✵ I. The Coin That Refused to Sleep
The first business empire of Rayalaseema began with something very simple:
A single coin
that refused
to sit quietly in a boy's pocket.
❖
It came to him during a small festival.
The temple had been washed, lamps lined the outer wall, jasmine garlands hung from every arch. The village smelled of ghee, flowers, and that particular excitement that always comes when people can temporarily pretend their troubles wait outside the temple street.
After the puja, after the prasadam, after the elders' blessings, Narasimha did what every child does:
He held out both hands, palms open.
"Ayyo," his grandmother muttered, pretending to scowl while smiling. "Look at him. Even when bowing, his eyes are counting how many coins will fall."
One by one, relatives and close well-wishers dropped small copper coins into his palms.
"For sweets."
"For toys."
"For books." (That one he pretended not to hear.)
By the time they were home, he had a respectable little hoard. His mother poured the coins onto a small brass plate, the soft clink satisfying.
"Keep it safe," she warned. "If you lose it, don't come crying."
"I never cry," he declared grandly. "I only… loudly complain."
She snorted.
"That is worse. Put it in the box."
She pointed to a small wooden box in his room where he kept his odd treasures: a smooth stone, a broken bangle glittering in the center, a feather, and now, his wealth.
He sat cross-legged on the mat that night, staring at the coins spread in a little circle in front of him.
He could already smell the sweets.
Jaggery laddus.
Sesame balls.
Sugar-coated everything.
His mouth watered.
He picked up one coin, balanced it on his finger.
If I spend you today, he thought, you die today. If I keep you… you are only sleeping.
He frowned.
"I don't like things sleeping too long," he muttered. "Except myself."
He lay back on the mat, coins arranged in a small sun around his head, and stared at the ceiling.
Somewhere in his memory, a phrase came back: the potter at the market, the five buyers, his own words—
Better small gain from many than big gain from none.
He sat up again.
The coins seemed to be staring back at him now.
"What if," he said slowly, "I make you… walk first. Then eat sweets."
The idea was fuzzy.
But once it arrived, it refused to leave.
Like the coin, it would not sleep.
❖ II. Price of Salt, Price of Sense
Over the next few days, Narasimha did what he was already good at:
He watched.
At the weekly market, he hovered near stalls, pretending to be more interested in toys while his ears worked.
Salt here.
Salt there.
He noticed that the salt-seller who came from nearer the coast sold cheaper. His stock was cleaner, whiter. But he came only sometimes, with large loads.
Another, a local fellow, sold smaller piles every week, but at a slightly higher rate.
People bought from both—depending on when they had coin, when they had need, and when the cheaper man was not in sight.
"What are you doing?" one of his friends whispered, bored. "Come, we will race spinning tops."
"You race," Narasimha murmured absently. "I am racing between prices."
He watched iron too.
In one stall, iron sickle heads were clearly heavier, sturdier—and yet, their seller, a quiet man with tired eyes, priced them only a little above the flimsy ones two stalls down.
"Appa," he asked that night, "why would a man sell strong iron for almost the same price as weak iron?"
His father shrugged.
"Maybe he has a big stock and needs to move it," he said. "Maybe he is not good at counting his own worth. Maybe he is honest and foolish. That type exists. We need them for balance, otherwise the world would only have clever thieves."
Narasimha made a face.
"What a waste," he said. "If I had strong iron, I would sell it at proper price but only to good farmers. Then when trouble comes, the people with strong tools can hit back."
His father hid a smile.
"Ears open, mouth half open," he thought. "Dangerous combination."
❖
The coin-idea in his head grew shape.
Salt was something everybody needed.
Salt travelled from coast to countryside.
Salt was cheap in bulk, expensive in small piles.
Grain was something villagers had.
Grain fluctuated in value with harvest.
"What if…," he whispered to himself one evening under the tree, "I buy where it is cheap, and sell where it is fair—but still less than thieves."
He didn't yet call it "arbitrage." He just called it sense.
He looked at the coin in his fingers, flipping it.
"Sweets can wait," he told it. "If I use you properly, later I can drown in sweets. Or at least keep Amma's kitchen full."
✢ III. Permission (Kind Of)
The next question: how?
He was seven.
He did not own a bullock cart.
He did not control adult trade routes—yet.
So he did what clever children do: he aimed sideways.
One morning, he found his father in the front hall, looking over a list of supplies.
"Appa," he began, in the tone that always meant trouble, "how much salt does our house buy?"
His father glanced up, suspicious.
"Enough for us and whoever runs away from their own kitchens," he said. "Why?"
"And the village?" Narasimha probed. "They buy on their own?"
"Yes," his father replied slowly. "From the market. Again, why?"
Narasimha took a deep breath.
"Appa, if I take some of my own coins and buy a small sack of salt from the coastal trader when he comes," he said, words tumbling out fast, "and then sell it in our village lanes for a price that is less than the usual seller but still more than what I paid… is that wrong?"
His father stared at him.
His mother, passing by with a pot, froze.
The grandmother, sitting in a corner with betel leaves, burst out laughing.
"Ha!" she cackled. "Look at him. Seven years old and already trying to become Salt Dora."
His father pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Why do you want to do this?" he asked, voice carefully neutral.
"Because," Narasimha said earnestly, "people complain that salt is expensive on days the cheap man doesn't come. If I buy when he comes and keep for when he doesn't, they pay less, I still get a little extra, and that money we can use for helping people in trouble. Or for the house. Or for… sweets."
He added the last part quickly, honest in his greed.
His father blinked.
That… was not a bad plan.
It was dangerous to give a child that much leeway in trade, but it was also an opportunity to teach early.
"Will you cheat?" his father asked quietly. "If they trust you and do not measure properly?"
Narasimha shook his head at once.
"If I cheat my own people," he said, a flicker of something fierce in his eyes, "then how will I scold the Company when they cheat us? My tongue will fall out."
His father exhaled, half amused, half impressed.
"Fine," he said. "Try. With two conditions."
Narasimha's eyes lit.
"What conditions?"
"First," his father said, "you record every coin. Every sack. No hiding, no guessing. You show me your numbers."
The boy slumped.
"Paperwork," he groaned. "Fate is cruel."
"Second," his father continued, "if at any point I see you growing greedy—raising prices just because people cannot go elsewhere—I will shut your little market myself and make you return to counting only your mother's vessels. Understood?"
Narasimha gulped.
"Yes, Appa," he said. "I will remember. Profit is good. Exploitation is… British."
His father coughed, taken aback, then laughed despite himself.
"Don't say that aloud in front of officers," he warned. "Go. Do what you will. But…" He held up a finger. "Start small. If you lose all your festival coins, you will still live. If you lose the trust of your people, that is harder to buy back."
Narasimha nodded, eyes serious.
Then he ran to his room, clutching his coin box as if it were a war chest.
✶ IV. The First Sack
The coastal trader came two weeks later.
His bullock cart creaked under the weight of large, heavy sacks. The salt inside them sparkled faintly even through thick cloth.
Villagers gathered as usual.
"Step aside, kanna," the trader said good-naturedly when he saw Narasimha in front. "Don't get crushed. Adults are fighting about being cheated."
"Who is cheating whom?" Narasimha asked innocently. "If your salt is good and cheap, and their mouths are greedy, that is balance."
The man laughed.
"You speak like a small merchant," he said. "Do you want to buy a grain of salt with your coin?"
Narasimha lifted his chin.
"I want to buy one sack," he said.
The trader blinked.
"You?" he said. "What will you do with it? Build fort?"
"I will build… something," Narasimha replied cryptically. Then, more practically, "What is your price per sack?"
They haggled.
At first, the trader treated it as a joke.
Then he realized the boy knew local prices, knew what the regular seller charged on non-market days, knew roughly how many families bought per week.
"You've thought this through," the trader muttered.
"Too much," Narasimha sighed. "My brain hurts. Please give me headache discount."
In the end, perhaps because he was amused, perhaps because he liked the boy's fire, the trader gave him one sack at a slightly reduced rate.
"Take it, little lion," he said, hefting it down. "Let us see if you drown in salt or in profit."
Ramu, assigned by the chieftain, appeared at that moment, eyes widening.
"Narasimha!" he exclaimed. "You actually did it."
"Help me carry," Narasimha grunted, nearly toppling under the weight. "If this falls, my dreams fall with it."
They staggered home under the curious eyes of half the village.
Behind them, the usual salt seller watched from a distance, frowning.
"A child?" he muttered. "Dora's brat is bringing his own stock? Hmph. Let him try."
✢ V. The Lane Shop Without a Shop
There was no formal shop.
No signboard.
Just a lane.
And a boy.
Narasimha chose a shady patch near the banyan tree, not far from the well. He spread an old cloth on the ground, placed his wooden measuring bowl, and opened the sack carefully, the white crystals shining like miniature stones of moonlight.
Word travelled fast.
"Dora's boy is selling salt!"
"What new drama is this?"
"Maybe he lost a bet."
Soon, a small crowd gathered.
He had decided on his price. It was simple:
Slightly cheaper than the usual seller on non-market days.
Still enough above his buying price to give him a margin.
A woman approached first, cautious.
"Narasimha," she said, "are you playing or really selling?"
"Selling," he said solemnly. "If I play with salt, Amma will throw me into the well."
There was a ripple of laughter.
"How much?" she asked, pointing to the measure.
He named his rate.
She blinked.
"That is… less than usual," she said.
"Yes," he replied. "On market days, go buy from whoever you want. On other days, I will be here. If I cheat even one handful, go and complain to Appa. He will hit me, not you."
Behind him, Ramu flinched.
"Don't offer your father's hand so easily," he muttered.
The woman hesitated a moment more, then nodded.
"All right," she said. "Give."
He scooped, levelled carefully.
No generous heap that would break him.
No stingy under-fill that would break trust.
Exact.
She weighed it in her palm, nodded again, satisfied.
"Your hand is more honest than some grown men," she remarked.
Narasimha smiled.
"If it lies," he said lightly, "I won't be able to write later. Let it learn truth while small."
One by one, more people came.
Some out of curiosity.
Some out of genuine need.
Some because they wanted to "test Dora's son's sense."
He measured, took coin, dropped them into a small cloth bag.
By sunset, half the sack was gone.
His arms ached.
His back hurt from sitting.
His knees were dusty.
He was exhausted.
He was also exhilarated.
✶ VI. Profit… and Paperwork
That night, in the flickering lamplight, he sat at a low table with the hated slate.
His father sat opposite, arms crossed, trying very hard not to smile too much.
"How much did you buy for?" he asked.
Narasimha gave the figure.
"How much did you sell?" his father continued.
The boy pulled the small cloth bag open. Coins clinked as he poured them out.
They counted together.
After subtracting cost, his father pushed the remainder back toward him.
"This is your profit," he said.
Narasimha stared.
It was not overwhelming. Not an empire.
But it was more than all the festival coins together.
His eyes widened.
"So much?" he whispered. "Just for… sitting and measuring?"
His father raised an eyebrow.
"Do you still think leaders do no work?" he asked dryly. "You sat for a few hours and your back is already complaining. Imagine doing that for grain, money, disputes, and British tantrums every day."
Narasimha groaned.
"I understand why you always look tired now," he muttered. "Even your smile must be exhausted."
His father chuckled.
"Write it down," he reminded.
The boy sighed like a man being led to the gallows.
He scratched on the slate:
Salt – one sack. Cost: —. Sold half. Profit: —.
His handwriting was still clumsy, but every stroke felt like carving his first little entry into the annals of his own destiny.
He went to sleep that night with the cloth bag tucked under his pillow.
Not because he feared theft.
Because feeling its weight grounded him.
This is what my mind can do, a quiet part of him whispered. If I choose.
✢ VII. The Man Who Miscalculated a Boy
The regular salt seller was not pleased.
His sales on non-market days dropped sharply.
"Everyone is buying from that boy," he fumed to a friend. "Just because his father is Dora, they think his salt is pure and his heart is clean."
"They think his price is less," the friend pointed out.
"And his tongue is sharp," another added. "He joked yesterday that if we pay him too much, he will 'donate it to his Amma's kitchen.' Women like that."
The seller ground his teeth.
He considered going to the chieftain.
But what would he say?
"Your son is selling fairly, please stop him so I can continue to squeeze more"?
He knew how that would sound.
Instead, he tried to undercut him.
For a few weeks, he lowered his price whenever he saw Narasimha's small stall.
The boy noticed immediately.
"Good," he told a customer. "Buy from him today. If he has lowered his greed because of me, that is also success."
The seller blinked.
"What?" he muttered later. "He's sending me customers and still somehow winning?"
Because what happened was simple: villagers now had two fairer options.
Instead of a monopoly, there was pressure.
Prices settled at something closer to just.
At night, under the stars, the boy grumbled about his aching hands.
But somewhere, very quietly, the foundations of an economic shield for Rayalaseema were being laid.
Not through laws.
Through practice.
✹ VIII. A File in Madras Grows Thicker
In the Madras Presidency office, the same clerk as before flipped through updates from Rayalaseema.
Most reports bored him.
"Minor dispute in…"
"Revenue slightly decreased in…"
Then one small note caught his eye.
Local intelligence from native informant: The Uyyalawada chieftain's son, approx. 7–8 years old, has begun small-scale trade in salt within his village. Villagers show increased loyalty, remarking that 'Dora's boy sells cheaper and fair.' While activity is limited and may be dismissed as child play, it is worth noting the boy's early interest in commerce and influence on resource distribution.
The clerk snorted.
"A seven-year-old?" he said aloud, amused. "What will he do, buy the Presidency?"
Still, his hand moved almost by habit.
He underlined:
early interest in commerce and influence
And in the margin, in neat English script, he wrote:
Observation: clever boy. Currently low threat. Monitor for future potential agitation.
He slid the file back into the cabinet.
The ink dried.
Far away, in a dusty lane, the subject of his note was arguing with his mother about why he really needed to keep some coins aside as "emergency sweet fund."
✦ IX. A Conversation About Profit and Dharma
As the weeks passed, Narasimha's small venture grew.
He did not expand wildly. His father kept a tight hand on his ambition.
"Salt is enough for now," he insisted when the boy eyed another trader's jaggery cart. "If you try to juggle too many things at once, all will fall on your head."
"Then my head will be stronger," Narasimha muttered.
But he obeyed.
He did, however, begin to lend small amounts of salt on credit to certain families he trusted.
"Pay when you can," he told them casually. "But if you eat extra with that salt, you must give me one extra sweet during festival. That is tax."
They laughed.
They remembered.
Most paid.
One evening, his father called him to the veranda.
"Sit," he said.
Narasimha sat, wary.
"Appa, if this is about me taking extra curd from kitchen, I promise it was for research."
His father's lips twitched.
"This is not about curd," he said. "This is about your little 'business.'"
Narasimha stiffened.
"Have I done something wrong?" he asked.
"Not yet," his father replied. "I am talking before you do. That is better."
He folded his hands.
"Tell me, Narasimha," he said, "why are you doing this? Truly. Not the nice answer about 'helping people' you give others. The full truth."
The boy looked down at his fingers.
He thought carefully.
"Because…" he began slowly, "I do not like being helpless. When the British take things, we watch. We beg. We get angry. But without coin, without grain, without our own routes… we cannot push back. If I learn now how to move things, not just words, later, when they try to squeeze us, we can squeeze back without starving our own."
His father's gaze sharpened.
"And the other reason?" he prompted.
Narasimha sighed.
"And because," he admitted, "I like the feeling when coin comes toward us for once. Not only going out."
His father chuckled.
"There it is," he said. "Honest."
He sobered.
"Listen, kanna," he said. "Profit is not sin. Without surplus, we cannot build, we cannot store, we cannot survive bad years. But profit that grows from someone else's broken bones—that is what turns men into Company officers in brown skin."
Narasimha nodded, serious.
"I understand," he said.
"Do you?" his father asked. "Then answer this. If the sky fails and harvest is half, but demand for salt is same, what will you do? Raise price because supply is less? Or keep same?"
The boy thought.
"If I raise too much, they suffer," he said slowly. "If I don't raise at all, I may not be able to buy next sack."
He looked up.
"So… I will raise a little. Enough to cover the cost. Not enough to bleed them. And I will tell them why. Not hide it. Then, when harvest is good, I will lower more than before. To respect that they bore it."
His father exhaled, satisfied.
"Good," he said. "If you remember this in every trade you do, then your wealth will stand on something stronger than cleverness. It will stand on trust."
Narasimha grinned.
"And if I forget," he said lightly, "you will hit me on the head."
"I will," his father promised, equally light.
Both knew he meant it.
✵ X. Heaven's Commentary: "This is How Empires Begin"
In Vaikuntha, the six watched as Narasimha argued with his father about whether he could use a part of his profit to buy sweets and a small silver coin to save.
Lakshmi laughed softly.
"See?" she said. "First he learns to count grain. Then salt. Later, kingdoms."
Saraswati nodded.
"He is learning the links between resource, power, and dharma," she observed. "Slowly. Properly. Not in sudden, blinding revelation."
Parvati's eyes shone.
"And he still finds time to be dramatic about everything," she said fondly. "Look at his face when his father mentioned price during drought—you'd think someone asked him to marry paperwork."
Maheshwara watched the boy's aura.
Within it, the threads of Ichha-Marana sat quiet, like a sleeping lion.
Around it, new patterns formed:
habit of counting,
instinct for fairness,
a tendency to use sharp words before sharp blades.
Vishnu smiled.
"This is how empires begin," he said. "Not with flags and coronations. With one sack of salt and a boy's decision not to cheat his neighbours even when he easily could."
Brahma scribbled a small note.
Age 7–8: begins small-scale trade. Aligns economics with emerging dharma. Flag: potential for large-scale shadow network.
Lakshmi glanced at the still-foggy parts of his future that involved love.
"Poor girl," she murmured.
"Which one?" Vishnu teased gently. "You know he has my blessing in that department now."
She gave him a warning look.
"Don't start," she said. "Let him first learn to handle salt before we give him hearts."
Parvati laughed.
"Yes," she said. "If he drops salt, floor can be swept. If he drops someone's heart, we will have to intervene."
They all fell silent for a moment, each seeing in their own way how far the child in the dusty village still had to walk.
For now, however, they were content simply to watch him haggle over a small silver coin at the goldsmith's, insisting:
"If I am giving you my hard-earned profit, at least scratch my name in a corner where only I know. Then when I become big man, I can come and say, 'See? I was small lion once.'"
The goldsmith, amused, complied.
✦ XI. A Ledger and a Lion
One evening, as the lanterns flickered and a breeze snuck into the house carrying the smell of damp earth, Narasimha sat at the same low table with a small palm-leaf ledger his father had gifted him.
"This is yours," his father said. "Your accounts, your responsibility. Guard it better than sweets."
"That is not hard," the boy muttered. "Sweets cannot be guarded. They vanish."
He traced the grooves on the leaf with his finger.
The act of writing his trades, his little profits, his debts to collect and debts to pay, slowly shifted something in him.
Even when he grumbled, his mind was beginning to think in flows:
Salt goes from coast → trader → village → people.
Coin goes from people → him → trader.
Trust flows alongside.
One day, he paused mid-writing.
He stared at a line.
Salt: bought here. Sold here. Gave free here.
He added a note next to a name.
Widow. Don't press. Husband died last year in field flood.
He wasn't sure why he wrote it.
It just felt… necessary.
Later, when he flipped back through his accounts and saw it, his chest tightened.
He resolved then:
"My ledger will not be only about coins. It will remember pain also."
He did not know it yet, but years later, when his empire stretched from Rayalaseema to the edges of other kingdoms, his ledgers would still have such small notes:
This one sheltered rebels. Protect family if he falls.
This one's son in army. Watch British reaction.
This village gave grain in drought without asking payment. Favour them in next trade route.
The lion was learning not just to roar.
It was learning where to place its paws.
✵ XII. End of the First Trade
On the day he finally sold the last measures of his first salt sack, Narasimha sat back under the banyan, wiping sweat from his forehead with the edge of his shirt.
He counted his coins in front of everyone, not hiding, not boasting.
"Why do you count here?" an older boy jeered. "So we see how rich you are?"
"So you see I do not steal extra," Narasimha replied calmly. "If I count in secret, tongues get long. If I count here, tongues can rest."
Some of the older women nearby nodded approvingly.
"His father taught him well," one murmured.
"Or his mother," another said. "She is the one who keeps house accounts."
Narasimha heard both and smiled up at the sky.
Later, carrying the heavy little bag home, he muttered to himself:
"Next time, maybe more sacks. Or… a little grain. Or jaggery."
Then his back twinged.
"Or maybe next time, more helpers," he corrected quickly. "King cannot carry everything. Bad for image."
He was joking.
And yet, hidden inside the joke was something true:
He already thought beyond himself.
✦ XIII. Closing the Childhood Merchant Arc
That night, after writing his final figures for that first venture, Narasimha lay awake staring at the ceiling.
His body was tired.
His mind buzzed.
He thought of:
the first coin after festival,
the long salt sack,
the faces of people thankful for a slightly smaller price,
his father's questions about dharma,
the moneylender who had bent under his words,
the spy in Company boots,
and his own vow under the stars months ago.
"I said I would be shield first, king second," he whispered into the dark. "Today, I was… small umbrella. But it counts."
He pressed his hand to his chest.
The quiet, slow-burning blessing of Ichha-Marana sat there, patient.
If you live long, it seemed to murmur, what will you do with all these years?
"Trade," he mumbled sleepily. "Fight. Complain. Protect. Repeat."
And then, because he was seven, his next thought was:
Tomorrow, I am definitely buying at least one sweet. Even dharma needs sugar.
He drifted off, the sound of coins in his dreams like distant war drums softened into lullaby.
High above, the six watched the child who had just completed his first little economic experiment.
"He begins," Brahma said softly. "Just as we outlined—and yet, in ways even we did not predict."
Lakshmi rested her head lightly against Vishnu's shoulder.
"Let him play shopkeeper for a while longer," she said. "Soon, he will have to play king for much too long."
Saraswati closed her eyes, seeing visions of ledgers turned into encrypted codes, stall gossip turned into intelligence reports.
Parvati smiled, her expression both tender and fierce.
"Grow, little lion," she whispered. "Today, you sell salt. Tomorrow, you will sell fear to those who thought you were just a boy with a bowl."
Maheshwara's gaze glinted.
"I look forward to the day he stands on a battlefield and calculates odds as easily as today's profit," he said.
Vishnu chuckled quietly.
"And when he falls in love," he added, unable to resist, "let us see if he bargains as hard as he does for salt."
Lakshmi shot him a look.
"Swami," she warned, "do not start turning his love into a trade of jokes. When that time comes, you will answer to all three of us."
He raised his hands in surrender for the third time that aeon.
"Very well," he agreed. "For now, we watch his coins, not his heart."
Down below, in Uyyalawada, a boy snored softly, one hand still loosely curled as if holding an invisible measure.
Salt had poured through that hand today.
One day, power, information, and destiny would too.
For now, the first trade arc had closed:
A single coin had refused to sleep—
and in waking it,
a future king had taken his first step
toward building an empire of grain, gold, and hidden blades.