The Five Rupee Note

“Please give me the change in coins. I do not want currency notes.”

The friendly cashier at the bank was surprised at my strange request.

I had gone to the bank, that day, to get some small change in five Rupee denomination.

The cashier at the bank, where I had an account, was a very jovial and helpful person.

So, when I requested him to change my thousand rupee note into five rupees, he immediately obliged and handed me two packets of crisp, new currency notes of five rupee denominations.

“Last month we received new currency notes from our Head Office. I had saved it for valued customers like you” he said, beaming at me.

It is true that getting to see a five rupee note is a rarity, nowadays. But I shook my head vehemently and said that I preferred coins.

He seemed surprised at my strange choice.

“You see, the small change is for my daily use, paying auto and rickshaw wallahs. I loathe using new notes for such purposes. And anyway, I am not going to get any better service by paying them in new notes” I explained, lest the cashier considers me a weirdo.

The cashier shrugged his shoulders and handed me a bag of five Rupee coins amounting to a thousand rupees.

As I walked out of the bank carrying the heavy load of coins, I was forcefully reminded of an unpleasant incident that happened four decades back, but which nevertheless left a lasting scar in my mind. Whenever I come across a five rupee note, it reminds me of that bitter incident. People say time is a great healer. But for me, it has failed to dull the sting of bitterness.

It was in the late seventies when I had gone to Delhi to stay with my aunt, my father’s sister. My uncle had recently passed away and she was planning to shift to her hometown. I went there to help her with the move, on my father’s request.

I was about twenty years old. I had recently graduated and was pursuing higher studies to qualify as a professional accountant. As I could study from home, I did not have any problem in staying with my aunt for a month or even more.

My aunt was a nice person. She took great care of me and saw to it that I was able to study undisturbed. Every now and then, I had to accompany her to my late uncle’s office for processing pension-related papers. Also, there were other formalities connected to utilities like gas, telephone etc that she had to complete as she was moving. Not being well-versed in either Hindi or English, she required my help during such visits.

I enjoyed moving around Delhi as it was my first visit. But in a couple of weeks, I got bored. I started missing my regular friends’ circle.

My aunt understood my predicament and felt sorry for me. But she was helpless as there was no one of my age nearby to whom she could introduce me.

Then one morning, she woke me up with a hot cup of coffee and said beaming, “My boy, from tomorrow, you will no longer be bored. You are going to have a wonderful company for the next two weeks. You see, your uncle’s brother who is working in France now has been transferred to Australia. He and his family are shifting there. But, on their way, they are planning to spend some time with me. They have a daughter, who maybe 3-4 years younger to you. And, like yourself, she is new to Delhi. So, you two can go around the city and enjoy each other’s company.”

This news thrilled me, not only because I would have a company of my age, but also for the fact that I was intrigued to talk to someone who had lived in a foreign country.

Since my school days, I had been an avid reader of English fiction, both classic and modern. I was particularly fond of spy stories, in which the characters traveled around Europe and other exotic places. It had always been my desire to not only visit those places but also learn a few foreign languages as well.

They arrived the next morning. My aunt introduced me to them.

Uncle mumbled a brusque unsmiling ‘Hello’ at me and then went about unpacking his luggage. His wife smiled weakly at me. It seemed that she was suffering from jetlag. She excused herself and went to bed.

I now looked at the girl. She must have been in her mid-teens. She was, while not beautiful, very attractive, large dark eyes that held humour and mischief and a mouth that was ready to smile. The softness of adolescence had not yet sharpened into adulthood and her features retained a childlike innocence, as if on the threshold between child and woman.

She smiled warmly at me. But, being very shy, my words stuck in my throat. Finally, I managed to say, “Bonjour”. I had read this French way of greeting in many books. Also, as she had come from France, I wanted to show off. I wanted to impress her.

Upon hearing my greeting, she burst out laughing. I was embarrassed. I must have pronounced it wrong.

Sensing my embarrassment, she stopped laughing and came forward to shake my hand. She then said softly, “Hi there! Pleased to meet you.”

That day, after lunch, we sat down under the cool shade of a tree in my aunt’s garden. I was very eager to hear about her experiences of living in various countries. I learnt that as her father had been with the Foreign Service in the Government of India for many years, she had lived in different countries in Europe and Africa. I listened to her talk about those places with rapt attention. But her memory of the places she had lived in during early childhood was fuzzy, as she had only been a small child at the time. But she could recall living in Algiers for about three years before coming to Paris clearly and her account of life there was so interesting that I didn’t realise it was already late evening.

She went to bed early as jetlag caught up with her.

Next morning my aunt woke me up with my customary coffee in bed, saying, “Get up, my boy. It is 8 o’clock. The poor girl has been waiting for you to wake up since 6 o’clock. She is rearing to go out and explore Delhi.”

The girl came running to me and said, “Come, let us go out and have fun.”

My aunt’s residence was in the central part of Delhi. It was very close to the Parliament and the Official Residence of the President. It was a beautifully kept stretch of land, filled with verdant landscapes and blooming with seasonal flowers, a veritable tourist attraction, with a lot of gardens and boulevards.

I was overwhelmed by the posh locality but, I thought the girl might not be impressed by the poshness, as she lived in Paris and must be used to grander places.

We came out of the house and walked towards India Gate, the landmark of Central Delhi. Adjacent to India Gate there are beautiful lawns and small artificial lakes, maintained by an army of gardeners, with not a leaf or a flower out of place.

The girl was bubbling with excitement. Once inside the garden, she started running around delightedly, like a child, chasing butterflies and plucking the flowers. When I showed her the board that said ‘Do not pluck the flowers in the garden’, she winked at me, put her tongue out and giggled.

After some time, she became tired and wanted to sit down. We sat down on the beautiful green lawn.

I looked at her face and could not turn away. It was crimson red and there were small beads of perspiration on her forehead. Her face looked beautiful, like a half-bloomed rose, drenched with morning dew. I had never seen such a beautiful sight.

By that time, some of her enthusiasm started to rub off on me too. I was no longer feeling shy.

I remarked that she must be used to seeing much more beautiful locations in Paris, which after all is said to be the most beautiful city in Europe.

She let out a sigh and said, “Yeah! You may envy me for having lived in a beautiful city like Paris. But I did not have the freedom to go out alone in the city. My father thinks I am still a baby. My daily routine was going to school and coming back home. I did not have any close friends too. Our house was inside the embassy compound, a high-security zone. So, neither could I invite my school friends to my house nor could I go to theirs. I felt very lonely, like a princess in a golden cage.”

I now felt really sorry for her. She reminded me of Princess Ann from the film ‘Roman Holiday’.

Aloud I said, “So, let me make your time here enjoyable. We will have loads of fun.”

She smiled and hugged me. I was surprised but enjoyed feeling the warmth of her body.

For the next two days, we roamed around the India Gate area.

On the fourth day, we walked down Akbar Road and Jan Path, two arterial roads in Central Delhi. These roads, lined with colonial bungalows and gardens, are a beautiful sight.

But the best part was the Jamun (Indian Blackberry) trees on both sides of the street. It was July and, the trees were ripe with fruits. Lots of the ripe fruits lay scattered on the pavement too. Passersby hardly paid any attention to them and went trampling on them. The crushed fruits revealed the bright pink flesh inside that was in striking contrast to the outer black skin.

“What is this fruit?” she asked me, her eyes filled with excitement.

“They are called Jamun, the Indian blackberry. They are delicious,” I said.

That was enough for her. Like a street urchin, she knelt down on the pavement and started collecting the fruits lying on the ground. She then started eating them, exclaiming with her mouth full, ‘Yummy’, while spitting out the seeds as far as they would go. I began to worry that passersby might get hit by a seed or two.

I tried to stop her by saying, “You might catch an infection. You can eat after washing the fruits.”

“Oh! Stop fussing,” she said with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes, two jamuns stuffed in her mouth, making her cheeks look swollen.

In order to stop her from eating the fruits lying on the pavement, I said that I would climb the tree and pick some clean ones.

She nodded happily and sat on the pavement as I climbed up a tree and started plucking the ripe fruits. She then proceeded to eat them to her heart’s content. And before I could stop her, she put some fruits in the pocket of the white trousers that she was wearing.

Needless to say, her mother was very cross with her when she saw the deep violet stains on her clothes. I silently crept out, lest I got a scolding too.

Next morning, I woke up with a start, feeling a stinging pain in my leg. As I opened my eyes, I found it was still dark. Then I saw the girl sitting on my bed, near my feet.

“Get up, lazybones. I had to pinch you at least three times to wake you up. Get ready quickly. We have to collect Jamuns. It is already 5 o’clock.”

We slipped out of the house silently. My aunt saw us going out but she waved us on with a smile.

Once we reached Ashok Road, the girl made me climb up a Jamun tree, imperiously pointing out the berries she wanted picked, and waited impatiently to feast on them.

Slowly I started enjoying these early morning walks with her even though I hated to get up early.

In fact, I enjoyed being with her every moment. I started to feel attracted to her. But I did not know if she too was attracted to me.

Every day, as we all sat down at the dining table for lunch or dinner, she would narrate in detail all the fun we had had during the day. She always insisted on sitting next to me and would push and poke me affectionately as she talked. Her parents did not show any reaction to this. But my aunt seemed happy that I was having a good time.

Throughout the day she never left my side. Whenever I went out on some errands that my aunt sent me, she insisted on coming along.

We had some hilarious moments too. One day we went to the local chemist to get some medicines for her mother.

The chemist after doing some search of his stock said, pointing at the prescription, “I have these two medicines available. But I could not find this one. I have never heard of it before.”

We had a great laugh when we saw the item that he was referring to.

He was pointing at the name of her mother, Visalakshi. The chemist, a North Indian who must have never come across such a traditional South Indian name, thought it to be the name of a medicine.

As she recounted the tale at the dining table, we started laughing once again till tears were streaming down our cheeks. My aunt also joined in our mirth. Even her mother smiled. But her father remained dour with his gaze fixed on me. I sensed that he did not like my getting friendly with his daughter. But he did not say anything.

The afternoons were hot. So we stayed at home and I entertained her by recounting my experiences from my trips around the country. She listened in awe, as I narrated the adventures that I had had during trekking trips in the Himalayas. Since I was an avid and frequent trekker, right from my school days and pursued my passion through college as well with my friends, I had a lot of wonderful experiences to talk about. Being young and impressionable myself, and infatuated as well, I embellished my accounts suitably, to ensure her open-mouthed admiration and wonder.

In the evenings, we usually went out to have a glass of juice at the shop on the street corner.

But one day, I think it was the tenth day after her arrival, she insisted on buying one glass of juice only.

She then asked the shopkeeper for two straws and then said with a twinkle in her eyes, “Let us play a fun game. I will put both these straws in the glass. When I say ready, we will start drinking. Let us see who can drink more.”

It was really fun. I really pulled hard through the straw. We were both coughing and laughing when the glass became empty. We were creating a racket as we drew air through the straws. Everyone around was looking at us. But we did not care.

In the night as I lay thinking about the silly game we had played, it suddenly struck me what a fool I had been. I was just taking it to be only a game. But what if the girl had somehow realised that I was secretly nursing a crush on her and what if the drinking game was a subtle hint from her indicating that she too had a crush on me. I had seen in many films where lovers would drink from one glass with their eyes fixed on each other in a most romantic way.

I woke up with my heart beating furiously, my sleep lost for the night. I decided that I must dare and confess my love to her. Otherwise, she might take me for a coward and lose interest.

Our drinking game continued for the next couple of days. But somehow I could not give voice to the words that were in my heart.

Then came the penultimate day of their stay. After dinner, we were sitting on the lawn of my aunt’s house. Her parents were inside, busy packing for their journey the next morning and my aunt was helping them.

There was a cool breeze blowing and, there were bright stars in the sky. But the mood was rather sombre. We both knew that within a few hours we would have to part each other.

I knew I should not let go of this special moment with her without confessing my love.

Just as I was about to open my mouth, she turned to me and said, “Oh! I had so much fun with you. I do not know how I am going to part with you. ”

Then she opened her pocket notebook and asked me to write my address in it.

Then she said, “Why don’t you come to Australia and stay with us? You can continue your studies or find some job there. Oh, please do come. I will ask my father to talk to your parents. As soon as I reach Australia, I will write to you. We will stay in touch through letters, till you come over!”

Then she hugged me tightly and, I too did the same. Moments passed. But I did not want to let go of her. Then I thought, it was now or never. I had to confess my love to her. I then picked up all my courage. I was just about to speak when I heard a movement behind me.

When we turned back, we saw her father standing there and, glaring at his daughter. I did not know how long he had been there. I became nervous.

He said gruffly to her, ignoring me, “You should be in bed now. We have an early morning train to catch”.

With that, he literally dragged her inside without even a glance at me.

I did not dare to go into the house immediately, scared that I would get a dressing-down for that incident.

When I went in a little later, I saw the lights were still on in their room. I could hear her parents’ voices, but not loud enough to cause any concern. My aunt also appeared normal. I breathed a sigh of relief.

Next morning was very hectic as their train to Chennai was scheduled to depart at 6 a.m. They were planning to catch their flight to Australia from there after spending a couple of days in their hometown.

They had quite a lot of luggage. My aunt’s driver and I helped in arranging them in the boot of the car.

All the time I could get only one glance at the girl. There was a lump in my throat as my eyes met hers. I smiled weakly at her. She too gave me a sad smile. The parting must be as sad for her as it was for me. But then I thought, at least she has my address. I consoled myself that she would definitely write to me and then everything would be all right.

The journey to the railway station was quiet. When we arrived at the station, it was already 5.45 a.m. So, collecting all the luggage, the driver and I hurried towards the platform.

By the time they got settled in their seats, it was 5.55 a.m.

The girl’s father after doing a count of the luggage nodded his head satisfactorily.

He then took out his wallet and handed two crisp new five rupee notes to the driver, who accepted them with a big smile.

I was trying to steal a last glance at the girl. She was looking out of the window. It looked to me as if her body were shaking. I thought the poor girl could not bear parting from me.

Just then I hear the girl’s father calling my attention. It was the first time he had used my name.

When I turned, I saw his hand extended towards me. I was happy that at least while parting he chose to acknowledge my presence and was offering to shake my hand.

Not wanting to let go of this chance to accept his friendly gesture, I eagerly extended my hand to shake his. But I almost recoiled with shock when I saw, in his extended hand a brand new five rupee note.

He said, “Take this, boy. You were a good guide for my girl, showing her around the city and made her stay very enjoyable.”

He was grinning as if taunting me.

My whole world came crashing down at such an act which I found thoroughly humiliating.

My eyes went automatically to the girl’s face. She was looking horror-stricken at her father. She seemed too embarrassed to even look at me.

She started to say something but, her father asked her sternly to keep quiet. 

I was shocked. If he had shouted at me or forbidden me from talking to his daughter or even complained to my aunt, I would not have bothered. Because then I would have felt proud that at least he had considered me an adversary worthy of his attention. But now I felt thoroughly beaten.

In one masterstroke, he had conveyed that I was nothing but an errand boy as far his family was concerned.

But then I thought after all he was a diplomat. He must have had experience in crushing acts of rebellion smoothly, with a cool head.

Crushing a crush between two youngsters was simply an act of a diplomatic operation for him.

I came out of the compartment, too shocked to realise where I was going, too hurt and burning with waves of humiliation, shame, anger and loss and most of all, disillusionment. I gathered myself, however, and walked with my spine erect and never looked back.

The girl never wrote to me. Maybe her father used some ruse to make her forget me. After all, she was then just a teenager.

Over the years the memories of her faded, and so did my feelings for her. But whenever I see a five rupee note, I get the same sense of bitterness and shame that I felt four decades back.

THE END