Soon, Mr. Nagaraju invited a few men into the house. They were all from the same village—people who knew the family and had heard about the decision to sell the land and trees. Naturally, many were interested, so they had come for a discussion.
Among them was his own father-in-law, who was also keen on buying a portion of the land.
Everyone sat down, and after a few initial exchanges, Mr. Nagaraju spoke clearly and calmly:
"As you all know, we are settled in the city now, and our mother is also living with us. So we felt it would be better to sell the land at this stage."
He paused briefly, making sure everyone was following.
"But," he continued, "our third brother wants to keep a part of it. So there is no issue—one portion of the land will remain for him, and the rest will be sold."
The room grew thoughtful.
This wasn't just a business decision—it carried emotion, history, and family ties. The land wasn't merely property; it held memories. Still, practicality had brought them to this point.
The discussion was now open, with everyone considering their interest, but also respecting the family's decision.
Mr. Nagaraju then continued the discussion, speaking in a practical and straightforward tone:
"There are six trees on the field," he said, looking around at the group. "Our mother wants to sell them separately. So those who are interested in buying just the land—or both the land and the trees—can share your opinions."
He made sure everyone understood the flexibility.
"I've already checked the recent market rates," he added. "We are offering a reasonable price based on that. If anyone prefers to buy both the land and the trees together, that would be good for us as well."
The men listened carefully.
Some exchanged glances, mentally calculating the value—not just of the land, but also of the trees, which could bring their own returns. Others remained quiet, weighing their interest against their capacity.
It was no longer just a family matter—it had turned into a careful negotiation, where emotion and practicality stood side by side.
First, his father-in-law spoke, clearing his throat slightly before sharing his opinion.
"Well… the price seems a bit high, don't you think?" he said carefully, not wanting to sound too direct but still making his point clear.
For a moment, the room fell quiet.
Then the elder brother responded respectfully but firmly.
"Mava, no… the price is based on the recent sales in this area," he explained. "And this land is in a very good position. It already has trees, and the soil is strong—it won't get washed away even during heavy rains. If someone installs a borewell there, they can do very good agriculture and get good crops."
His tone carried both confidence and assurance.
As he spoke, a few men nodded in agreement. They knew the value of such land—its location, its soil strength, and its potential for farming.
What he said made sense.
Slowly, the discussion shifted. The hesitation about the price didn't disappear completely, but it was now balanced with a clearer understanding of the land's worth.
Then Mr. Nagaraju spoke again, this time explaining the deeper concern behind their decision:
"Mava, our main concern is the distance," he said calmly. "This place is too far for us to visit often. Because of that, we won't be able to actively take care of the land or grow crops properly."
He paused, letting his words settle.
"And the field is a bit isolated," he continued. "As we all know, we can't completely depend on others to manage it on our behalf. It becomes difficult to trust and monitor everything from far away."
His tone wasn't defensive—it was practical.
"So we thought it would be better to sell it," he concluded, making their situation clear to everyone present.
The room grew thoughtful again. This wasn't just about price anymore—it was about reality, responsibility, and what they could realistically manage.
An aged man, who had been quietly listening till then, finally spoke up:
"See," he began in a measured tone, "in this market, we can offer 5 lakh for the land… and 50 thousand for the trees."
His offer hung in the air, and a few heads turned, waiting for a response.
The elder brother replied almost immediately, his voice calm but firm:
"Look, we all know the land will go for more than that," he said. "For the land, it should be 6 lakh. As for the trees… I agree, 50 thousand is fine."
It was a clear counter.
The discussion had now shifted into proper negotiation—numbers were no longer just opinions, but positions. Some men nodded slightly, acknowledging that the elder brother's expectation wasn't unreasonable, especially considering the land's value.
The room grew attentive again, waiting to see who would respond next and where the final agreement would settle.
For a few seconds, no one spoke.
The air grew still as the men looked at each other, silently calculating, weighing the value against their own limits. The aged man leaned back slightly, rubbing his chin, thinking.
Then another man from the group spoke up.
"Six lakh is a bit too much," he said. "We understand the land is good… but considering the distance and that it's not being maintained regularly, we also have to take that risk."
A few others nodded in agreement.
Mr. Nagaraju didn't interrupt this time. He let them speak, watching how the discussion was shaping.
The elder brother responded again, but this time in a slightly softer tone.
"We understand your point," he said. "That's exactly why we are open about everything—the land, the trees, the condition. But the value is still there. It's not just about today, it's about what it can become."
There was a pause again.
Then the father-in-law spoke once more, trying to bring both sides closer.
"Okay… let's not stretch this too much," he said. "What if we settle somewhere in between?"
Everyone leaned in slightly.
"Five and a half for the land," he suggested, "and fifty thousand for the trees."
The number felt like a bridge.
Some of the men exchanged looks. It wasn't exactly what either side had asked for, but it was close enough to consider.
Mr. Nagaraju glanced at his brothers, silently seeking agreement. This wasn't just his decision—it belonged to all of them.
The elder brother didn't answer immediately this time.
He paused… thinking.
The final decision was now just a step away.