The room stayed quiet for a moment after the offer was made.
Mr. Nagaraju looked at his brothers. There was a brief, silent exchange between them—no words, just understanding. They all knew this was a fair middle ground.
Before the elder brother could respond, the aged man turned slightly and looked at his son, who had been sitting quietly till now, observing everything.
"What do you say?" he asked him.
The son straightened up a little and spoke with clarity.
"I'm ready," he said. "We can take it for five and a half lakh for the land… and fifty thousand for the trees."
All eyes shifted towards him.
It was a firm decision.
The elder brother nodded slowly, then looked at Mr. Nagaraju. Seeing no objection from anyone, he finally spoke:
"Okay… we agree."
The tension in the room eased instantly.
A few smiles appeared, and the atmosphere softened. What started as a discussion had now turned into a settled deal.
The aged man seemed satisfied, but there was a quiet pride in his eyes as he looked at his son—it was now his responsibility, his investment.
Mr. Nagaraju and his brothers felt a sense of closure. The land, which had been part of their past, was now being handed over with mutual understanding and respect.
The deal wasn't just about money—it was about trust, familiarity, and keeping it within known hands.
And just like that, the decision was made.
Outside, the children continued playing, their laughter echoing through the open space, untouched by the decisions being made inside.
But Akshatha stood still, lost in her own thoughts.
She was confused.
The system had already told her something she couldn't ignore—that her father carried memories from a past life. And in those memories, there was a strong desire… to return to a peaceful place, to settle down away from the chaos of the city.
A place like this.
The very land they had just sold.
That thought didn't sit well with her.
If her father truly wanted that kind of life someday, then why had things turned out this way? Why sell something that could have become their future?
She didn't have answers.
Only questions.
Inside the house, the discussion had taken another turn.
Mr. Nagaraju stood up slightly and addressed his brothers in front of everyone. His tone was clear and composed, but carried weight.
"As I said earlier," he began, "I want to give my share to my sister."
The room shifted its attention fully towards him.
"We have already spoken to a concerned person regarding this," he continued. "Our elder brother, since he was given for adoption, is not legally considered part of this property."
There was no emotion in his words—just facts.
"This land belonged to our mother after our father's death. And it was her wish to divide it equally among her children. So it has been divided into four parts for the children… and one part for her."
He paused, then clarified further.
"But since our third brother has decided not to sell his share and wants to keep it, the division will now be into four parts, not five."
Everyone listened carefully.
"I also want to make one thing clear," he added. "This decision was not forced on anyone. Each of us has chosen what we felt was right."
His voice softened slightly, but remained firm.
"If in the future, our third brother faces difficulty in managing or selling his land, or if any of us regret selling early… no one should blame him. It will be our own decision, our own responsibility."
The words settled heavily in the room.
People looked at each other, silently acknowledging the clarity and fairness in what he had said.
In a village setting, such matters often led to misunderstandings later. But by speaking openly—here, in front of everyone—he had made everything transparent.
It wasn't just about property anymore.
It was about responsibility, clarity, and protecting relationships from future conflict.
And those who watched understood one thing clearly—
As Akshatha stood there, lost in her thoughts, trying to understand why her father agreed to sell the land despite having memories of a past life, her father's own thoughts were moving in a completely different direction.
For him, this wasn't just about land.
It was about freedom.
He had seen enough—this kind of environment where people constantly compared, judged, or quietly pulled down those who tried to move ahead. To him, maintaining property in such a place meant staying connected to unnecessary complications, expectations, and emotional weight.
In his mind, it was simpler:
Cut it once… and move forward.
No attachments. No repeated conflicts.
As for land—he hadn't given up on that dream.
In fact, he had a clearer vision.
He didn't want this land.
He wanted his own land.
Something he would buy with his own earnings, at the right time. He believed that once his investments—especially in films—started giving returns, he would purchase land elsewhere and build a farmhouse the way he wanted.
A fresh start. On his own terms.
Akshatha, though young, had the ability to adapt anywhere. She could adjust, observe, and grow in any environment.
But her brother… was different.
Her father knew it.
He lacked discipline. He didn't have a sense of time. The crucial years—the "prime years" that shape a person—had already started slipping, and time never waits for anyone.
But there was one thing very clear about him—
He loved money.
Not casually… but deeply.
If something promised money, he would go after it. If something gave him image or recognition, he would chase that too.
And her father understood something important:
That same desire, if guided properly, could either build him… or destroy him.
That's why his thoughts were shifting towards direction and structure.
He had already started stepping into investments in films, seeing potential there—not just for money, but for exposure.
Initially, he thought of training his son through that environment.
But from his past life memory, he already knew—
Film sets don't build discipline.
They demand it.
And someone who doesn't have it… gets lost there.
He had seen it before.
Even in his past life, when he had once gone to a film shoot, he couldn't manage even a single day properly. That memory stayed with him as a lesson.
So now, he was thinking differently.
If discipline was the foundation his son lacked…
Then the answer was not films.
The answer was sports.
Because sports force routine.
They demand time sense.
They build patience, consistency, and control.
Things that money alone can never teach.
While Akshatha stood outside, confused between past-life knowledge and present decisions…
Her father, inside, had already moved ahead.
Not emotionally—but strategically.
For him, this wasn't about losing land.
It was about choosing the right path forward.