The WhitescapeThe Whitescape always loved writing and that’s the primary reason for the existence of her blog. She has shaped her world and the blog according the developments in the vagaries of her own life. She is obsessed about movies. Appreciation for her writings gives her a better high than vodka. She dreams to give away autographed copies of her authored books to her fans. She can be contacted via her Facebook page too.
I was born a five hundred rupee note at the Currency Note Press at Nasik on October 2, 2000. I was not always like you see me now, all laminated. Lamination has kind of immortalised me for a bit, but the things with the immortality is that it comes with a price. The price being, my loss of, freedom. Sure, many people come, see me on my owner’s table and enquire about me. It is wonderful narrating my story, I love the attention, but there are days that I rancour my immortality which has been purchased at the price of life itself. Every inch of my laminated body itches to feel the touch of the breeze, get soaked in the rain, feel the affection of the human touch.
Getting back to my story, from the press I was herded with many of my clone brothers and sisters to the Reserve Bank of India. From there many of my siblings and I were sent to the State Bank of India. I lay there for many days awaiting my fate. On November 15, 2000 a hand unceremoniously picked me up out of the box and placed me on the counter along with 99 of my siblings who were in the bundle with me. I was on the top so I could see. The lady in the cashier cubicle moistured her finger with her spittle and then proceeded with this same finger to count all of us. It was a humiliating experience. Here I was all shiny and new and this lady had laid her dirty wet finger on me.
Before I could
apprehend what was happening she finished counting us and she shoved the bundle
outside her counter, I now found myself in the hands of a new man. Once again
my siblings and I had to succumb to the spit experience. Once he was sure all
100 of us were in the bundle he puts us into a big black bag. We jostled in the
bag with brothers from the 50 rupee league. Eventually we were removed from the
bag and the pin that kept us together was removed, that hurt, and we were all
given away.
I was given away by
my owner Mr. Kiwasra, the money lender to a lady who had come to borrow money
from him. The lady Kusum touched me to her forehead and then went to market.
There she traded me for 3 kachori’s and 250grams of jalebi. This was the second
assault on my senses. The mithai wala’s oily sweet hands left an imprint on me
forever. My right side was now stained. There was no time to mourn my violation
for the mithai wala picked me up and offered me as a change to my next owner Mr
Sirwani. Mr. Sirwani seemed worried that I was stained and laid me inside his
novel. Soon the oil from my back was transferred to the pages of the book. I
felt a bit better. When he reached home, Mr. Sirwani took a pen and wrote
across my chest, ‘To Suhail with love,
may you be always rewarded for your work’, put me in an envelope and gifted
me to his son, my current owner, in exchange for having done some important
errands for him.
I was Suhail’s first
earning. He was so happy he hugged and kissed me to his chest and promised
never to part with me. Suhail my master has gone onto build up many of my
brothers and sisters but he has never parted with me from the past 12years. He
has laminated me and placed me here on his table and shows me off with pleasure.
I remind him of a lot of things, his bond with his father, his first earnings
and the beginning of his liberty. Suhail’s children sometimes come into the
study and look at me awe. I have earned a place of pride in this family which I
believe is now my own. It makes losing my independence seems somewhat meaningful.
