[AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'M BACK!]
Hello everyone! I took some time to recharge, but I am officially back, fully refreshed, and ready to drop chapter for you all!
A quick heads-up before you dive into this one: The scale of what happens in this chapter (and the actual ceremony in Chapter 40) is going to feel absolutely insane. Having one person sweep 14 Oscar nominations across an Anime and a live-action drama borders on pure fantasy.
But here is why I am writing it this way: There will only be ONE Oscar arc in this entire novel. Because this is the first and last time Anant will ever conquer the Academy Awards, I decided to hold nothing back. If we are going to do the Oscars, we are going to do it with the ultimate, undeniable Megalodon flex.
Grab a seat. The plane to Los Angeles is about to take off. Enjoy Chapter 39! 🎬🔥
PART I: THE MORNING THE WORLD TILTED
The notification came at 5:47 AM IST on a cold January morning in Mumbai.
Anant was already awake, sitting cross-legged on the sprawling, sea-facing terrace of his highly secure Bandra villa, finishing the final movements of his daily yoga routine.
The pre-dawn sky over the Arabian Sea was that peculiar shade of indigo that existed only in these stolen moments before the city woke—before the chaos of Mumbai's traffic exploded into life, and before the rhythmic crashing of the waves was drowned out by the world.
His phone vibrated once. Then twice. Then it began buzzing continuously, a relentless electronic heartbeat that refused to be ignored.
Anant opened his eyes slowly, exhaling the last controlled breath of pranayama, and reached for the device. The screen was flooded with notifications—WhatsApp messages, missed calls, news alerts cascading over each other in a digital avalanche.
BREAKING: ANANT SHARMA MAKES OSCAR HISTORY
UNPRECEDENTED: 14 NOMINATIONS ACROSS TWO FILMS
BAAHUBALI: The ETERNAL WAR & CHHICHHORE DOMINATE 94TH ACADEMY AWARDS
He blinked, reading the headlines three times to ensure his eyes weren't playing tricks in the dim light.
Fourteen nominations.
Seven for Chhichhore.
Seven for Baahubali: The Eternal War.
Both films released in the same calendar year— Baahubali shattering the Jio World Centre during its premiere in January 2021, and Chhichhore releasing later that December.
For a long moment, Anant simply sat there, phone in hand, staring at the glowing screen as the Mumbai morning slowly awakened around him. A sea breeze swept across the terrace railing. Somewhere below, the rhythmic crashing of the Arabian Sea waves continued its ancient march.
The world continued as it always had.
But something fundamental had shifted.
The door to the terrace burst open.
Rajesh Sharma stood in the doorway, still in his sleeping kurta, hair disheveled, eyes bright with something that looked suspiciously like tears. In his hand, he held his own phone, the screen displaying the same flood of headlines.
"Anant," Rajesh's voice cracked slightly. "Beta..."
Anant stood slowly, dusting off his yoga mat, and before he could say anything, his father crossed the distance between them in three long strides and pulled him into a crushing embrace.
"Fourteen," Rajesh whispered into his son's shoulder. "Fourteen nominations. Do you understand what you've done?"
Anant returned the hug, feeling his father's shoulders shake slightly. "Papa, it's just—"
"Don't." Rajesh pulled back, gripping Anant's shoulders, his eyes fierce. "Don't you dare diminish this. Do you know how many lifetimes of work this represents? How many dreams?"
Behind Rajesh, Meera appeared in the doorway, wrapped in her morning shawl, Priya peeking around her shoulder. Both women had clearly been crying.
Meera's voice was soft, filled with a mother's pride that needed no amplification: "My son. My beautiful boy."
Priya pushed past their mother and launched herself at Anant, wrapping her arms around his waist. "Bhaiya, you made history! Actual history! They're saying it's unprecedented in Academy Award history—no one has ever had two films nominated across fourteen categories in the same year!"
Anant caught his sister, stumbling back slightly, and couldn't help the smile that broke across his face. "Priya, I can't breathe—"
"Good!" She squeezed harder. "You don't get to be humble about this one. Not this time."
The phone in Anant's hand buzzed again. He glanced at the screen.
SS Rajamouli calling...
PART II: THE CALLS
Anant answered, and before he could speak, Rajamouli's voice exploded through the speaker—a mixture of Telugu, Hindi, and raw emotion.
"ANANT! ANANT, ARE YOU SEEING THIS?"
"Rajamouli sir, I—"
"SEVEN NOMINATIONS! SEVEN! Best Picture, Best Animated Feature, Best Director, Best Visual Effects, Best Sound, Best Score, Best Cinematography—Anant, this is Baahubali! Our film! The film everyone said was too Indian, too mythological, too niche for Hollywood!"
Rajamouli's voice broke on the last word, and Anant heard the unmistakable sound of the director crying on the other end of the line.
"Sir," Anant said softly, "this was always your vision. Your mastery. I just helped you—"
"Help?" Rajamouli laughed through his tears. "Anant, you built the technology. You recruited Makoto Shinkai. You convinced Hollywood that Indian mythology could speak universally. You produced it. This is as much yours as it is mine."
In the background, Anant heard Rama Rajamouli's voice, equally emotional: "Tell him we're proud of him! Tell him!"
"I'm telling him, I'm telling him!" Rajamouli shouted back, then returned to the phone. "Anant, when we go to Los Angeles—when we walk that red carpet—I want you beside me. Not as a producer. As a co-creator. As my brother."
Anant's throat tightened. "It would be my honor, sir."
"No 'sir.' Not today. Today we are equals." Rajamouli paused, collecting himself. "I have to go call Senthil and Keeravani and the entire team. But Anant—this moment, this nomination—I will remember it for the rest of my life."
The call ended.
Immediately, another one began.
Nitesh Tiwari calling...
"Anant!" Nitesh's voice was steadier than Rajamouli's, but no less emotional. "Seven nominations for Chhichhore. Seven. Best Picture, Best Actor, Best International Feature, Best Screenplay, Best Editing, Best Song, Best Production Design."
"Nitesh sir, you deserved every single one of those."
"We deserved them, Anant. We." Nitesh exhaled slowly. "Do you know what the most shocking one is? Not Best Picture, not even Best Actor—though God knows you earned that. It's Best Original Screenplay. Your name. Our script. The Academy is recognizing your writing that you improvise."
Anant leaned against the terrace railing, watching the sun finally break over the Old Delhi skyline. "The script was always about the story we needed to tell. The kids we needed to save."
"And now the world is listening," Nitesh said quietly. "The Academy. Hollywood. Everyone. They're listening to a story about Indian students, Indian pressure, Indian pain—and they're saying it matters on a global stage."
In the background, Anant heard Ashwani Iyer's voice: "Tell him Shraddha has been crying happily for ten minutes straight!"
Nitesh laughed. "The entire team is here, Anant. We're at the office. We gathered when the nominations dropped. Everyone wanted me to tell you—we're ready. Whatever happens in Los Angeles, we're with you."
"I know," Anant said. "I've always known."
After Nitesh hung up, the calls continued in a relentless cascade:
Shraddha Kapoor, voice shaking: "Anant, I can't believe I'm part of a Best Picture nominee. Me. This is—I don't have words."
Varun Sharma, laughing and crying simultaneously: "Bhai, you madman! You absolute madman! Best Actor! They're saying you're the frontrunner!"
Tahir Raj Bhasin: "The screenplay nomination—Anant, that's your soul on those pages. The Academy saw it."
Naveen Polishetty: "I'm calling from Hyderabad, and the entire city is going insane. You've made every Telugu actor believe we can conquer the world."
Prateek Kuhad, the musician behind the Chhichhore anthem: "Best Original Song, Anant. They nominated our song. I'm—I don't know what to say."
The phone beeped, signaling an incoming group call.
Ronnie Screwvala & Aditya Dhar calling...
"Fourteen," Ronnie's voice boomed through the speaker, thick with a fierce, almost fatherly pride that he rarely showed in corporate boardrooms. "I'm looking at the Academy's official list, Anant. Fourteen."
"It's a good morning, Ronnie sir," Anant replied, a warm, genuine smile spreading across his face.
Aditya Dhar's voice chimed in, choked with emotion. "Good morning? Anant, the entire Maya Vfx office is going insane right now! Do you remember Ladakh? Do you remember sitting in that freezing tent, shivering in the snow, coding the advance war filter software for Uri because we were out of budget?"
"I remember you trusting a twenty-one-year-old college kid with your directorial debut, Aditya sir."
"We trusted you because you were undeniable," Ronnie interjected smoothly. "And look at you now. You didn't just become the greatest actor of your generation, Anant. You become the Core of the Entertainment Industry."
"The boy I had to force into taking majority IP for his own VFX company is now holding Hollywood's digital infrastructure while simultaneously sweeping their highest acting honors. It is the greatest corporate and cinematic checkmate I have ever witnessed."
"I had good mentors," Anant said softly, looking out over the Arabian Sea—the very view he only had because Ronnie had forced him to move to this secure Bandra villa years ago.
"No," Ronnie corrected gently. "You are the absolute best. We just gave you the runway. Now go to Los Angeles, Anant. Show them what the Indian aura looks like."
And then, the voice Anant had been unconsciously waiting for.
Isha Ambani calling...
PART III: THE VOICE THAT GROUNDS
"Fourteen," Isha said simply when Anant answered.
No preamble. No congratulations. Just the number, spoken with a mixture of awe and something deeper—a recognition of what this weight meant.
"Fourteen," Anant confirmed, closing his eyes.
"How are you feeling?"
It was such a quintessentially Isha question. Not 'Can you believe it?' or 'This is incredible!' but the quiet, grounding inquiry that cut through the noise to the truth underneath.
Anant was silent for a moment, listening to his own breathing, to the sounds of his family moving around inside the apartment, to the growing chaos of Chandni Chowk below.
"Surprised," he said finally. "Grateful. Terrified."
"Terrified of what?"
"Of what it means. Of what happens if we win. Of what happens if we don't." He opened his eyes, staring at the horizon. "Of becoming the story instead of the storyteller."
Isha's voice softened. "You were always going to become the story, Anant. The moment you chose to be visible. The moment you chose to use your voice for change."
"I know. I just—" He exhaled. "I wanted the work to speak for itself."
"It has. And it will continue to. But you can't separate yourself from the work anymore. Not at this level. The world doesn't work that way."
Anant leaned his forehead against the cool metal of the terrace railing. "Keanu told me I'd sweep the Oscars. At the Chhichhore premiere. I thought he was being kind."
"Keanu Reeves doesn't do hollow kindness," Isha said firmly. "He saw what the rest of us saw. What you refuse to see."
"Which is?"
"That you're not just talented, Anant. You're generational. Once-in-a-century. And the Academy is recognizing that."
Silence stretched between them—not uncomfortable, but full. The kind of silence that only existed between two people who understood that some truths didn't need elaboration.
"I wish you were here," Anant said quietly.
"I'm at Antilia," Isha replied. "I'll have the driver bring me to Bandra. I can be there in twenty minutes."
"You have meetings—"
"Anant." Isha's voice carried that tone—the one that meant she was done negotiating. "My love just made Oscar history. The meetings can wait."
Despite everything, Anant smiled. "Your father will kill me if you skip the JioStar investor call."
"My father is probably already planning a celebration that will shut down half of Mumbai. Trust me, he won't mind." She paused. "I'm coming. I'll be there by noon. Don't argue."
"I wasn't planning to."
"Good. And Anant?"
"Yes?"
"I'm proud of you. Not because of the nominations—though they're extraordinary. But because you stayed true to the vision. You didn't compromise. You built exactly what you wanted to build, and the world rose to meet you."
Anant's throat tightened again. "Thank you."
After Isha hung up, Anant stood on the terrace for another long moment, phone silent in his hand, watching Delhi wake up beneath him.
Fourteen nominations.
History made.
And somehow, standing there in the morning light above the Arabian Sea, he felt exactly the same as he always had. A billionaire tech-titan on the outside, but inside...
Still Anant.
Still the boy from Chandni Chowk.
Still grounded.
PART IV: THE MEDIA ERUPTION
By 10 AM, every major news channel in India had interrupted regular programming for special coverage.
Times Now: "ANANT SHARMA'S OSCAR SWEEP: INDIA'S GREATEST CINEMATIC TRIUMPH"
Arnab Goswami's voice thundered across the airwaves: "This is not just a victory for one man! This is a victory for Indian cinema! For Indian talent! For the notion that we do not need Hollywood's permission to tell our stories—we need only the courage to tell them authentically!"
NDTV: "BREAKING DOWN THE FOURTEEN NOMINATIONS: AN UNPRECEDENTED ACHIEVEMENT"
Barkha Dutt interviewed Shekhar Kapur via video call: "Shekhar, you've been nominated for Oscars yourself. What does this moment mean?"
Shekhar Kapur's face on the screen was contemplative, almost reverent. "Barkha, I want to be very clear. What Anant has achieved is not just unprecedented—it's statistically improbable to the point of being impossible. To have two films nominated across seven categories each, in the same year, competing against each other and the rest of the world? The odds against this are astronomical."
"So how did it happen?"
"Because he didn't make films for the Oscars," Shekhar said simply. "He made films for the truth. And the truth, when executed with this level of mastery, transcends all boundaries."
CNN-IBN: "GLOBAL REACTION: HOLLYWOOD RESPONDS TO THE ANANT SHARMA PHENOMENON"
Rajdeep Sardesai moderated a panel including international film critics.
Peter Travers from Rolling Stone: "Look, I'm going to be honest. When I first heard about an Indian actor-writer-producer-tech innovator sweeping the nominations like this, I thought it was hype. Then I watched both films. Chhichhore destroyed me. And Baahubali—the animated version—is the most visually stunning piece of mythological storytelling I've seen since The Lord of the Rings. This isn't charity. This is merit."
Koffee With Karan: Special Episode — "The Industry Reacts to Anant's Oscar Nominations"
Karan Johar sat across from Ranveer Singh, Ranbir Kapoor, and Sidharth Malhotra. All three actors looked simultaneously proud and slightly shell-shocked.
Karan leaned forward, his trademark mischievous smile tempered with genuine curiosity. "Gentlemen, let's address the elephant in the room. Fourteen Oscar nominations. How are we feeling?"
Ranveer spoke first, gesturing wildly as he always did: "Karan, I'm going to be brutally honest. When Anant burst onto the scene, I thought, 'Okay, talented guy, good looking, probably flash in the pan.' Then he did Uri. Then Dhoni. Then Baahubali. Then Chhichhore. And each time, I had to recalibrate what I thought was possible."
Ranbir nodded slowly. "The thing about Anant is—he's not competing in our race. He built a different track entirely. He's not trying to be the biggest star. He's trying to be the best storyteller. And there's a difference."
Sidharth leaned back, shaking his head with a rueful smile. "I met him once. At an award show. You know what struck me? He's exactly the same in person as he is on screen. There's no performance. No facade. He's just—present. Fully present. It's unnerving."
Karan raised an eyebrow. "Unnerving?"
"Because most of us are performing all the time," Sidharth admitted. "Even here, right now, we're playing versions of ourselves. Anant doesn't do that. He can't. And I think that's why the camera loves him—because he's incapable of lying."
The camera cut to the female actors' segment: Deepika Padukone, Katrina Kaif, and Ananya Panday.
Deepika spoke with the measured thoughtfulness that had become her trademark: "What Anant represents is a paradigm shift. He's proven that you don't need a godfather. You don't need compromises. You need conviction, craft, and an unwavering commitment to excellence."
Katrina smiled. "Also, let's be honest—he's raising the bar for everyone. After Chhichhore, audiences expect emotional depth. After Baahubali, they expect visual spectacle. He's made it harder for all of us, and I mean that in the best way."
Ananya, the youngest of the group, looked almost starry-eyed. "I'm just in awe. Like, complete awe. He's only a few years older than me, and he's rewriting the rules of global cinema. Meanwhile, I'm still figuring out how to pick the right scripts."
Karan's expression softened. "What do you think it is? What makes Anant Sharma different?"
The three women exchanged glances.
Finally, Deepika spoke: "I think he actually believes in the stories he tells. Not intellectually. Not strategically. But in his bones. And that kind of authentic belief is contagious. It spreads to the crew, to the cast, to the audience. You can't fake it. You can't manufacture it. You either have it or you don't."
"And he has it," Katrina finished.
"In abundance," Ananya added.
PART V: THE SOUTH INDIAN ROUND TABLE
The Year-End Round Table discussions were a tradition—separate panels for actors, directors, and technicians across different regional industries. This year, the South Indian Directors' Round Table had taken on a reverent quality.
SS Rajamouli sat beside Shankar, Vetrimaaran, and Mani Ratnam. The moderator, film critic Baradwaj Rangan, guided the conversation.
"Let's talk about Anant Sharma," Baradwaj said. "Rajamouli, you've worked with him extensively. What's the secret?"
Rajamouli paused, choosing his words carefully. "There is no secret. That's the point. What you see is what you get. When Anant came to Hyderabad for Baahubali, he didn't come as a star. He came as a student. He learned Telugu in four months—not broken Telugu, proper Telugu with grammar and nuance. He trained in Kalaripayattu under Gurukkal Vasudevan until the master declared him nearly qualified to teach."
Shankar leaned forward. "But surely there's something beyond work ethic. Plenty of actors work hard."
"You're right," Rajamouli said. "The difference is intentionality. Anant doesn't do anything without understanding why. When we were designing the Nataraja sequence in Baahubali, he spent three weeks studying the iconography of Shiva. Not just the dance—the theology. The philosophy. The cosmic significance. And then, when he performed it, you could see that depth in every movement."
Mani Ratnam, the legendary director who rarely effused about anyone, spoke quietly: "I watched Chhichhore three times. Each time, I found new layers in his performance. The way he ages physically without prosthetics—that's not technique. That's embodiment. He actually became that grief-stricken father. And when he transforms back to the younger self, you can see the innocence hasn't been performed—it's remembered. He's accessing real memory, real innocence from his own life."
Vetrimaaran nodded. "The Best Actor nomination isn't surprising. What's surprising is that he also got a Best Screenplay nomination. That's the Academy recognizing him as a complete filmmaker, not just a performer."
"Which brings us to the larger question," Baradwaj said. "Fourteen nominations across two films. Is this sustainable? Or is this a peak?"
The four directors exchanged glances.
Finally, Rajamouli spoke: "If this were anyone else, I'd say it's a peak. But with Anant, I honestly don't know. Because he's not chasing awards. He's chasing perfection in storytelling. And perfection, by definition, has no ceiling."
The Actors' Round Table featured legends: Irrfan Khan (via video call from his treatment facility), Rajinikanth, Kamal Haasan, Mohanlal, and Amitabh Bachchan.
The moderator, Anupama Chopra, began gently: "Gentlemen, we've all seen the nominations. Your thoughts?"
Irrfan spoke first, his voice slightly weakened but his eyes bright: "Anant reminds me why I fell in love with acting. Not fame. Not money. But the purity of transformation. When I see him on screen, I see someone who has surrendered completely to the character. That kind of surrender is rare. It requires both strength and vulnerability."
Rajinikanth, who had famously wept during the Baahubali Nataraja sequence, spoke in Tamil (subtitled): "In our industry, we talk about 'mass' and 'class.' Anant has transcended that binary. He creates films that are simultaneously populist and profound. That's not a skill. That's a gift."
Kamal Haasan, ever the technician, approached it analytically: "What fascinates me is his understanding of technology as a storytelling tool. He doesn't use VFX to replace performance. He uses it to enhance emotional truth. The Maya VFX system he built—that's not just a business. It's a philosophical statement about what cinema can be."
Mohanlal smiled. "I met him during Baahubali success party. He touched my feet before I could stop him. Then he spoke to me in Malayalam. Perfect Malayalam. And I thought, 'This boy is dangerous.' Because he understands that respect and mastery go hand in hand."
Amitabh Bachchan, the final word, spoke with the gravitas of seven decades in cinema: "I have seen many talented actors. Many hardworking actors. Many successful actors. But I have rarely seen someone who combines all three with genuine humility. Anant doesn't act like he's special. But he is. And the Academy's recognition is not charity. It is acknowledgment of undeniable genius."
The table fell silent.
Anupama's voice was soft: "Amitabh sir, that's high praise from you."
"It's not praise," Amitabh said firmly. "It's observation. And I hope he wins every single category he's nominated for. Because Indian cinema deserves this moment. And he has earned it."
PART VI: THE GLOBAL IMPLICATIONS
In Los Angeles, the Academy's official announcement had sent shockwaves through Hollywood.
Variety: "THE ANANT SHARMA EFFECT: HOW ONE MAN IS RESHAPING GLOBAL CINEMA"
Hollywood Reporter: "FOURTEEN NOMINATIONS: BREAKING DOWN THE MATH BEHIND THE IMPOSSIBLE"
Deadline: "MAYA TECH'S ANTI-PIRACY SHIELD SAVES STUDIOS $4.2 BILLION: ANANT SHARMA'S OTHER OSCAR"
Never before had a foreign film industry so thoroughly dominated the American awards circuit. When The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King swept the Oscars in 2004, it was hailed as the ultimate, once-in-a-lifetime triumph of epic fantasy.
When South Korea's Parasite took home Best Picture in 2020, the world celebrated it for finally shattering the "one-inch-tall barrier of subtitles."
But what Anant Sharma had just done made those historic milestones look like mere warm-ups.
He hadn't just broken the subtitle barrier. He had simultaneously obliterated the animation barrier, the cultural barrier, and the technological barrier. With fourteen nominations across a hyper-photorealistic Dharmic Anime and a devastating live-action drama, an Indian cinematic universe wasn't just participating in the global market anymore—it was dictating the absolute standard.
While the first two headlines celebrated his art, it was the last headline that caught fire across corporate industry circles.
To capitalize on the historic nominations, Dolby Laboratories released an official statement that finally revealed the terrifying scale of Anant's corporate empire to the public:
"Following a highly successful twelve-month pilot testing phase, Dolby Laboratories is proud to announce the full global deployment of the Maya Anti-Piracy Shield/Kavach across all major theatrical, IMAX, and streaming infrastructures worldwide."
"Co-developed by Maya VFX and Dolby's Chief Innovation Officer, Mr. Anant Sharma, the Shield/Kavach has already prevented an estimated $4.2 billion in piracy losses in 2021 alone. This technology is a fundamental shift in how we protect artistic work globally."
The statement was signed by Kevin Yeaman, CEO of Dolby.
Within hours, major studios released their own statements of absolute surrender:
Warner Bros:"Maya Shield has protected our theatrical releases and streaming content. The technology is unparalleled."
Universal Pictures:"We congratulate Anant Sharma on his nominations and acknowledge his contribution to the protection of our industry."
Disney:"Fourteen nominations is unprecedented. Maya Shield's impact on our box office retention is immeasurable."
The subtext was clear: Hollywood wasn't just recognizing Anant's artistic work. They were bowing to his technological dominance. The Dolby Maya Camera was now the industry standard for premium format capture. The demand had outstripped supply by a factor of ten.
In Burbank, at Dolby's headquarters, Kevin Yeaman sat in his office, reading the morning reports, a highly satisfied smile on his face. The global rollout was complete, and Anant's architecture was flawless.
His CFO entered the office, looking slightly overwhelmed. "Kevin, the Maya Camera backlog is at two years now. And with the Anti-Piracy Shield moving out of the pilot phase into full global deployment, every major studio on Earth is signing the mandatory licensing agreements."
Kevin nodded. "Increase production capacity for the cameras. Double it. Whatever it takes."
"The recurring royalty payments to our Chief Innovation Officer are going to be astronomical," the CFO noted, swallowing hard. "He is single-handedly draining the studios' tech budgets."
"Good," Kevin said firmly. "He earned them. Every penny. Do you know what Anant told me when we first partnered?"
The CFO shook his head.
"He said, 'I'm not interested in making money from this. I'm interested in making better movies possible.' And then he built technology that does exactly that." Kevin leaned back, looking at the Variety headline on his desk. "That's not just a businessman. That's an artist who weaponized business to protect his art. And God help anyone who tries to compete with him."
PART VII: THE POLITICAL WEIGHT
New Delhi, Parliament House.
Prime Minister Narendra Modi stood before the assembled press, flanked by the Minister of Information and Broadcasting.
"Today, India celebrates not just the success of one individual, but the validation of our cultural narrative on the world's biggest stage," Modi began, his voice carrying that distinctive rhetorical cadence. "Anant Sharma has shown that Indian stories, told authentically, with excellence, can resonate globally. This is soft power in its purest form."
A journalist raised her hand. "Prime Minister, do you have a message for Anant Sharma?"
Modi smiled. "I already sent it to him personally this morning. But I'll say it again publicly: Beta, you have made 1.4 billion people proud. Go to Los Angeles. Walk that red carpet with your head high. You represent not just Indian cinema, but the aspirations of an entire generation. We are all behind you."
The press conference ended, but the statement reverberated across social media.
Within minutes, #AnantAtOscars began trending globally.
The Prime Minister's Office released a follow-up tweet with a photo of Modi on the phone, captioned: "Spoke with Anant Sharma this morning. His humility matches his talent. India's son is making history."
PART VIII: THE REUNION — PART ONE: BAAHUBALI
Three weeks before the Oscars ceremony, Anant found himself at the Ramoji Film City in Hyderabad.
SS Rajamouli had called the entire Baahubali: The Eternal War team together—one final gathering before they all flew to Los Angeles.
The sound stage where they'd motion-captured the climactic battle sequence had been converted into a celebration hall. Banners hung from the ceiling: 7 OSCAR NOMINATIONS.
Anant arrived by car, deliberately avoiding the media circus outside the gates. Security whisked him through a side entrance.
The moment he stepped into the hall, the room erupted.
Senthil Kumar, the cinematographer, was the first to reach him, pulling him into a tight hug. "Best Cinematography nomination, Anant! Do you know how historic this is? The Academy is officially recognizing your Dharmic Anime style rendering! They looked at a fully digital, photorealistic anime world and admitted it was better lit and framed than their live-action blockbusters!"
MM Keeravani, the composer, clasped Anant's hand with both of his own. "Best Original Score. After all these years, the Academy is listening to Indian classical fusion. This is your doing."
The sound team—twenty engineers who'd spent months perfecting the Dolby Atmos mix—surrounded him, all talking at once.
And then the crowd parted.
SS Rajamouli stood at the far end of the hall, Rama Rajamouli beside him.
The director didn't move. He simply stood there, tears already streaming down his face, hands pressed together in namaste.
Anant crossed the distance between them and, without hesitation, touched Rajamouli's feet.
"No," Rajamouli said, voice breaking. "No, Anant. Not today."
He pulled Anant up and embraced him fiercely.
"You did this," Rajamouli whispered. "You made them see. You made them understand that our mythology isn't primitive—it's primal. It's universal. You made them see Baahubali the way I saw him in my dreams."
"We did this, sir," Anant corrected gently. "This was always your vision."
"My vision needed your execution." Rajamouli pulled back, gripping Anant's shoulders. "Seven nominations. Best Picture. Best Animated Feature. Best Director—they're nominating me and Makoto Shinkai together. Do you know what that means? They're acknowledging cross-cultural collaboration. They're saying that an Indian director and a Japanese director can create something that transcends both cultures."
Rama Rajamouli stepped forward, her eyes equally wet. "Anant, you gave my husband back his belief in himself. After Baahubali 2, he was exhausted. Burned out. He thought he'd peaked."Â
"And then you came with this insane idea—continue Amarendra's story into the cosmic afterlife, expand the mythology into a Dharmic Anime, and make it global. And you didn't just propose it. You built the AI rendering technology to make it possible."
Anant shook his head. "I just opened doors. You two walked through them."
"Always so humble," Rama said, reaching up to cup his cheek. "You're like a son to us, you know that?"
Before Anant could respond, the crowd parted once more. The lead animators from Ufotable stepped forward, and at their center was Makoto Shinkai.
There were no formal Japanese bows this time. The legendary director walked straight up to Anant and pulled him into a fierce, brotherly embrace, echoing the raw emotion they had shared at the Chhichhore premiere weeks ago.
"Anant-san," Shinkai said, his voice thick with emotion as he pulled back, gripping Anant's shoulders. "When we started this journey, I thought we were just bridging our two cultures. I didn't know I was working alongside a man who would heal my own heart."
Anant placed a hand over Shinkai's. "The healing was mutual, Shinkai-sensei. We built this world together."
Shinkai smiled, his eyes shining. "To share a Best Director nomination with Rajamouli-sensei is the peak of my career. But to share it with the man who built a shield for the youth... that is the peak of my life. The Dharmic Anime has changed the world, my brother."
As the two men stepped back, the rest of the team converged. The entire Maya VFX crew that had spent months rendering every frame surrounded them
Sabu Cyril, the production designer who'd created the initial live-action sets that became the animation references, raised a glass. "To the impossible! To the boy who made us believe we could compete with Pixar and DreamWorks and win!"
The room erupted in cheers.
Anant caught Rajamouli's eye across the celebration. The director mouthed two words: Thank you.
Anant simply smiled and nodded.
Later, in a quieter corner of the hall, Anant sat with Sudheer Babu, Parvathy, and Tamannaah Bhatia—the actors who had bled beside him in the Kalari forge, and then returned to give their souls to the movie.
Parvathy spoke first, her voice soft: "Anant, can I ask you something personal?"
"Of course."
"How does it feel? All of this? The nominations, the recognition, the history?"
Anant was quiet for a moment, swirling the sweet lassi in his glass. "Surreal. Like I'm watching it happen to someone else."
Tamannaah leaned forward. "But you earned it. Every single nomination."
"Did I?" Anant looked up, his expression genuinely uncertain. "Or did I just have the resources and the timing and the luck to be in the right place?"
Sudheer laughed. "Man, even now. Even with fourteen Oscar nominations, you're questioning whether you deserve it."
"I question everything," Anant said simply. "It's the only way I know how to stay honest."
Parvathy reached across the table and took his hand. "Then let me be honest with you. You changed my life. Before this project, I was just another regional actress. Good work, but limited reach. You made me part of something global. You believed in my voice, my performance capture, my craft. And now, when I walk into auditions, casting directors know my name. That's because of you."
Tamannaah nodded. "Same. You didn't have to cast me. You didn't have to fight for regional actors to be part of a global project. But you did. Because you believed the authenticity mattered more than the marketing."
Sudheer raised his glass. "To the man who refuses to take credit but deserves all of it."
They clinked glasses, and Anant allowed himself a genuine smile—small, but real.
PART IX: THE REUNION — PART TWO: CHHICHHORE
The Chhichhore reunion happened at Nitesh Tiwari's production office in Mumbai, a week after the Hyderabad gathering.
The entire cast had assembled: Shraddha Kapoor, Varun Sharma, Tahir Raj Bhasin, Naveen Polishetty, Tushar Pandey, Saharsh Kumar Shukla, and Prateik Babbar.
Nitesh and Ashwani Iyer stood at the front of the room, both holding tablets showing the Academy's official nomination list.
When Anant walked in, Shraddha was the first to move. She crossed the room in four strides and hugged him tightly.
"Best Actor," she whispered. "They nominated you for Best Actor. Anant, do you understand what this means?"
"It means I had a good scene partner," Anant said, pulling back to smile at her.
Shraddha's eyes filled with tears. "Don't. Don't deflect. You carried this film emotionally. The Academy saw it. The world saw it."
Varun Sharma approached, his usual comedic energy subdued into something more solemn. "Bhai, I've been thinking about what to say to you for a week. And I keep coming back to the same thing: thank you."
"For what?"
"For making a film about suicide that doesn't feel like a PSA. For making a film about failure that feels like hope. For making a film about friendship that feels real." Varun's voice cracked slightly. "My cousin... he's in 11th standard. He called me after watching Chhichhore. He said it saved his life. Literally. He was planning... and then he saw the film. And he called me instead."
The room went silent.
Anant pulled Varun into a hug. "That's why we made it."
Naveen Polishetty, ever the observer, spoke from his corner: "Seven nominations. Best Picture, Best Actor, Best International Feature, Best Screenplay, Best Editing, Best Song, Best Production Design. That's not luck. That's a film operating at every level simultaneously."
Tahir nodded. "The Best Screenplay nomination—Anant, that's your soul on those pages. Every line, every beat, every emotional arc. The Academy is recognizing you as a writer, not just a performer."
Prateik Babbar, who'd played the rival, added: "And Best International Feature—that's India's official entry. The FFI chose us. Over everything else that released this year. That's its own kind of validation."
Nitesh stepped forward, his expression serious. "I want to say something, and I need you all to hear it, especially Anant."
The room quieted.
"This film was a risk. A massive risk. Suicide, academic pressure, non-linear storytelling, no traditional romance, no item numbers. Every financier I pitched to said it wouldn't work. And then Anant not only agreed to act in it—he produced it. He put his own money, his own reputation, his own brand behind a film about failure."
Nitesh's voice grew stronger. "And now, the Academy—the most prestigious film institution in the world—is saying that risk was worth it. They're saying that stories about real pain, real struggle, real hope matter. They're saying that Indian stories matter."
Ashwani Iyer stepped beside her husband. "When we go to Los Angeles, we're not just representing Chhichhore. We're representing every student who's felt the pressure. Every parent who's lost a child. Every educator who's tried to change the system. That's what this nomination means."
Shraddha wiped her eyes. "So what do we do now?"
Anant spoke for the first time since the emotional barrage began: "We go to Los Angeles. We walk that red carpet with dignity. We represent the film with integrity. And whatever happens—win or lose—we know we told the truth."
"And if we win?" Varun asked.
Anant's smile was genuine but grounded. "Then we use that platform to amplify the message. Mental health awareness. Educational reform. The things that actually matter."
Naveen laughed. "Of course. Even at the Oscars, you're thinking about the mission."
"The mission is all that matters," Anant said simply.
Later, when the group had dispersed into smaller conversations, Nitesh pulled Anant aside.
"Can I show you something?"
He led Anant to a small office and opened his laptop. On the screen was an email thread.
"These are messages from students," Nitesh said quietly. "Thousands of them. From India, from the US, from the UK, from Japan. All saying the same thing: Chhichhore saved their lives. Gave them hope. Made them call someone instead of ending it."
Anant read through the emails silently, his expression unreadable.
Finally, he looked up. "This is why we make films."
"This is why you make films," Nitesh corrected. "Most of us are chasing box office, awards, fame. You're chasing impact."
"Impact is the only thing that lasts," Anant said.
Nitesh closed the laptop. "Fourteen nominations. Two films. Same year. Anant, you know this is unprecedented, right? No one in Academy history has done this."
"I know."
"And you know what the pressure is going to be like in Los Angeles? Every interview, every event, every red carpet—you're going to be the story."
Anant exhaled slowly. "I know that too."
"How are you going to handle it?"
"The same way I handle everything. One moment at a time. One question at a time. One truth at a time."
Nitesh studied him for a long moment. "You're either the most grounded person I've ever met, or you're the best actor in the world."
Anant smiled slightly. "Maybe both."
PART X: THE DEPARTURE
Mumbai International Airport, Private Terminal, 6:00 AM.
Two chartered flights waited on the tarmac.
The first carried the Baahubali contingent: SS Rajamouli, Rama Rajamouli, Senthil Kumar, MM Keeravani, the sound team, the Maya VFX leads, Makoto Shinkai and representatives from Ufotable who'd flown in from Tokyo.
The second carried the Chhichhore team: Nitesh Tiwari, Ashwani Iyer, Shraddha Kapoor, Varun Sharma, Tahir, Naveen, Prateik, Tushar, Saharsh, and Prateek Kuhad.
Anant stood between both planes, the early morning sun breaking over the horizon behind him.
Both teams had gathered in a loose circle around him—forty people who'd poured their souls into two very different films, now united by fourteen Academy Award nominations.
Rajamouli spoke first: "Anant, which plane are you taking?"
Anant smiled. "I was planning to split the difference and walk."
Laughter rippled through the group.
Nitesh shook his head. "We'll flip for it. Heads, you fly with us. Tails, you fly with Rajamouli sir."
"Or," Shraddha interjected, "we all fly together."
Varun nodded enthusiastically. "Combine the flights. One massive Oscar delegation."
Rajamouli and Nitesh exchanged glances, then looked at Anant.
"It's your call," Rajamouli said.
Anant looked at both groups—the mythological epic team and the intimate drama team, both extraordinary, both nominated, both his family in different ways.
"Together," he said simply. "We fly together."
Within thirty minutes, the logistics were rearranged. The Baahubali plane would carry everyone. The Chhichhore plane would carry the luggage and equipment.
As the teams boarded, Anant found himself standing at the base of the stairs, looking back at Mumbai.
Isha had arrived just minutes before departure, dressed in a simple salwar kameez, her hair pulled back, no makeup.
"You came," Anant said.
"Did you think I wouldn't?" She reached up and adjusted his collar—a small, intimate gesture. "Fourteen nominations. You're walking into history."
"We're walking into history," he corrected.
She smiled. "Not this time. This one's yours. I'll be there when you come back."
"You should come with us."
"I have the JioStar expansion announcement next week. Can't miss it." She paused. "But I'll be watching. Every moment. Every red carpet. Every award."
"Even if we don't win?"
"Especially if you don't win. Because that's when you'll need someone to remind you that the nominations are the validation. The work is the reward. The impact is the legacy."
Anant pulled her close, pressing his forehead to hers. "Thank you."
"For what?"
"For being my anchor."
Isha pulled back, her eyes serious. "Go be extraordinary. I'll be here being practical. That's how this works."
He kissed her forehead and turned toward the plane.
Inside the aircraft, organized chaos reigned.
The Baahubali team had claimed the left side. The Chhichhore team had claimed the right. Anant walked down the center aisle, caught between both worlds.
Rajamouli called out: "Anant, sit with us! We need to strategize the technical category interviews!"
Nitesh countered: "Anant, sit here! We need to coordinate the Best International Feature campaign!"
Anant looked at both directors, then at the empty seat in the very center of the plane—the one seat that touched both aisles.
He sat there.
"Perfect," Varun laughed. "The man literally sitting between two Oscar campaigns."
Shraddha leaned across the aisle. "Anant, serious question. What are you most excited about in Los Angeles?"
Without hesitation, Anant replied: "Seeing Keanu and Barnaby."
The plane went silent.
Then erupted in laughter.
Tahir shook his head in disbelief. "Bhai, you're nominated for fourteen Oscars, and you're most excited about meeting your biker friend and his co-host?"
"Keanu Reeves predicted this," Anant said simply. "At the Chhichhore premiere. He told me I'd sweep the Oscars. I want to thank him."
Naveen grinned. "Of course you do. Even at the Academy Awards, you're thinking about gratitude."
Senthil Kumar called from the Baahubali side: "What about the awards themselves? Best Actor? Best Picture?"
Anant was quiet for a moment, his expression turning contemplative.
He closed his eyes, leaning back in his seat, and the late morning sun streaming through the window caught his face—highlighting the sharp cheekbones, the strong jaw, the peaceful expression.
For a moment, everyone on the plane simply watched him.
Shraddha whispered to Varun: "He looks like a painting."
Rajamouli murmured to Rama: "Like Arjuna before the war. Calm. Centered. Ready."
Anant opened his eyes slowly and spoke, his voice carrying through the cabin despite its gentleness:
"I'm excited to witness it. Not win it. Witness it. To see the stories we told recognized. To watch Rajamouli sir and Makoto Shinkai stand together on that stage. To see Nitesh and Ashwani represent Indian mental health awareness. To watch Keeravani's music acknowledged globally. To see Senthil's cinematography validated."
He paused, looking around at all of them.
"The nominations are already the victory. Everything else is just ceremony."
The plane fell silent again—but this time, not with laughter. With something deeper.
Respect.
Understanding.
The recognition that they were in the presence of someone fundamentally different.
Not better.
Just different.
Someone for whom the work genuinely was the reward.
Nitesh caught Rajamouli's eye across the aisle. The two directors shared a small nod—a silent acknowledgment that they'd both been lucky enough to collaborate with something rare.
Not a star.
A true artist.
As the plane took off, Mumbai shrinking beneath them, Anant pulled out his phone and typed a single message to Keanu Reeves:
"Coming to Los Angeles. Your prediction was right. Thank you for believing before the world did."
The reply came within minutes:
"The world caught up. I'm proud of you, brother. See you on the red carpet. Bring your best suit. We're making history."
Anant smiled, put the phone away, and closed his eyes.
Fourteen nominations.
Two films.
One journey.
And somewhere ahead, in a city of dreams built on illusions, the most authentic person in cinema was about to remind Hollywood what truth looked like.
END OF CHAPTER 39
Next ( Massive) Chapter 5 Pm Tomorrow