I am an old hundred-rupee note or bill now, but much earlier, when I was produced, I was new and attractive. My youth is over, and people do not like me to be in their hands or pockets. But I have some very precious experience of life, people and names what makes me thousand times more valuable than the value written on my face.
So, I tell you, my dear readers, how busily I have passed through life and society during all these seven years of my existence (life). When I was sent from the State Bank of Pakistan to other banks, I sat on top of a fresh packet. To my immense (great) pleasure, I was being looked at by many visitors. The cashier handed me to a beautiful young college student who had come to pay her electricity bill. The lady, before putting me in her purse, smelt me saying that new notes have their own cosmetic air. It was no doubt a strange remark, and I, in my redness, blushed in my pride.
It was perhaps the strongest and most memorable experience of mine to be in Miss Y’s purse for several months as she kept me in its inner reserve pocket with special good-looking notes, saving for a rainy day. I continued going to Y’s classes in her fine college, crowded shops, dinner parties, picnics, restaurants, hospitals, railway stations, hospitals, and other public places. One day Miss Y left me in her purse behind and went out with her parents somewhere. Y’s maidservant entered her room and stole (pinched) three hundred rupees from it including myself. She gave me to a tailor in his shop by way of stitching charges. I continued lying in his safe for about a week during which I observed the customers who came to the tailor. I enjoyed looking at their beautiful clothes of different designs and colors and listened to their talk about fashions. Sometimes there was a dispute about the rates of sewing between the customers and the tailor, which I did not like. The tailor one day gave me with some more money to a bride.
It was a real pleasure to be with the bride in her lovely wedding purse. In the morning, she handed me and some other notes to the bridegroom asking him to accept me as a gift from her. He was surprised to have a gift of money from his wife and happily put me in his wallet.
I was lastly in the doctor’s inner coat pocket. When he returned home, his wife was very angry with him. She wanted a lot of money from him, and she took all the notes out of his pocket in anger. In this struggle, I got torn as I had already become old. The next day, the doctor gave me, with some other worn-out notes, to his servant to exchange them with new ones from the State Bank of Pakistan. And now,’1 am lying in a big bag in the corner of a dark room. My companions are old, torn, worn-out, ugly 100-rupee stamped notes with their own histories. These histories I am trying to know to pass this boring time. But often I am horrified to witness thousands of bags of new printed notes being brought into this government bank. They are to be distributed to different banks for the people of Pakistan. There is no solid guarantee that they will be of constant value.