the cub!” The two had struck up a fast, transatlantic camaraderie.
During one of their calls, Vihaan had casually mentioned his ambitions to publish a hard sci-fi novel in the West, but noted the difficulty of bypassing the gatekeepers and Literary Agents too.
“Publishing?” Ivan had said, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper.
“I know a guy.
Arthur Williams.
He is a fancy Senior Editor at Crown Publishing Group in London now.
Very big man.
Very serious.” “You know an elite London book editor?” Vihaan had asked, genuinely surprised.
“Da,” Ivan chuckled.
“Ten years ago, before he wore fancy suits, Arthur used to work for me.
He was my best smuggler, moving your father’s bootleg DVDs across the UK borders in the trunks of cars!
We are old friends.
He owes me a favor.
I will make the call.” The sheer absurdity of the connection still made Vihaan smile.
An elite London literary editor and a Russian food mogul, bound together by a history of smuggling Bollywood DVDs.
The cab slowly came to a halt.
“We’re here, mate,” the cab driver announced.
The flashback ended.
Vihaan paid the fare, stepped out into the cold London drizzle, and looked up at the towering, glass-and-steel facade of the Crown Publishing Group.
He tightened his grip on the briefcase and walked through the revolving doors.
POV: Arthur Williams Arthur Williams rubbed his temples, staring at the towering stack of manuscripts on his desk with absolute disdain.
Being a Senior Editor at Crown Publishing Group was a prestigious title, but the day-to-day reality was exhausting.
The market was flooded with generic fantasy clones, predictable romance novels, and tedious political thrillers.
He was desperate for something fresh.
Something with teeth.
His desk phone buzzed.
“Mr.
Williams?
Your 11:00 AM appointment is here.
Mr.
Vihaan Malhotra.” Arthur sighed.
He had only agreed to this meeting because Ivan had practically demanded it.
Ivan was a ghost from a past life Arthur preferred to keep buried—a time when he was a broke kid moving shady merchandise just to pay his rent.
He owed the Russian a massive debt of gratitude, but taking a meeting with a 20-year-old kid from Mumbai to discuss a “sci-fi novel” felt like a colossal waste of his morning.
Probably some cliché alien invasion story, Arthur thought, adjusting his tie.
“Send him in,” Arthur said.
The heavy oak door opened.
Arthur expected a nervous, star-struck kid clutching a messy pile of papers.
Instead, the young man who walked into the office moved with a quiet, polite, but deeply grounded professional confidence.
Vihaan was dressed in a sharp, tailored trench coat over a bespoke suit.
He didn’t look arrogant, but he certainly didn’t look intimidated by the opulent surroundings either.
“Mr.
Williams,” Vihaan said, extending a hand with a warm, respectful smile.
“Thank you for taking the time to see me.
I know your schedule is incredibly busy.” “Mr.
Malhotra,” Arthur replied, shaking his hand, surprised by the firm grip.
“Ivan speaks very highly of your father.
Have a seat.
I must warn you, my morning is rather tight today.
Ivan said you had a science fiction manuscript?” “I do,” Vihaan nodded politely, clicking open the locks on his leather briefcase.
He pulled out the thick, perfectly bound manuscript and placed it gently in the center of the desk.
The cover page was stark and minimalist.
THE MARTIAN By Vihaan Malhotra “It is my first novel,” Vihaan pitched, his voice steady and engaging.
“It is a story set in 2035 during the Ares 3 mission to Mars.
A dust storm forces an evacuation.
Astronaut Mark Watney is presumed dead and left behind.
He wakes up completely alone, with no communication, and limited supplies.
The next mission is four years away.” Arthur leaned back, crossing his arms.
“A survival story on Mars.
It’s been done.
What makes this different?
Aliens?
Ancient ruins?
A psychological breakdown?” “None of the above,” Vihaan smiled faintly.
“It’s about botany, mathematics, and duct tape.
It is hyper-realistic hard sci-fi.
It’s about an ordinary man using absolute, irrefutable science to survive an impossible situation, while maintaining a deeply sarcastic sense of humor to keep from going insane.” Arthur looked at the young man, slightly intrigued by the premise.
Hard sci-fi was incredibly difficult to write because the math had to be flawless.
“Read the first page, Mr.
Williams,” Vihaan offered gently, leaning back in his chair.
“I won’t take up any more of your morning if the opening doesn’t catch your attention.” Arthur stared at Vihaan.
The quiet confidence was refreshing compared to the desperate pitches he usually heard.
Arthur reached forward and flipped open the cover.
He looked at the first page, labeled Log Entry: Sol 6.
He expected slow, tedious world-building.
He expected a dramatic, poetic monologue about the vastness of space.
Instead, Arthur Williams read the opening two sentences.
I’m pretty much fed.* That’s my considered opinion.
Fed.* Arthur blinked.He let out a short, involuntary bark of laughter.
It was punchy.
It was raw.
It was instantly human.
He kept reading.
He read about the antenna piercing the bio-monitor, the storm, the crew leaving, and the brutal mathematical calculation of the oxygen and food rations.
The science wasn’t just jargon; it was woven seamlessly into the narrative.
The voice of Mark Watney was incredibly distinct—sarcastic, terrified, yet brilliantly resilient.
“If the oxygenator breaks down, I’ll suffocate.
If the water reclaimer breaks down, I’ll die of thirst.
If the hab breaches, I’ll just kind of explode.
If none of those things happen, I’ll eventually run out of food and starve to death.
So yeah.
I’m f*ed.” Arthur reached the end of the first page.
He didn’t stop.
He turned to page two.
Then page three.
The silence in the office stretched on.
Five minutes became twenty.
Twenty minutes became forty.
Vihaan sat perfectly still, a quiet, patient smile on his face, occasionally sipping the water a secretary had brought in, watching the veteran editor fall completely down the rabbit hole.
Finally, Arthur Williams blinked, suddenly pulled out of the freezing, desolate landscape of Mars by the distant, muffled sound of a London police siren outside his window.
He looked up, disoriented.
He glanced at the clock on his wall.
An entire hour had vanished into thin air.
He looked down at the manuscript.
He was on page sixty-five.
Arthur slowly closed the manuscript, his hand resting flat against the cover.
He looked at Vihaan.
The condescending, exhausted editor from an hour ago was entirely gone.
His eyes were wide, shining with the frantic adrenaline of an editor who had just found a diamond in the slush pile.
“You wrote this?” Arthur asked, his voice hushed.
“The orbital mechanics, the chemical reactions…
you did all this math?” “Every decimal,” Vihaan lied smoothly, thanking Namit’s photographic memory.
“It’s…
it’s extraordinary,” Arthur breathed out, tapping the manuscript.
“The voice is spectacular.
It’s Robinson Crusoe on Mars, but with the humor of a stand-up comedian.
This is brilliant work, Vihaan.” “Thank you, Mr.
Williams,” Vihaan smiled, his tone genuinely humble.
“That means a great deal coming from you.
I wrote this with a very specific goal.
I want to build my name in the West, because this book is the foundation for my biggest IP.” Arthur’s corporate instincts kicked back in.
He adjusted his tie, trying to mask his excitement and regain control of the meeting.
“I love it, Vihaan.
Truly.
But as a Senior Editor, I cannot just write a check on the spot.
I need to showcase this in our editorial acquisitions session next Tuesday to get formal approval from the board.” “I understand completely,” Vihaan nodded respectfully.
“Standard procedure.” “Assuming the board approves and I will fight tooth and nail to make sure they do, we will draft the initial contracts,” Arthur explained.
“We can discuss standard debut author advances, and structure the royalties for the hardcover and paperback releases.” “That sounds excellent,” Vihaan said, leaning forward slightly.
“We can absolutely negotiate the advances, the book royalties, and the translated versions fairly.
But before you pitch this to your board, I want to be entirely transparent about my terms regarding the Intellectual Property.” Arthur frowned slightly.
“Your terms?” “Crown Publishing will get the global publishing rights,” Vihaan stated clearly.
“However, I retain 100% of the IP rights for all adaptations.” Arthur hesitated.
“Publishing houses usually demand a small cut or first-refusal on film and television rights, especially for cinematic sci-fi.
It mitigates our risk for taking a chance on a debut author.” “Mr.
Williams, Crown Publishing is an incredible company, but at the end of the day, you are a book publisher,” Vihaan said.
He phrased it politely, taking the sting out of the words with a warm, respectful smile.
“And you are the best at what you do.
But I am a filmmaker.
I am building a cinematic universe.
The film rights, the television rights, the merchandising, those remain solely owned by my studio in Mumbai.
You get the publishing revenues.
I keep the franchise.” Arthur stared at the young man.
Vihaan wasn’t being arrogant; he was simply drawing a clear, unshakeable business boundary.
He was protecting his asset.
Arthur looked down at the masterpiece resting on his desk.
He knew he couldn’t let this book walk out of his office to a rival publisher, even if it meant conceding the lucrative film rights.
“I will pitch it to the board with those exact conditions,” Arthur agreed with a slow nod.
“Excellent,” Vihaan smiled, standing up and extending his hand.
“Once the board gives their approval, we will schedule an initial conference call.
After that, I will send my Business Manager, Naman, or his team down to London.
They will handle the smooth flow of the business talks, finalize the advances, and sign the paperwork.” Arthur stood up and shook Vihaan’s hand, genuinely impressed by the young man’s foresight and preparation.
“I look forward to speaking with Naman.
And Vihaan…
congratulations.
You have written something truly special.” “Thank you, Arthur,” Vihaan replied.
Vihaan turned and walked out of the opulent office.
As the heavy oak door closed behind him, he let out a quiet breath of satisfaction.
The seeds were planted in the West.
The foundation for his greatest cinematic universe was secured.
Now, it was time to fly back to Mumbai and unleash Andhadhun upon the world.
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