I sat among many of my brothers and sisters, my newly manufactured pale yellowish grey body shone brightly with Mahatma Gandhi's face engraved on my left side…yeah, my left, your right. But my identity was solely based on the bright emerald green carving at the centre of my thin body-‘500’ it read. I was proud to have the national emblem of India inscribed on the bottom corner. That was not the only engraving that indicated that I was from India. Both ‘RESERVE BANK OF INDIA’ and its translation in Hindi as ‘भारतीय रिज़र्व बैंक’ and the translation ‘पांच सौ’ stated that I belonged to India. I heard there were many fakes of my kind so to authenticate that I was real they etched a code consisting of a single digit number followed by two letters and lastly 6 reshuffled digits.

I was enthusiastic as I glanced at every new note placed in our box when an inmate in my box informed me, “Oye, did you know that you have a secret tattoo of Baapu on the left side?”

I precisely had known that I had a quiet vivid tattoo, why did this one think it was a secret, so I replied, “Yeah, I am well aware, this symbol of Baapu.”

He made a disappointed sound and then proceeded to say, “My left, your right.”

“Oh, yeah it gets confusing sometimes.” I recalled what others like myself looked like and remembered that my right side was supposed to be empty…blank.

Looking at my confused expression, the inmate explained, “It can only be seen in the Sun…the humans know it. If you are designed by a money launderer, you might not have a secret tattoo.” After a long pause, the inmate suggested, “Isn’t it so cool? It’s like we are on a secret mission to save the world from fake notes.”

 
I would say, she was rather a chatty person and knew some solid facts. She even enlightened me that my ancestors were manufactured in 1997; it was nearing the end of 2015, the year of my manufacturing.

Before I could even entertain the lady with some of my facts, we were harshly shuffled about. It felt like a roller coaster with no designated area. Later, we got separated and shipped in different carriers. We were indeed in a spy alternate reality as we got carefully hurled into a huge box and then all we knew was darkness for 7 hours straight, as per my calculation.

The panic-stricken voices of other notes around me made me lose calm too. I was afraid they’ll hand us over to our worst fear-the paper shredder-saying that we were abominations. I cried with the loudest yelps.

 
But, to my surprise, when I peeked through the top of the package and saw the enormous heading, IDBI Bank carved on the bare walls, ‘typical humans’ I thought to myself.

We were then transferred into another dark compartment; only this time, it smelled like ‘us’. As if notes like us had already been to that place. It seemed like I was greeted by eternal darkness then, nothing at first, just the whispers I hadn’t heard before. Weirdly, the voices weren’t fresh, benevolent, cheerful yet annoying as us newbies. The voices felt rather rusty, old and sardonic as if the notes were exhausted at this point. “Welcome” a sad, tired and hoarse voice called out.

‘OMG, it-it is a new discovery.’

Whispers and chatters of the newbies started everyone realised, ‘it’s not just 500, there were many more kind of notes.’ Though I must admit, my colour was the best amongst them all.

I flaunted my newly manufactured, paper-thin and bright body feeling a sense of superiority. Hey! Don’t just blame me, I was unaware of what future holds or what the future of humans holds for me and not only me, every single note that arrived with me flexed themselves.

An old beat up note with something peculiar, ‘1000’ written with ink on her side, that too, sideways, human's doing as i guessed it to be but they scoffed at us and said, “Greenies, your value in this world is not by how good you look sometimes, it is by how priced you are. I am 1000, you are 500. Even though I might be worn out and old, my weightage over you differs by a total of 500.”

 
“If humans were to pick between a 1000 and 500 note, they would definitely pick a 1000 note, no matter how shiny you might be.” Another voice called out.

“Aren’t humans dumb? If you are getting a total of 1500, then why pick up just one note? Pick up both of them.” Someone whispered to me. The glitter in their voice identified them as one of the newbies like me.

The following few days, all I heard were constant bickering of note gangs as they called themselves. But every day, they said, some notes were kidnapped and those were later replaced. This fact had scared me out of my right mind.

‘I would have been lucky if I would have been kidnapped from this torturing bank you know.’ I thought without realising that I had said it out loud. “They say that the kidnapped ones never return and also it is an ATM, not a bank.” An older note answered.

“Oh.” I said out of embarrassment.

It had been over a year and I was fed up of constant fights and missing cases and assumptions around. All I wanted to do was get out of this dark gloomy corner of so called ATM. Finally, our superior-the trees of nature-heard my request and fulfilled them, I was kidnapped, so free. So amazing, wide-ranging sunlight as a little lady showed her teeth as she counted me and the other notes. I still proudly remember that I was the 8th note in her hand.

It took me about 6 seconds to realise that even though I was out, they called this a kidnapping for a reason. No, put me back, lady, I know you seem friendly but AHHH! She opened a dusky brown bag and put us all in it. ‘AHH!’ I sounded like a kid but I knew it was right. Then, it took me some time to realise, it was not a torture but a pleasant kidnapping.

The other notes in her pocket and the coins which were so much mentioned in my previous captivity, all laughed around joyously and happily. Those cheerful voices instantly developed a feeling of calmness within my paper heart. 

I was reassured that I was kidnapped by a kind person. To my utter disbelief, they called it a ‘Transaction’. I was withdrawn, they told me. I will be the little lady’s property till I am paid to someone else. These norms were pretty new to me, but the little lady, who was called ‘Mummy’ by a pale kid presumably her son, took good care of me. good care=no torture or constant dispute on who’s superior.

So, ‘Mummy’ carried me around everywhere with her in her little purse. One day when we got back home after picking up, Ranjay, her son, from his cram classes; we heard yelling.

Every chatter around me in the bag stopped. The two voices were clearly heard. A manly voice roared, “It is all your fault…you raised him wrong. You gave in to him every time. He is spoilt now.”

“Drama…” a soft voice hissed beside me, “At my previous house, a similar incident happened, the lady there stayed silent and sobbed all night…poor lady.”

I assumed that history would repeat itself but this time the little lady didn’t endure these unfair blames, instead she snapped back, “Oh yeah? Where were you then when I was raising him wrong? You were busy in your late night office. I gave him everything I could and set him free unlike your orthodox thinking.”

“OHHHH” “Burn.” “Get him, lady.” Different notes cheered around me.

The fight lasted for a long time and even when whimpering, little lady delivered her points rather strongly. That’s when I realised when couples have differences in core values, it can cause serious problems. They may have major disagreements even on the topic of their own kid. Even so, I found myself unable to blame either of them for the nuisance caused. Everyone is said to grow up in different society with different morals and core values.

“If they can’t learn to adjust, marriage is just a contract.” A voice interrupted my thoughts.

There were heated discussions amongst all of us notes throughout the oddly quiet night and this time, I did take part in it as it amused me. I learnt a lot about marriages, human psychology and many scattered topics. The next few days, the house was dangerously silent, no talks, just frowns.

Within the next two days, I was paid in exchange for groceries. Now, I lie separated by black metal walls from other number notes (except 500) in the cash register box. They opened me roughly 30-40 times a day. Only the nights seemed peaceful cause there were no customers at that time.

I lost count of customers on my third day itself but I did learn to categorise them.

There were the no-talk customers which made it somewhat uncomfortable for the cashier, they were also called the stare-rs.

Then there were the friendly ones, they always greeted the cashier and as their name suggests, they were friendly and didn’t look down on them.

Lastly there were the ‘IDC’ ones who didn’t give a sh*t about the staff’s busy and hard day and make it more troublesome. They always want to see the manager.

One rich spoilt brat even got Nisha, an ex-employee fired just because Nisha didn’t have spare change and had to give out an éclair chocolate instead. I was clearly outraged that time.

One bright sunny day, I was exhausted from being exposed to the blinding tube-light on and off. When finally I was pulled out of the drawer, “Ma’am, you don’t have chillar(spare change)?” the shift guy asked.

“No bacha, I just used all up while buying vegetables.” The elderly lady replied in a sweet apologetic tone. A friendly one, I’d categorise her.

“No worries ma’am.” The guy smiled as he handed me over to the old lady. She placed me in her little purple hand-knitted purse and placed us under her petticoat, near her chubby waist. It was warm, I must admit.

She walked out of the store with me and two heavy bags. As soon as she stepped out, a kind young girl stepped up to help her carry those bags till her vehicle. I could see a man sitting in the front seat of the car she walked upto, “Dikra, this time I got everything we needed.” The guy in the front didn’t react much and it seemed as if he was embarrassed of the cheerful old lady.

“Who is that?” I asked to myself out loud.

“That’s Ardvan, Mrs. Wadia’s son. He is an engineer, you know? Indians are proud of their engineer and doctor sons…sometimes women too, changing times, changing times…advancement.” A voice informed me from the far back.

We all were carefully placed in Mrs. Wadia’s purse which was safely kept in her cupboard, but we surely could hear all of their conversations.

One late afternoon, Mrs. Wadia was just awake from her nap and I heard footsteps towards the cupboard when a comparatively younger voice interrupted her work, “I am going.”

“Oh Dikra, you dressed up so well, where are you going? To meet some girl, ha? Is she beautiful? Did someone finally manage to seep into your cold heart?” Mrs. Wadia hyped her son up as she joyously joked about.

This joke, though friendly, didn’t seem to be entertained by her son. He sounded disappointed and irritated by the lady instead.

“Ardvan, beta, I was just joking?”

“Why? When you have nothing left to do you always bring up a girl. What is wrong with you? I am just going to a gathering party but no, you won’t even let me peacefully enjoy my time. You always have to butt in. I am 27, I have my own life, choices which I can make myself, without you even bothering.”

Long silence followed and then loud thumping footsteps faded in some distance. Judging by the silence, I could tell that Mrs. Wadia was hurt badly.

“Her own son…how could he?” a voice questioned by me.

“She raised her dearly for 27 years.”

“She shared all the pain with him and gave her own happiness for it.”

This left me numb. I realised how much a parent sacrifices for their kid and how, with age, it all changes. And yet people say, age is just a number. Is it though?

Everything changed- from a young Ardvan clinging to his mother for attention to a grown up one, dying to push her away. He felt so embarrassed of her while she foolishly took care of every need of his. I pitied the poor lady, honestly. She needs a hug, some compassion and she needs to kick that son of hers and show him who’s the boss.

Instead, she took a few notes, alongside me, out of her purse and kept them in her son’s hand. “Your salary didn’t come in yet. You might need this, in front of your friends.”

If I had the ability to cry, I would have created  a lake of tears by now. Ladies and Gentlemen, that is a MOTHER'S LOVE. I long for that feeling now, humph! My manufacturer just threw me in a box. Mrs. Wadia gave me a long lasting life lesson and I’ll never forget it.

Ardvan took it and placed me in his back pocket as we travelled to his gathering party destination.

It was elaborately decorated with spectacular detailing like their Graduation hats hung around and thermocol wine bottles to indicate it was their first alumni meet. The party went rather smoothly.

Ardvan turned out to be a social butterfly and one of the popular guys around. Just before their gathering ended, one of his friends who had organized this whole gathering, cornered him and spoke urgently, “Man, do you happen you have spare for 2000?”

“Yeah-”

“I just need them urgently, I don’t have spare and I need to pay the caterer’s pending cost.”

“Chill man, I got you.”

This is how two notes of 200 and a total of six notes of 100 and I myself got exchanged for a single note of 2000.

‘Self worth’ I mocked myself.

We were then paid to the behind the scene people. I consider them a part of the whole team that had made the gathering successful. I was handed to a lady in her mid-30’s who was the cleaner there.

The next day, she woke up at 4am and obviously woke me up too along with her. Early in the morning, she took a local train and travelled 8 stations away to another city. She took an auto rikshaw from there and travelled to an enormous building. She was a tough lady, she even bargained the auto driver to charge her less. I looked upto her.

She worked tirelessly, jostling from one house to another and yet she had to listen to harsh words for coming in late sometimes.

She did all the work, a super lady. She washed the utensils, swept the floors, cleaned the bathrooms and even helped with laundry, she even cooked. Additional to that information, she did that in each house that she went to. She could be an inspirational person, I am telling you.

The next few months, I was shuffled around from one person to another. In these journey I came to learn a lot about humans. It felt like even if one of these roles disappeared from Earth then life would pause. That made me realise that however less a job must be paid for, the efforts and hard-work that each person inserts to achieve something in life are immeasurable. I came to embrace life, I started enjoying it. It filled me with energy to do something (unfortunately, I couldn’t).

Unexpectedly one day on 8th November, 2016, the Indian government announced demonetization of all ₹500 and ₹1000 notes. They were to be exchanged for new ₹500 and ₹2000 notes.

I thought someone would definitely pick me up and take me to the bank for exchange. It had been three whole days, 72hours but no one had even noticed me.

My fellow ₹500 notes were being taken but I seemed to be forgotten. I laid depressed in the dark cabinet drawer in a woman’s house. I felt anxious and panic stricken. I thought that my existence was going to be wiped away and yet I had to stay alive to see this day from a dark cabinet.

I stayed that was for a whole year. Every note had changed by then, I saw as I peeped through the small crack in the cabinet. My face had dropped, why was it just me? I asked myself this question almost every day. I grew depressed day by day when one day, someone opened the doors of this cabinet.

“Mummy.” A shrill voice called out. This voice wasn’t a mature one, it was a boy, maybe 12-13 years old; old enough to understand that I had been through a destruction level extinction. He snatched me away introducing me to my long lost friend-sunlight. He ran to his mother and flashed me in front of her. She examined me carefully and then exclaimed, “I must have forgotten to check the cabinet.”

‘Yes Lady, you indeed forgot.’ I angrily said but regrettably, no one can hear my vm
I was going to be torn apart and I knew it, I just had this ill feeling. Now, I was of no use, I didn’t hold any value since 2016 so it was just gonna be my dead end. To my utter disbelief, she crouched beside her son and suggested, “How about you place this dear note in your currency collection?”

“But isn’t it for rare currency or currency from another country.”

The woman tenderly took me in her hands and explained, “This note, now, is just as rare as any other. Ask Rahul, does he have this unique note with him? How about Sanjana? No, right?”

The little boy shook his head as he snatched me away from the lady and carried me to his room. He opened up a booklet like thing which had many new un-introduced currency notes, some weren’t even from India and the rest felt different, there was something uniquely different about them. He placed me into one of the empty sockets and flashed his smile at me.

It has been over two years and now I peacefully lie in Chintu’s currency collection as you all blaze your wonder struck eyes at me during his school projects. Chintu is a show-off, he always makes sure to introduce all of his notes.