The Soiled Note

Tucked in a corner of my wallet.
One amongst the many of its breed.
Not commanding much respect,
Was a soiled fifty rupee note!

Its crumpled edges and dirty looks,
Almost torn along the centre fold,
Made it not worth much to me.
Shopkeepers refused to accept,
Politely asking me to replace,
As if I was the one who had printed the same.


Get it changed at the bank,
Was the advice given by my friend.
No one is going to accept such a dirty note,
He helpfully explained.

Then I saw this beggar boy.
His dress was torn and hair matted.
Layers of dirt seemed 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 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 I can give you Thirty in exchange for this soiled note!

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