The sun of Atreyapuram had barely risen high when Dilli's "mission of the day" began. The little tycoon, who only yesterday was chewing chocolates and demanding cricket bats, now carried with him a bundle that could rival any temple priest's offerings: gold coins, betel leaves, areca nuts, turmeric powder, kumkum, and bananas neatly tied together as Tamboolam.
Beside him walked his father, Gadhiraju Prasadaraju, still not sure whether he was escorting his son or a reincarnated village swamiji in half-pants.
"Pedhoda… what circus are you planning today?" his father muttered.
"You'll see, Nanna," replied Dilli, puffing out his little chest. "It's called… investment returns."
Stop One: The President's House
They entered the grand tiled house of Village President Parvathi. She adored Gadhiraju's loyalty in politics, so she welcomed them warmly.
Dilli, without wasting a second, ran to touch her feet and her husband Mudunuri Ramaraju's feet. "Grandma, Grandpa, bless me," he said, serious as a monk.
Both blinked. "Ayyo, what happened to this boy?"
Before anyone could answer, Dilli brought out the Tamboolam and a glittering gold coin, presenting it like a mini businessman striking a deal. "This is my respect. Now, I will tell you my plans…"
With folded hands, he narrated about investments, demat accounts, and his great-grandpa's support. His father covered his face, ready to drag the boy away. But then Parvathi, emotional at the thought of a grandson she never had, went inside and returned with a neat stack of fifty-rupee notes—a total of ₹5,000.
Dilli snatched it with lightning speed. "Thanks, Grandma!" he said, stuffing it into his pocket.
Prasadaraju's face turned red. He opened his mouth to scold, but Dilli turned with puppy eyes and asked, "Dad… can't grandma give money to a boy who's the age of her grandson?"
The room froze. Tears welled up in Parvathi's eyes. Before anyone could blink, she rushed inside again and returned with another bundle—this time hundreds, making it ₹10,000 more. She hugged Dilli tight, whispering, "From now on, you're my grandson."
Dilli, seizing the moment, planted a kiss on her cheek and whispered back, "Thanks, Grandma!"
Even the stone-hearted Mudunuri Ramaraju had to cough to hide his smile.
The Conning Yatra Continues
From there, the father-son duo made rounds like politicians before elections:
At Chiluvuri Ramakrishnam Raju and Varalakshmi's home, Dilli repeated his performance—feet-touching, Tamboolam gifting, gold coin offering, and solemn speeches about agriculture and stock markets. Result? ₹5,000 neatly folded into his hands.
At PS Raju's home, another tearful blessing and a similar "donation."
Vegesna Ramakrishnam Raju, the NRI, laughed loudly and said, "This kid talks better business than half of Wall Street!" before slipping him ₹10,000.
The Pathapati Builders, worried they'd look stingy compared to others, offered ₹5,000.
Namburi Krishnam Raju handed over ₹3,000, muttering, "This boy will either become a Prime Minister or a don."
Finally, the miserly but secretly softhearted Sathipandu Raju—rumored to count even coins twice—coughed and reluctantly produced ₹2,000 after Dilli gifted him Tamboolam with exaggerated respect.
By the time they were done, Dilli had collected ₹15,000 cash directly from gold-coin Tamboolams.
Silver & Steel Magic
Dilli wasn't done yet. From his bag emerged 100 silver coins and 200 stainless steel plates.
"Tamboolam is tradition, but return gifts are business," Dilli explained seriously, while his father groaned.
Sure enough, for every silver coin he gave, he earned back almost ₹10,000 in cash. The steel plates caused even more laughter—"Are we running a canteen or what?" villagers joked—but together fetched ₹5,000 in returns.
The Grand Total
By evening, little Dilli marched into the State Bank of India, Atreyapuram branch like a victorious king. The manager almost saluted the boy when he deposited ₹45,000 in one shot. His account now stood at a proud ₹1,95,000.
Prasadaraju shook his head, muttering, "I gave birth to a businessman, not a son."
Meanwhile, Dilli leaned back on the bank chair with a smug smile, thinking, "And they said kids only waste money on chocolates and cricket bat".