You may not know me personally, but you've seen enough like me to know what I'm like. They say the likes of me are now few and far between. Some even say that I'm as good as obsolete in most parts of the country. Does it bother me? Should it bother me? After all, I have everything that a man can possibly need to spend the rest of his life in luxury: a spacious leather couch, a remote-controlled LCD TV and cool air-conditioning. But then again, I am not really a man. So, what am I?
Cacophonous and lustrous, I am the coin. Yet, I'm no ordinary coin. I'm the fifty-paisa coin, the veritable atthanni. Like all others of my kind, I have no name. And like all others of my kind, I too have a story, only if you ever cared to listen.
I was born in the early months of 1992, in an India which was suddenly talking of change (no pun intended), liberalization and "opening up". I do not remember much of my stay at the Alipore Mint in Calcutta (where I was born) or at the RBI. But what I do remember is that those were very different times. There was this quiet sense of optimism that I could feel as soon as I smelled the fresh air, a feeling not very different from 'we can do it!'.
It took me a while to get used to the ways of the world. Back at the Mint, my brothers had told me that people outside are going to value me and keep me safely, for, I was something important. Yet, for all that importance, I failed to understand why these very humans would frequently launch me into the air with a flick of their thumb. The toss, as it was called. In those moments, time, space and gravity would all cease to exist for me. Spinning like a top on steroids, all I would be concerned about is how this was going to end. Sometimes it would be in the soft, warm cushion of a cupped palm, at other times, it would be cold, hard floor. So much for helping these gutless, indecisive humans choose.
Then there was that impish little kid (Ingit, I think the devil was called). Buoyed by the disappearing act the five and ten paise kind pulled off when they went swimming in acid, this kid drowned me in what seemed like an ocean of Industrial Muriatic Acid for one whole night, expecting to see me gone the next day. But, little did he know that I was made of sterner stuff. You should've seen his face when he dipped his fingers into the acid to pull me out next day- it was like reality came crashing down on him.
Of course, I could go on and on about human idiosyncrasies, but, given my audience, I get a feeling that it may not be well received. So, I'll move on. The next highlight in my history occurred sometime last year. I had been comfortably lounging around in somebody's shirt pocket when, in the middle of night, thanks to my bearer's constant moving, I was pushed hither-tither, as though in a stampede. And then, I fell. I fell for what seemed like eternity, in complete darkness, before I touched down with a soft belly-landing. Dazed, I looked all around me. It was pitch black, save for some light at a distance, almost like that at the end of a tunnel. Long years of eavesdropping on my human bearers had made me certain that I was definitely in Heaven.
But, as looked more closely into the brightness, I could make out a face, a familiar face! In an instant, it came to me, that was Rakhi Sawant! No sooner had I thought of her name that the absurdity of it all began to dawn on me- if this is Heaven, that can't be Rakhi Sawant and if that is Rakhi Sawant, this can't be Heaven. Besides, the idea of Heaven is preposterous, almost blasphemous! Coins don't go to Heaven, cons do, I thought. A persistent snore somewhere in the vicinity and a wafting melody of the Vodafone commercial made me realize that I had slid and fallen into the crevice between two adjoining couch 'seats'. And the light at the distance was not a God, but a million Liquid Crystal Displays.
To speak nothing about my new benefactors' sense of cleanliness, the couch is where I have been ever since that fateful night. It was difficult at first, what with all the loneliness, darkness and lack of action. But, I have grown to like it ever since. It affords me the comfort and (occasional) serenity that farts my age need. A good time for reflection, I think.
I have indeed thought a great deal over the past year. About my life and myself. How I was a shining young lad only eighteen years ago and how I am an old, dishevelled grouch now, one who has become rough at his edges and whose body has clearly lost its lustre. Maybe it is only fitting that everything connected to my (our) birth has to do with mint or its other variants. But forget my infirmities, even the world at large doesn't care for me. And for somebody whose world is limited by the nation's political boundaries, I'm not asking for too much. Over the years, I have seen lesser coins (the five, ten and twenty paise variety) succumb to an eventual death. I have been told that I am no longer welcome anywhere in the North, and I'm worth nothing save for my intrinsic metal. Why, only last month, CNBC was talking about how me and other fifty-paise coins may be pulled out of circulation soon. Obsolescence, they called it.
The news that the news broke to me completely broke me. What would become of me?, I thought. Melted out to make way for a new breed? Some new, snazzy design with a higher denomination and a higher fake shine? Two metals together, maybe? Nothing's impossible. If coins were to attributed anthropomorphic female characteristics, I would be the aging hooker- used and abused with nobody to care.
While I was burning in the slow fire within, upon tiptoes came the day of reckoning- today. Much of the day was no different from any other. Somewhere in the evening, somebody in the house tuned on to VH1. Almost to reinforce my hatred in them, the channel belted out 18 'Til I Die. Utterly ironical, I thought to myself. Any moment now, if I were to come tumbling out of the couch and onto the floor it won't be too long before I'd have a hit of my own- 18 When I Die! I let out a laugh, half-mocking and half in self-pity.
I must have had these thoughts for a couple of hours before my moment of Epiphany. And I wouldn't have had it if it weren't for Arnold Schwarzenegger. And James Cameron too. Being a mute observer in daily affairs, I had no say in matters of TV viewing. And tonight, it was Terminator 2: Judgment Day on the menu. To be very honest, I had been mostly consumed in my thoughts and watched the movie only superficially. But, when the climax arrived, I couldn't help but sit up and notice. The scene where Arnie tells the young John Connor that there is still one chip they need destroy- in his head, and he must do it, much to John's grief. Just as the Terminator is about to enter the molten steel, he utters the iconic, golden words: I'll be back!
Its a pity coins wear no clothes, for this was nothing less than my very own Eureka!. In Arnie I could see myself, slowly descending to the molten steel, to become one with the larger whole. In reality, Arnie was reciting the lines he had learnt the day before for a movie camera, but to me, it was as though he was talking to me and me only. Gauging the sentiment, Arnie said reassuringly: You'll be back too, just like how I was back for Part 3. Of course, I was imagining the last sentence, but it made sense. Humans go gung-ho about rebirth and reincarnation, trying to correct mistakes of a past life, and doing good deeds in this life, all in the hope that they may live again. Maybe this is what rebirth was to little pieces of metal. Maybe human beings and coins are not so different at all. I would have to die to live again.
As I watched Arnie disappear thumb-last in the smoky, orange liquid, a solitary thought crossed my mind: Hasta la vista, baby!
