Tucked in a corner of my wallet.
One amongst the many of its breed.
Not commanding much respect,
Was a soiled fifty rupee currency!
Its crumpled edges and dirty looks;
The tear along the centre fold,
the worthiness was a worry
of this soiled fifty rupees currency.
Shopkeepers refused to accept,
Politely asking me to replace,
As if I was the one responsible
for printing this fifty rupees currency.
Get it changed at the bank,
Was the advice given by a friend.
He explained, a trifle apologetically,
His fear of acceptability of such dirty currency.
Then I saw this beggar boy,
with matted hair and dirt stuck on his face.
Tapping the window of the cars at the traffic light
He begged for a rupee by displaying his plight.
I called him over and handed him the note.
In soiled hands, I thrust the soiled note.
Am sure it will be of use to him, I thought.
Be it soiled, nevertheless, lot of worth.
For a second, the boy seemed to have been struck dumb.
Was it delight that made his senses go numb?
“I do not own a bank sir”, his silence he finally broke.
But can give a Ten in exchange for this soiled note!