Inside the air-conditioned bus, 7:45 a.m.
Madhu stepped up the stairs carrying his monster filter in one hand and Shabonti's tiger-pattern suitcase in the other.
The moment the doors hissed shut behind him, the noise of the reporters vanished and was replaced by cool, hushed luxury: leather seats, individual screens, and the faint smell of sandalwood.
He suddenly felt very small.
Everyone else looked like they belonged on a magazine cover.
He looked like he'd lost a fight with a lawnmower and the lawnmower had won custody of his dignity.
Shabonti had already sprinted down the aisle screaming "MEDINI DI!" at the top of her lungs.
Madhu stood frozen, clutching his filter like a life raft, calculating the exact probability of becoming a national laughing stock.
A warm hand landed on his shoulder.
"Cheer up, beta. You look like someone just told you the exam got preponed."
Madhu turned.
Mr Dakshraj Mehra stood there in a simple linen kurta, smiling the smile of a man who could buy the bus, the road, and the entire concept of anxiety if he felt like it.
Next to him was his wife Misty (world-famous sustainable-fashion icon, currently wearing recycled-silk cargo pants and looking unfairly photogenic) and their two kids:
eight-year-old Ariyan ( waving excitedly at Madhu)
and teenage Riya (hoodie pulled low, earphones in, already side-eyeing the future).
Shabonti materialised beside them, eyes sparkling.
"Medini di took a selfie with me!" she announced, as if she had just met God and God had used a Valencia filter.
Madhu bowed so low he almost head-butted his own filter.
"M-Mr Dakshraj, sir… what do I owe the honour?"
Daksh laughed, the sound warm enough to melt glaciers.
"Nervous?"
Madhu exhaled. "Like a pressure cooker full of idlis."
Daksh clapped him on the back (gently, thank god).
"Good. Means you care. Come, sit with us."
Somehow Madhu found himself in the VIP row, Shabonti vibrating happily between Misty and Ariyan, while Riya silently offered him one earphone (lofi tiger beats).
One by one the other winners boarded:
Manu & Vishwakarma (arguing affectionately about whose turn it was to carry the 40-kg survival kit)
Sindhu (calmly reading a research paper titled "Emotional Intelligence in Estuarine Crocodiles")
AJ the YouTuber (already live-streaming: "Day one, fam! Absolute unit bus!")
Medini (waving at her phone like a million likes in thirty seconds)
The bus rolled out of the city, windows tinting gold with sunrise.
Daksh stood at the front, no microphone needed; his voice carried anyway.
"Listen carefully, children.
This is not a competition.
It is an experiment in cooperation.
Your inventions are brilliant alone.
We want to see what happens when they sing together: one system that can actually heal a dying delta.
The forest will test you.
The tides will test you.
The tigers," he grinned, "will definitely test you.
But if your work truly touches the heart of the Sunderbans, some of you may be invited to continue it full-time at one of our research stations."
He paused, eyes twinkling.
"No pressure."
Shabonti was already in the back getting Medini's autograph on her tiger onesie sleeve.
Madhu stared out the window as concrete gave way to green, heart hammering.
For the first time in weeks, the hammering wasn't fear.
It was something dangerously close to hope.
He didn't notice the extra passenger who boarded at the last second:
a quiet woman in a simple cotton saree, dark glasses, carrying only a small cloth bag.
She took the last empty seat at the very back, folded her hands in her lap, and smiled politely at anyone who looked her way.
No one recognised Dr Anahita Saha without the white coat and the spotlight.
But the air-conditioning suddenly felt ten degrees colder wherever she sat.
The bus rolled on toward the mangroves.
Somewhere between Kolkata and Godkhali
Bus interior, 10:20 a.m.
Shabonti had officially defected to Medini's camp.
The two of them were in the back seat filming a "Get Ready With Me: Sunderbans Edition" vlog while Tapesh (Medini's editor) directed lighting with military precision.
Madhu sat alone, staring at the passing paddy fields, trying to convince his brain that everything was normal and he was not, in fact, carrying ten sleeping gods in his ribcage.
A shadow fell across his seat.
"Mr Madhusūdana."
The voice was smooth, cultured, and made every hair on his neck stand up for reasons he couldn't name.
He looked up.
Dr Anahita Saha stood in the aisle, simple cotton saree, dark glasses now tucked into her hair, smiling the professional smile that had graced a hundred magazine covers.
"I read your revised paper on the floating river-purifier," she said, tone warm. "Ambitious. Elegant bacterial cascade. You turned a household filter into something that could clean an entire tributary. Impressive for a first-year."
Madhu's brain short-circuited from pure hero-worship.
"Th-thank you, ma'am! I mean, Doctor! I mean—"
She sat down opposite him, folding herself into the seat with impossible grace.
"One small critique: cost management. Genius is useless if villages can't afford it."
Her eyes flicked to the suitcase-sized prototype in the luggage rack. "We'll discuss optimisation during the tour. I'm… looking forward to seeing it in action."
Madhu nodded so hard his neck cracked.
Then her expression shifted (professional melted into something playful, almost mischievous).
"By the way," she said, lowering her voice conspiratorially, "I saw your interview. Very honest about the girlfriend situation."
Madhu's soul left his body.
"Such dry humour. Confidence like that is rare."
She leaned forward slightly, smile sharpening. "Tell me, would you ever date an older woman? Hypothetically. Someone like… me, perhaps?"
Madhu's heart attempted to exit through his throat.
"I—I—age gap—ma'am—respect—brain not working—"
Anahita laughed, soft and delighted, like tinkling glass.
"Relax, Mr Madhusūdana. I'm teasing."
She stood, smoothing her saree. "See you in the mangroves."
She walked away, leaving only the faint scent of wet earth and something metallic.
Madhu stared at the empty seat, mouth open, trying to remember how breathing worked.
Up front, Daksh clapped for attention.
"Everyone, quick introductions to your judging panel!"
He gestured to the three figures who had somehow appeared in the front rows.
"Dr Anahita Saha—CEO and lead geneticist of the Institute of Eternal Progress, self-made icon of modern science."
Polite applause. Madhu clapped on autopilot, still rebooting.
"Professor Jagadish Chandra—world-renowned physicist, author of the paper that made quantum entanglement required reading for Class XII, and secret bird-watching fanatic."
The old man waved shyly, binoculars already around his neck.
"And finally, Mr Bonbehari Ray— fisherman, honey-collector, and the man who knows every channel, tide, and tiger in the Sunderbans. He will tell us if your inventions actually help his people… or just make pretty videos."
Mr Ray was a mountain of a man in a faded lungi, arms like teak branches, eyes the colour of storm clouds.
He gave a small nod that somehow felt like royal approval.
Daksh grinned.
"Three judges. One month. One forest that does not forgive mistakes."
He sat down.
The bus turned onto the narrow embankment road, water glinting on both sides.
Madhu stared out the window, heart still racing from the conversation he definitely did not hallucinate.
Shabonti's voice floated from the back:
"Medini di, can we do a collab called 'Saving My Brother's Love Life'?"
Madhu dropped his head into his hands.
In the seat behind him, Anahita removed her glasses, cleaned them with the edge of her saree, and smiled at her own reflection in the window.
Her pupils were vertical slits for just a second before the light shifted and they looked perfectly human again.
The mangroves were getting closer.
Godkhali jetty → village of Satjelia
Late afternoon
The buses rolled to a stop beside a muddy riverbank lined with fishing boats and curious villagers.
The air smelled of salt, fish, and wet earth.
Somewhere, a tiger roared in the distance (low, lazy, as if reminding everyone who actually owned the place).
Dakshraj Mehra stood on a wooden platform under a banyan tree, Misty beside him passing out cold coconut water.
The five contestants, their companions, and the judges formed a loose semicircle.
Daksh raised his hand for silence.
"Listen carefully.
Your first camp is Satjelia village (population 4,000, half of whom are in front of you right now).
Your first real challenge begins tomorrow.
Your inventions are beautiful in a lab.
Here, they must be beautiful in real life.
Your task: convince these fishermen, farmers, honey-collectors, and schoolchildren that your work can change their tomorrow.
They are your fourth judge.
If they don't believe in you, nothing else matters.
Rules:
Your companions (siblings, friends, YouTubers) are tourists only. No helping.
Judges will observe, ask questions, and score silently.
You have three days.
On the third night, the village votes with raised hands. Highest votes win the first round.
Tonight, you present.
Tomorrow, you live it."
He stepped back.
"Ms Medini, the stage is yours."
A rough wooden table had been set up as an impromptu stage.
A single microphone, one solar lamp, and three hundred villagers squatting on mats, eyes bright with curiosity.
Medini stepped forward, barefoot, simple cotton kurta, no makeup, no filter.
She didn't speak for ten full seconds.
She just looked at the crowd (old women with betel-stained teeth, teenagers recording on phones, little kids sitting on their fathers' shoulders).
Then she smiled, small and real.
"My project isn't a machine," she began, voice steady.
"It's a promise.
I travel villages and teach children (your children) what to do when a cyclone comes, when plastic chokes the fish, when the honey bees vanish.
I give them emergency numbers that actually answer, seed bombs to throw in barren land, and stories that make them believe they can fix what we broke.
If I win, every school in the Sunderbans gets a 'Green Guardian' kit and a trained teacher.
That is all."
She bowed, Bengali style, palms together.
Silence.
Then a fisherman in the front row started clapping.
The rest followed like thunder.
One by one, the others presented:
Manu & Vishwakarma (the survival kit that turns saline water into drinking water, builds instant shelters from mangrove roots, and doubles as a fish trap).
Sindhu (a cheap sensor buoy that warns villages when crocodiles or tigers are swimming too close).
AJ (a solar-powered camera drone that live-streams poacher activity to the forest department).
Madhu (nervous, sweating, voice cracking) explained his floating river-purifier that could clean the village's drinking-water canal in a single week.
The judges sat on plastic chairs under the banyan:
Dr Anahita Saha (perfect posture, small polite smile, pen never stopping)
Professor Jagadish (scribbling equations on the back of a coconut leaf)
Mr Bonbehari Ray (arms crossed, staring at each contestant like he could see their soul and the tiger inside it)
Not one of them spoke.
When the presentations ended, the village headman stood up.
"We will watch," he said simply. "Three days. Then we raise our hands."
Daksh nodded, satisfied.
"Challenge starts at sunrise.
Tonight—rest, eat fish curry, and remember:
the forest is listening."
The crowd dispersed slowly, children already tugging at Medini's kurta asking for selfies.
Madhu stood frozen, clutching his prototype case.
Shabonti ran up, eyes shining.
"Bhaiya, that auntie in the yellow saree said your filter looks like a magic boat! You're going to win!"
Madhu managed a weak smile.
Dr Anahita Saha passed behind him, voice soft as river mist.
"Sleep well, Mr Madhusūdana.
Tomorrow the real test begins."
She brushed past, and for a heartbeat the air smelled like wet snake and monsoon rain.