The sun had climbed higher into the sky, casting dappled light through the mango trees as Veerendra walked slowly back toward the house. His bare feet brushed against the dry leaves scattered along the path, but his mind was racing far ahead.
He had awakened not just into his younger body—but into a sharper, more powerful version of himself. His memory felt crystalline, capable of recalling even the most trivial details of his past life. Conversations, market trends, obscure names, even the scent of places long forgotten—all returned with startling clarity. And his body, though small, felt stronger, more agile. Was this the gift of rebirth? he wondered. A fusion of youth and wisdom?
His first instinct had been to think of cryptocurrency. He remembered the early days of Bitcoin—how in 2009 and 2010, it was worth mere cents. But in Rampachodavaram, where even basic internet access was a luxury, the idea felt like a distant dream. He had no computer, no modem, no way to mine or trade. That path was closed—for now.
So he turned his thoughts to the land. To the forests.
Rampachodavaram was rich in forest produce—medicinal herbs, tamarind, honey, bamboo, and rare roots that fetched high prices in urban markets. He remembered how traders from cities would pay exorbitant rates for these goods, while locals earned scraps. But there was a catch: selling forest products was illegal for civilians. Only government-approved contractors could trade them, and the current contractor—FCC (Forest Collection Consortium)—was a half-government, half-private entity running at a loss.
What if we took that contract? Veerendra thought. What if my father left his teaching job and became a forest goods subcontractor? We could collect, process, and sell directly to towns like Rajahmundry or Vizianagaram. The margins would be huge.
But the idea came with a wall: he couldn't reveal his rebirth. Not to his father, not to anyone. He had to convince them using logic, not prophecy.
As he reached the house, the scent of boiling dal and wood smoke greeted him. Inside, his grandmother sat on a woven mat, slicing vegetables with practiced ease. Her silver hair was tied in a bun, her sari faded but neat. She was from a higher-caste family, educated, dignified, and sharp-minded. Her brother, Ramanayya, was a regional chief in the forest department—a connection Veerendra had overlooked in his past life.
Seeing her, a new idea bloomed.
If I can convince her, she might speak to her brother. He could help us get the contract.
Veerendra walked over and sat beside her, picking up a folded newspaper lying nearby. It listed agricultural trends across Indian states—what crops were grown, what prices they fetched, and which regions were booming. He opened it and pointed to a section on forest produce in Madhya Pradesh and Kerala.
"Grandma," he said, "can you read this for me? I want to know what other states grow."
She smiled, pleased by his curiosity. "Of course, Veeru. You're finally taking interest in something other than your stories."
As she read aloud, Veerendra listened intently—not just to the words, but to her tone, her reactions. She paused at a line about tribal cooperatives in Chhattisgarh earning profits through forest produce. Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
"Why don't we do something like this?" Veerendra asked, feigning innocence. "We have forests too. And you said Granduncle Ramanayya knows all about this."
She looked at him, surprised. "You're thinking like a grown-up today."
He shrugged. "Just curious."
But inside, his mind was already building the blueprint. He would plant the idea in her heart, let it grow. She would speak to his father, perhaps even to Ramanayya. And slowly, the wheels would turn.
This was his first move. Not bold. Not loud. But precise.
The seed had been sown.