The Coin That Grew: A Folk Tale from Maharashtra
There was a time, long ago, when a Brahmin from Aat Pat Nagar set out to visit the King. He wasn’t desperate for help. He lived a simple life and managed fine. But he wanted to see whether the King, seated on his grand throne, truly understood what it meant to give.
The King, generous in the way that only the wealthy can afford to be, handed the Brahmin a pouch of coins — a full hundred rupees. The Brahmin didn’t even touch it.
“I don’t want what’s come easy,” he said. “Give me something you’ve earned yourself. Even one paisa, as long as it’s yours through effort.”
The King, not used to being questioned, looked confused. Still, something about the Brahmin’s calmness stuck with him. So, he asked the man to come back in two days.
The next morning, the King rose early, dressed in plain clothes, and slipped out of the palace gates. He walked to a nearby village where roadwork was underway. There, he asked the foreman if there was any labor to be done.
“Here,” the man said, handing him a pickaxe. “Dig. Carry earth. Earn your pay.”
The King wasn’t built for this kind of work. Naturally, his hands, soft from luxury, blistered quickly. His arms gave out after barely an hour. He sweated through his clothes, aching, humiliated. The workers nearby shook their heads, amused.
When the foreman tossed him a four-anna coin and told him to go rest, the King didn’t argue. He took the coin and walked back slowly, as if he were carrying something far more valuable than just four annas.
The next day, when the Brahmin returned, the King held out the coin.
“This,” he said, “I worked for.”
The Brahmin took it with a nod and returned home. In his backyard, near the well, he planted the coin under a Tulsi plant — not because he expected anything to happen, but rather because he believed in honoring effort.
Days passed. Then, something strange happened. A small shoot pushed through the soil. It grew fast. Soon enough, it had turned into a full tree — silver coins hanging from its branches like fruit.
Palace guards stumbled upon it one morning and ran to tell the King.
A tree, they said. Grown from a coin. Its leaves shimmer like rupees.
The King came rushing, eyes wide. Without hesitation, he reached for the tree, certain it belonged to him.
But the Brahmin stepped forward.
“You gave me four annas. You’re welcome to take back what you gave,” he said. “But this tree? This tree grew from that coin — here, in this soil. That part wasn’t yours.”
The King tried to tug at the trunk. Yet, it didn’t move. He looked around, unsure what to say.
And then he left — not with anger, but with a strange stillness, as if something had just settled inside him.
The Value of Money
It’s easy to mistake wealth for worth. However, this tale reminds us that the value of money doesn’t lie in its number. Instead, it lies in how it was earned.
The hundred rupees the King first offered meant nothing to the Brahmin. But a single coin, soaked in effort and sweat? That had weight. That had meaning.
Old Stories, Quiet Truths
Like many other folk tales of Maharashtra, this tale doesn’t shout its lesson. It shows you. Bit by bit. Through labor, humility, and the silence that follows real understanding.
At its heart, this is a moral story about honesty, yes. But it’s also about ownership. About where things come from. About how value builds quietly, beneath the surface, when no one’s watching.
Why It Still Speaks to Us
In the rush of today, we often measure worth by digits — salaries, rates, prices. But the value of hard work can’t be seen on paper. It’s something you feel in your back, your palms, your bones.
And the value of money? That comes through what it costs you — not what it buys.
The Brahmin didn’t need wealth. Likewise, the King didn’t need magic. What they needed, instead, was to understand what happens when giving is tied to doing — and when doing leaves behind something that grows.
Sometimes, what we plant comes back — not as gold, but as clarity.
Kalai is passionate about reading and reinterpreting folk tales from all over the country. Write to her at kalai.muse@gmail.com to know more about her.
Folk tale adopted and abridged from Internet Archive.