Prologue: Part 1
Before crypto, before mutual funds, before people started saying “asset allocation” on YouTube, we had our own investment class in S-Type, Adityapur.
The “City bus tickets”.
Small, rectangular, coloured paper. Worth almost nothing to adults. Worth everything to us.
A grown-up would finish the bus ride, crush the ticket, and throw it away.
We would pick it up like archaeologists discovering Harappa.
“Arre, Sakchi wala hai?”
“Bistupur ka de, main Station wala deta hoon.”
“Isme punch nahi hai — rare piece hai.”
“Do chhota ticket ke badle ek bada ticket.”
This was our NSE and BSE. Only difference: instead of bulls and bears, we had boys in half-pants and dusty knees.
The value of a ticket was decided by complicated financial logic known only to children. Colour mattered. Route mattered. Condition mattered. Whether the conductor had punched it properly mattered. If the ticket looked unusual, it automatically became “limited edition.”
Nobody taught us economics, but we understood demand and supply.
If everyone had Adityapur–Sakchi tickets, the price crashed.
If someone had a rare Bistupur or Station ticket, suddenly he became Harshad Mehta of S-Type.
The trading floor was usually the ground, school bag area, or someone’s verandah. There were no written contracts, but there were very serious negotiations.
“Kal pakka dega?”
“Haan re, mummy ke saath Sakchi ja raha hoon.”
“Jhooth bola toh batting nahi milega.”
That was enforceable law.
Looking back, those tickets were not just scraps of paper. They were proof that we had travelled beyond our small geography. In those days, distance was emotional. Adityapur to Sakchi was not just a route. It was an outing. Bistupur felt premium. Station felt far. Telco felt like another country.
A bus ticket said:
I went somewhere. I crossed the Khadkai bridge. I saw the city. I came back with evidence.
Maybe that is why we collected them. We were not collecting tickets. We were collecting range.
Today children collect screenshots, coins in games, skins, badges, likes, streaks, followers.
We collected paper rectangles from city buses.
And somehow, I feel our version was better. Because every ticket had dust, sweat, conductor ink, and a real journey attached to it.
In S-Type, Adityapur, childhood did not come with curated experiences. It came with found objects. A broken bat. A Hero pen refill. A comic with missing pages. A cycle bell. A matchbox label. A Leher 7up Crown. A bus ticket.
And from those useless things, we created a whole economy.
Maybe that is where the entrepreneur in me started.
Not in an MBA classroom.
Not in a startup pitch deck.
But on an Adityapur ground, trying to convince another boy that my slightly torn Sakchi ticket was worth two clean Gamahria tickets.
That was my first lesson in Investing.
Perceived value, boss. Perceived value.
This is very ingenuous Bhaskar!
Interesting Read