Sleeping Money

Suresh’s father had built the factory with his own hands.

Twenty-two years. A rented shed in Ludhiana that became a proper building, then a second floor, then a small yard for loading. Three workers became thirty. The family had never been rich, but they had never been afraid.

When Suresh inherited it at thirty-four, he wanted to honor what his father had built. And he wanted more.

The expansion would double capacity. The bank would lend what he needed. His accountant sat across from him and went quiet.

“What if something goes wrong?”

“I’ve planned for everything,” Suresh said.

“You cannot plan for everything,” his accountant said. “That is exactly the point.”

Suresh signed anyway.

Eight months later, his largest buyer lost a European contract and needed ninety days before they could pay. They were apologetic. It wasn’t personal.

It didn’t matter. Suresh had ninety-one days of oxygen left.

He sold a machine to make payroll. Then another. Production slowed. Buyers left. On the day he handed the keys back to the bank, he walked through the factory floor one last time. He could still see where his father had laid the first bricks.

Suresh’s father had always kept three months of cash in reserve. Never touched it. Never explained it. He called it sleeping money. Suresh had kept the same amount. But the business was twice the size now. It covered sixty days, not ninety.

Warren Buffett, who has never borrowed beyond what he could easily repay, not once in sixty years, describes it this way:

Never drive a 9,800 pound truck over a bridge with a 10,000 pound capacity. Go find the bridge with a 15,000 pound capacity.

Suresh understood now what both men had known all along.

Every Sunday, one story. The kind that changes how you decide.

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