Autobiography of a ten rupee note

Human life has many shade, so does an incarnated inhuman life. From joy to melancholy, from happiness to tragedy, from love to despair and even betrayal- all shades, white, blue and grey are witnessed in this significantly small but large life by every living and non-living matter. Some believe life is a journey full of experiences, some take it as a path of leisure and some as a means to pass it through to enter another phase of the life cycle, familiarly known as reincarnation.

My story is an account of freedom, of inbound and outbound locomotion; of a healthy trip transversely and longitudinally in a passive manner, of a tragic gait and a spell bounded viewpoint of the society, nation and globe with eyes those are unmarked. Eyes on my torso that the world cannot see, a heart with thumps that cannot be felt, feelings that not be judged, wrinkles that pass on to me with age that are rarely noticed, but apart all odds and evens I see, feel, judge and make judgments that remain buried with me within the two folds of my body. I am a ten rupee note- the one that is found in every wallet, closet, treasure and chest pocket of a human.

Unlike humans, I am not a standing sculpture of stunning height, rippling muscles and distinct looks, but a common currency note that has the same dimensions, shade and aspects. When I descend from the Currency Press in a pack of 100 siblings, I measure 5.4” x 2.45” with a unique serial number consisting eight numbers and an alphabet, in my case it is 01B 989076. This alone is my identification.

My journey: The joys

After I took birth from the Currency Note Press, Nasik, which is the oldest of the four presses from where my acquaintances originate and spread out in the entire nation. My commercial journey started form The State Bank of Nasik from where I was burrowed by a farmer who fancied buying a buffalo. With him I stayed for two days until he forwarded me along with other notes of higher denominations to a merchant. Life in the farmer’s hut was quiet mundane. He had two sons and a wife, all fragile and malnourished. There I lay in the depths of a tin canister wrapped up in saffron fabric under a pile of grains. My presence was too cautious for him, I was probably more dear to him than his children. He kept me hidden for two days until finally he handed over to this big fat merchant.

On his way back the merchant pulled me out of the bundle and traded me for a red pan. He along with the pan got a few coins back that he carelessly slipped into his trousers. On the wet counter, I lay amongst the pan leaves, tobacco and spuparis. Customers came and made their purchases frequently and he kept piling more notes on top of me. Finally, after half an hour he placed me in a small tin box. Another two days I spent there observing how mundane life was and eavesdropping on all his financial talks with his colleagues and traders. So far, I had only seen life to be dull and utterly money driven. I though was lighter in weight than any other belonging, but yet my presence was indispensable to everyone. This single thought gave me immense pleasure and haughtiness to proceed ahead.

The pains:

By now I had an assumption that I am a king amongst all materialistic things and assets. This belief would have more strengthened only if on that bright sunny day a big car would have not stopped at his shop for a taste of pan. With the pan the seller handed me to the man seated on the rear seat in white linens and a whole new journey began for me. From concern to neglect, from safe-keeping to careless-handling, I witnessed tortures in all form. The India of which I had an assumption that people care and adore money was shattered like a glass into a thousand pieces. I had entered the lives of the rich. On the first go he separated me from the stack of notes with higher denomination and kept me loose in his pocket. I was happy, thinking he would transact me for something soon, but ironically he completely forgot about me and threw me on a pile of dirty clothes with the jeans. For one entire month I stayed there, in complete ignorance and gloominess. I had lost hope of life and the world of commerce where I had repute. Accidentally, (I believe) he tossed me one day to the laundry and in I went into the washer. I twirled and twisted in the whirlpool of soapy foam choking and deforming of my looks with every passing second. With so tattered looks I lost all hope of ever being accepted again, but the spark in the eyes of the Dhobi on finding me passed some hope to me. He kept me in the open to dry with a stone on my chest to avoid my escape with the west winds. In less then ten minutes I dried under the scorching sun and he happily kept me in the folds of his diary.

From all the owners I had faced, he was the most influential, perhaps because he had the determination to trade me even in that withered condition. It was a pity even to my state that how, in just a span of less then quarter of an year I had become so weak and fragile, like the sons of the poor farmer who first owned me. I was rejected in two of the shops the dhobi tried trading me, but in the third attempt he covered me between two crisp notes and off I slipped into the cash box of the shopkeeper unobstructed. But, as he eyed my poor state and his slip of accepting me, he wailed in agony.

In no time I had become one that was nowhere wanted from the one that was once considered a treasure and was so safely placed in the depths of a tin canister hidden under the fresh harvest of the season. Imagine my fate being placed with the grains, handful of which was to be placed before the divines as thanksgiving.

The last breaths:

With each passing day my form deteriorated and chances of my acceptance at all counters kept growing thin. More gloom was added with the onset of monsoon and I shattered to pieces in a short period of time. On a day with heavy rain, I slipped off from the rear pocket of a teen. The mucky waves carried me with their current penetrating my remains with sticks, wrappers, cartons and plastic straws. For hours I flowed from north to south, trying my best to resist the flow and sail aside to the banks of the street-side-river, but to no avail. I finally rested on a clear ground where the waters led me. There I lay in an almost distorted form waiting for someone to come and pick me up, but only more water came and eventually I got buried in the warm mud.

There is no cremation here, no afterlife, no obituaries, no tomb of burial and no epitaphs; just pitch darkness and an unnoticed end. India of my origin will perhaps never notice my end, they’ll remain busy with their chores and here I am left to degrade in the soil.