It’s the wedding season again. DJs, nagadas, bands, baaja, and baraats fill the air with festivity. I now attend various marriage functions, receptions etc, dressed in my best silk sarees, costly jewellery and matching accessories to go with it. Everything from top to bottom of my attire is well thought of so that nothing looks amiss; everything meets the so-called social standards. I can even afford to give expensive gifts now.
But there was a time when things were not the same. Some childhood happenings leave indelible marks on our minds and when faced with anything even remotely connected, the memories from the past floods our thoughts. The wedding season always triggers one such memory —one that takes me back to a time when we had to struggle to own even a crisp ten-rupee note.
Back then, a Bengali family lived next door. They had three daughters and a son, all much older than me—except for the youngest girl. She too was older than me, but despite the age difference, we became very good friends. Every morning, we walked together to the nearby village called Mittanamallee to buy fresh milk. We chattered non-stop during our to and fro long walks to fetch milk. We would have sounded silly to others, but those were carefree days, we laughed and giggled without any bother. She was a bright student, and when she moved to a prestigious college in Mysore, I missed her terribly. During her college holidays, she would return a diva transformed—more beautiful, more wise and full of so many stories to share with me. I admired her immensely. It was from her that I first learned about M&B novels and the universal fantasy of teenage girls for a tall, dark, and handsome man.
One day, she excitedly informed me that her elder sister was getting married. She insisted that I must attend the wedding. I was thrilled! But when I informed my mother, all my enthusiasm was washed away, with her flat refusal.
She wouldn’t give me a reason for her refusal to let me go for the wedding. I threw tantrums, cried, begged—I shrieked at the top of my voice, what would my friend think if I didn’t attend? But nothing seemed to move my mother’s resolution.
On the wedding day, my friend came one last time to invite me and my family. My mother was now caught in a “dharma sankat” (a moral dilemma)—it would look unsocial if none of us attended the neighbor’s daughter’s wedding. Reluctantly, she allowed me to go.
Excited, I rummaged through my clothes—back then, the choices were few, unlike my overflowing wardrobe today. Dressing up wasn’t the issue. No make up those days. Just some talcum powder on the face and some kaajal in the eyes. The real problem lurked elsewhere—what gift would I give?
Those days, people usually gifted money at weddings. I turned to my mother for it. And there it was—the real reason for her refusal.
We had no money !
Not even a hundred rupees in the house. No bank accounts to withdraw from. Every rupee my parents earned was spent on education, food, and necessities. I was too young to understand our struggles.
Tears welled up. I howled again. My mother frantically searched her masala tins—sometimes, she hid money in them for emergencies. But that day, every tin came up empty. I was furious. Why didn’t she have money?
Her irritated reply stung:
“Your father is not a Tata-Birla.”
(Ambani wasn’t the benchmark of wealth back then, or she would have surely added his name too!)
Left with no choice, my mother turned to our neighbors. The old tobacco-chewing lady next door opened her surukku pai—a small cloth pouch—and handed over a crumpled ten-rupee note that reeked of tobacco. Yuck! Today, I wouldn’t even touch such a note. But that day, money mattered more than its condition.
Another neighbor contributed a five-rupee note, two two-rupee notes, and a one-rupee note. My mother scraped together a final rupee.
Total: 21 rupees.
But when my mother handed me the money, I looked at it in disgust _ Soiled, crumpled, embarrassing !.
The crying began again.
I don’t remember where my saviour, my father was that day. But my elder brother was home. My mother called him in to deal with me. Though a loving brother, he relished the authority given to him in such moments. Once, he even slapped me on my birthday for refusing to change out of my school uniform! His logic? “You’ll remember this and never repeat the mistake.” (Well, he was right—I still remember!)
That day, in his usual problem-solving manner, he asked me:
“Is your issue the amount or the dirty notes?”
“Both!” I sulked.
Calmly, he said, “I can’t increase the amount, but I can fix the notes.”
What he did next remains unforgettable.
My brother washed the notes with soap and water!
Yes, you read that right.
Our neighbors, my mother, and I stood around, watching with bated breath, almost in disbelief _ the notes seemed to be going through holy ablution before Baptism! My eyes were wide with terror—what if the notes tore?!
But my brother was careful. The notes came out cleaner, but were still crumpled. So, my brother went a step further—he ironed them!
The transformation was astonishing. The old, crumpled notes now looked somewhat presentable. Probably, currency held by the poor are more resilient—like its owners. They can withstand hardships without getting mutilated.
The money was placed in an envelope and handed to me. But I was still dissatisfied. The one-rupee and two-rupee notes felt shamefully small.
“Can’t we exchange these for a single 10-rupee note?” I pleaded.
That was the final straw. My mother and brother had had enough. “Take it or don’t go!”
With a heavy heart, I went to the wedding. But I couldn’t enjoy the food, the music, or the celebrations. My mind remained fixated on the ugly notes I was clutching.
At the reception counter, I silently slipped the envelope in—without writing my name. I avoided my friend, fearing she would recognize the modest gift and mock it.
But today, I no longer feel ashamed.
That moment, that struggle, that ten-rupee note washed and ironed with love—all of it shaped who I am. It reminds me of our humble beginnings. We did not own much, but we fought hard to give—even when we had nothing. And every wedding season those crumpled notes return, in the form of crisp memories…..