The Journey of a Banknote

The Journey of a Banknote

BY:Ubaid

I am a banknote—new, crisp, and full of life when I first came into existence. My birth took place at the State Bank of Pakistan, where machines carefully printed me with the portrait of Quaid-e-Azam, Muhammad Ali Jinnah, the founder of the nation. At that moment, I felt a sense of pride and dignity. I was not just a piece of paper; I was a symbol of value, trust, and the hard work of people who would one day hold me in their hands.

After my creation, I was packed and sent into circulation. My first destination was a large marketplace in Karachi. There, I found myself inside the cash drawer of a shop, tucked away among my fellow notes. For days, I remained there, waiting to begin my journey. I wondered where life would take me—perhaps into the hands of a businessman, a mother buying food for her family, or even a child saving up for something special.

Soon, the shopkeeper handed me over to one of his employees as part of his monthly salary. The man’s eyes sparkled with joy as he received his pay. For him, I was more than just money; I was hope, security, and the promise of meeting his family’s needs. He carefully placed me inside his wallet and took me home. That night, I rested in the quiet darkness of the wallet, feeling proud that I was part of his happiness.

The next morning, as the man’s child prepared to leave for school, he reached into his wallet and gave me to his son as pocket money. The child’s face lit up with excitement upon seeing a brand-new note like me. To him, I was a treasure, something shiny and special. He tucked me into his pocket and carried me off to school with great joy.

But fate had other plans. While playing during recess, I slipped out of his pocket and landed near the flower beds in the school garden. The boy searched frantically, his small hands patting his pockets and scanning the ground. He grew anxious and sad, afraid he had lost me forever. My heart ached for him, but I could do nothing.

When the assembly bell rang, the boy went inside reluctantly, still worried about me. Later, during the break, he sat near the same flower bed, his face gloomy. Suddenly, his eyes caught a glimpse of me lying there. His sadness vanished instantly, replaced with pure joy. He picked me up carefully and ran to the school canteen. There, he exchanged me for some snacks.

The canteen owner, with greasy hands covered in oil, shoved me carelessly into a tin box. My once-shiny surface now bore stains of grease, and I felt humiliated. From there, I traveled again, as the canteen owner used me to buy vegetables from a street vendor.

The vegetable seller passed me to his wife, who was busy cooking curry. Unfortunately, drops of curry and gravy spilled onto me, leaving stains that made me look old and dirty. Still, I remained strong, determined to serve my purpose.

The vegetable seller’s wife gave me to her elder son. He was delighted to receive me, holding me up proudly. But his younger brother became jealous and started crying. A quarrel broke out between the two brothers as they tugged at me from opposite ends. In the struggle, I tore down the middle. My heart sank—my body was broken.

The elder boy, however, quickly fixed me with a strip of tape, pressing me back together. Though scarred, I was still usable. The boys soon took me to a street vendor selling gol gappas (crispy snacks) and traded me for a plate of treats. At least, I thought, I was still bringing joy.

The gol gappa vendor later combined me with some of my fellow notes and used us to buy meat from a butcher. The butcher’s hands, smeared with blood and fat, added more stains to my already damaged body. He then gave me to his wife when he returned home.

One day, the butcher’s wife went shopping for shoes and tried to pay with me. But the shopkeeper frowned. He examined me closely, noticed the tear covered with tape, and refused to accept me. His rejection stung deeply. I realized that my value had diminished because of my wounds.

Disheartened, the butcher’s wife tossed me aside in anger. She walked past a garbage bin and threw me into it without hesitation. Now I lay there, among filth and waste, torn, stained, and weak. My once-bright colors had faded; my body was full of scars.

As I sit in the trash, abandoned and forgotten, I feel the weight of sorrow. I am no longer the proud, new note that once carried the honor of Quaid-e-Azam’s portrait. I fear my fate will be to rot away, dishonored and unseen.

Yet within me remains a plea—a cry for dignity. I want someone to rescue me, to recognize the face of the nation’s founder imprinted upon me. I may be old, dirty, and torn, but the image of Quaid-e-Azam is still there, reminding everyone that I am not just paper. I am a part of Pakistan’s heritage, a symbol of value and respect.

Even in my broken state, I wish for one thing only: that no one ever allows the founder of the nation, whose picture I proudly bear, to be disrespected. My journey may end here, but my story remains a reflection of life itself—full of pride, hardship, joy, and sorrow.