The next morning brought more than sunlight.It brought a question that had haunted him since the day he woke up in this weak body.
What can I do now?
He wasn't Aarav Malhotra anymore—the man with private jets and lawyers at his fingertips.He was Ishaan—a teenager with no money, no connections, and barely enough food to make it through the day.
But… he had experience.A mind sharpened by business, negotiations, and failure.And more than anything—he had the will to try again.
His mother left early for work, gently brushing his hair back before stepping out.
"I packed some leftovers in the tiffin. Eat at school. Don't waste it," she said like always.
He nodded, watching her disappear down the stairs.
That tiffin… it was all she could manage after cleaning four houses.
He opened it—two dry rotis and leftover lentils.A voice in his mind whispered: You used to waste food worth thousands without thinking. And now, this feels like gold.
He didn't go to school that day.
Instead, he walked through narrow streets, dusty alleys, and past vendors selling vegetables on torn mats.
His eyes scanned every detail—not like a child, but like a man hunting for meaning.
He stopped at a tiny shop—a corner stall selling used books and magazines. The owner, a thin man with cracked glasses, looked up.
"Help you, kid?"
Ishaan looked at the messy stack of old, torn textbooks. Some outdated, others half-blank.
"Do you sell these every day?" he asked.
The man squinted. "Some days. Students from nearby schools come. Most want it cheap. Sometimes I repair them."
Ishaan picked up a book and flipped through the pages.
Then, like a switch flipping in his head, an idea formed.
"Sir, what if I help you organize these?Categorize by subject, fix torn ones, make a chart—cheap, but neat.We could even add a signboard outside. I can paint."
The man raised an eyebrow."You want to work here?"
"Just for a few hours. I don't want money right now. I want to learn how people buy."
The man laughed. "Strange boy. Who wants to work for free?"
Ishaan smiled faintly. "Someone who's not working for money, but for something bigger."
The man shrugged. "Fine. Start with that pile."
And so he did.
For the next two hours, Ishaan wiped dust off covers, fixed torn spines with fevicol, made a handmade "Math Section" label from cardboard.
People came and went. Some noticed the difference. Some didn't.But by noon, three kids came looking for used English guides.He handed them over with confidence and even offered a 5-rupee discount.
They smiled.They thanked him.
And in that moment, standing behind a pile of used books in a cramped stall—he felt more alive than he had in boardrooms worth billions.
Because this time, it wasn't about power.It was about progress.No titles. No glory.
Just a boy trying.
That evening, when he returned home, his mother looked surprised.
"You're smiling," she said.
He nodded and held out a packet.
"What's this?"
"Vegetables. Bought them with money from my first sale."
She blinked.
He added, "I fixed a broken book and sold it for 20 rupees."
Tears welled in her eyes—not because of the money.But because for the first time in years… her son had hope in his voice.
He didn't change the world today.He didn't win back his empire.But he did something more important—He took the first step. Without applause. Without glory.
And sometimes… that's how legends begin.