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Dodu was eight years old and wanted money badly. Since he was only eight, nobody took his financial worries seriously. (He wanted money for many things from getting a good stock of Chinese crackers for the coming Deepavali to buying a fancy pen-holder which his master at school was forcing on everybody at the point of the cane.) Dodu had no illusions about the generosity of his elders. They were notoriously deaf to requests. They jingled with coins when they moved about. And yet they were astonishingly niggardly. No elder would part with a single coin if he could help it.

Dodus office was his dealwood box with the lid open. He had his office hours between any hour and any other hour of the day, just as it suited his fancy. When he wanted to do a bit of serious thinking, he would open the lid and squat in his box amidst its contents. And certainly the contents were not so fragile as to be crushed by the weight of their owner. All the discarded things of the household found their way into this box. Every evening Dodu would make a circuit round the house to gather things, as he vaguely called them. The waste-paper basket in his fathers room gave him a steady supply of attractive book jackets, brown wrapping paper, large envelopes, charming catalogues, and pieces of brown thread. From under the window of his big brother, he picked up yellow packets of Gold Flake cigarettes, shining cigarette-foils, razor blades, cardboard boxes. When his sister was not at home, he opened her box and appropriated bits of coloured thread. Thus day by day the contents of his box increased. At the end of every week it overflowed, though it was the biggest box in the house. When it overflowed so much as to choke the space between its back and the wall and laid a trail across to the coat stand nearby, his father took notice. Dodu dreaded these periodic notice-takings of his father, which would always end in his emptying the box into the adjoining conservancy lane. The moment his fathers back was turned, Dodu would run round to the conservancy lance and pick out the things that he couldnt really afford to throw away. For a whole hour he would remain broken-hearted. But mails were arriving every day for his father, and his sister was always buying coloured thread, and his brother was a confirmed smoker. Dodu sat in his box and wondered what he could do for money. He wondered if he could try again a piece of business he had undertaken once before. His uncle from Madras had given him a rupee. Dodu had gone straight to the post office and bought twelve brown stamps, four green stamps, and four postcards. He then wrote in his scraggy hand a placard in Kannada, STAMPS FOR SALE, and hung it outside the window of his room, which opened on a side street. His chief customers were his elders at home (except his father), and they helped him to dispose of his postal commodities with a rapidity that astonished Dodu himself. He sold his goods with a profit of three pies over each item. People bought readily. Only one card was left in the end, and a neighbour came to buy it, and when Dodu quoted his price, he seemed outraged. He behaved like a madman and swore that he would report the matter to the police. Dodu was frightened. But all the same, he had enough courage left to ask what interest he should have in selling stamps and cards if it were not for the slight profit he got. And finally he parted with the last card for nothing in order to earn the goodwill of this noisy customer. The end was that Dodus dream of investing over and over again his rupee and spending the profit just as he pleased was shattered. He not only did not realize any profit but lost his capital as well. He could not point to any particular hole through which his capital had leaked out. It had just diffused and faded away. The elders bought on credit and put off paying him. They seemed to be suffering from a chronic lack of change. Dodu soon forgot all about the business and remained so until one afternoon someone walked into the house and demanded ten half-anna stamps and sixteen postcards. Father ordered the customer to go his way and he answered back that he certainly would have but for the announcement outside the window. Father tore the placard down, stamped on it, and shouted at Dodu. Dodu had forgotten to remove the STAMPS FOR SALE placard even after he had definitely closed down his business. That was the end of his business venture. Now, sitting in his box, he was unconsciously summing up the lessons of his past experience. Lesson number one was that he could not expect help or sympathy from his elders. Lesson number two: if his uncle should give him a rupee again, it was not to be wasted on foolish schemes. Buying and selling stamps was a silly idea. The buying side of it was probably all right. As for selling, it did not come within the definition of the term. It was more giving away for nothing. Looking out the window, he saw a man getting up a coconut tree. It was the Pests-Man. Dodu jumped out of his box and walked up to the coconut tree. Hi! he cried, looking up. How much do you earn every day?

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About two rupees! replied the man from the treetop.

Two rupees! Then you must be making a good lot of money! Dont you ever feel that you have too much of it? asked Dodu. The Pests-Man laughed and said something about wife and children at home. To Dodu this sum appeared immense: What could he not buy with all that money? Chinese crackers piled up and up to the very sky, and whole boxes full of sweets and pencils. Can I also earn? Dodu asked. Certainly, why not? replied the Pests-Man. But what a huge thing a coconut tree was! One found the two rupees on its top. How did one climb it? Here, coconut-man, he cried. Can that pest be found anywhere nearer? No, replied the coconut-man, it hides only on the top of the tree, and eats into the sap. I pluck it out and throw it down thus. And they pay me three annas per tree. He pulled out a few tender leaves and threw them down. Dodu picked up one. It was so attractive, long, tender, and pale. He casually scratched the pale surface with his thumb-nail. It made a mark, a clear mark, which turned red. He picked up another and wrote his name on it. It was equally wonderful. An idea struck him. He remembered an incident his brother had related to his mother. One of his brothers friends took a palmyra leaf with writings on it to some library and was paid for it. There was obviously money in it. The next morning he dropped a casual inquiry and made his brother repeat the whole incident. His brother said that the Director of Archeology, Dr.Iyengar, bought from someone a historical document written on palmyra leaf, for the Mysore Oriental Library. Dodu was very attentive when the librarys name, whereabouts, and the Directors name were mentioned. That afternoon he found his way to the library. His mind was already feasting on visions of a bumper Deepavali with no end of crackers. The yellow building with its big dome awed him. He doubted if he would be allowed to enter it. Outside a door a peon, with his right knee drawn up, was dozing. Dodu informed him in a respectful tone: I have come to see the master of this office on a very important business. The peon did not care. He was far too sleepy. Dodu entered the building and felt terribly small. Everything looked powerful and big. All round there were stone images and stone slabs with a lot of writings on them. Many pundits wrapped in gaudy shawls were poring over long palm-scrips. Things were so imposing that Dodu almost decided to run out. He could hear the beats of his own heart reverberating through the long silent hall. However he took courage in both hands and stood at an immense table, on the other side of which a mighty man wearing a turban and spectacles was sitting. Sir, Dodu called in a respectful whisper, lowering his voice to the point of silence. The mighty man did not hear. Sir, Dodu repeated. This time, as if to compensate, his voice was indecently loud. And Dodu felt awkward. The mighty man startled at the noise and looked for the source of that Sir, but could not locate it. Are you a doctor? the voice asked. The mighty man was puzzled by the disembodied voice. He searched with his eyes and found a clump of black hair level with the top of his table. He pushed back his chair and rose. He was surprised to see an urchin, wearing dirty coat and shorts, standing at the other end of the table. He was accustomed to receiving only dignified scholars and students as visitors. What are you doing here? he asked. I have come to see a doctor, replied Dodu. Are you a doctor? Yes. Who are you? Dodu climbed a chair and stood on it.

3) If you are a doctor, Dodu said, I have something interesting for you. I hear that you give a lot of money for palm leaves with writings on them. I hear that you pay a hundred rupees for such things. He pulled out of his pocket a few leaves crumpled into a ball and gave them to the doctor. This was a refreshing change for the doctor from his serious work. He examined with keen delight the scrips. On one he found the figures of a jug, a nose, a horse, and the name Dodu in Kannada. On another leaf he found these interesting statements in Kannada: The cow is a very tame animal. This is Ramas book. All these were copied from an old Kannada primer. The third bore on it in English: Cot. Ox. Fig. Pear. Baby. AAAABCFG The doctor found no difficulty in deciphering the inscriptions. He had succeeded with far more difficult ones carved on stones and copper-plates by kings who lived hundreds of years ago. Dodus handwriting big, gawky, and irregular as it was was, comparatively, a specimen of fine, recent calligraphy. When he finished, he paused and then burst into a hearty laugh. Dodu was offended. He said (to himself) that the doctor had no business to laugh at him. If he did not want the palm leaves he might quietly give them back. Dodu would go and try to sell them to some other doctor. But he did not express anything aloud. Who told you that I give money for these things? the doctor asked. Dodu repeated what he had heard from his brother. The doctors face was bright with amusement. You are a very nice boy, he said: you have brought just the thing I wanted. I will buy it. He took the palm leaves and gave Dodu all the copper coins he had in his pocket. He had about four annas. Four annas in copper look immense. Dodu received the money with delight. Whose son are you? asked the doctor. Dodu preferred not to answer. This transaction was a secret. I dont know, he replied innocently. My father goes to some office. What is your name? asked the doctor. Dodu paused and answered, Ramaswami. That was also a lie. His real name was Dodu at home and Lakshmana at school. Well Ramaswami, said the doctor, can you go home safely? Always walk on the footpath. There are too many motor cars on the roads. Dodu sat before an old woman who was selling edibles, and filled his pockets with fried groundnuts for three pies. He looked idly at the cows grazing in the green fields opposite, under the bright sun, and felt very happy and contented.