Ten Rupees, and a Lifetime of Love

Our late mom really loved this one habit of our dad. He would always eat whatever food was cooked at home with full excitement, like properly enjoying it. And if the food turned out extra good that day, he’d praise it a lot and then pull out a five or ten rupee note from his pocket and put it on mom’s hand saying, Here, this is a reward for making such a tasty meal today.

Mom used to light up with happiness. She would take the money with a little shy smile and keep it safe like it was something precious. This became kind of a tradition at our place. That sweet little moment between them. Quiet love, no show off, but very real.

But time... well, it passed. We grew up. Dad passed away earlier than he should’ve. And after that, mom changed completely. She became very quiet. Slowly started forgetting things. Doctors said it was Alzheimer’s. We tried everything we could to help her remember things, but memories just started fading.

Except... one thing she never really forgot.

She used to talk about a small pouch, a potli, where she had kept all those notes dad gave her. She’d say: “I had a pouch... with all those reward notes your father gave me... I kept it somewhere but now I don’t remember where."

We all just used to think maybe it was part of her memory illness. But the way she spoke about it, you could tell she really meant it. Like it was something very close to her heart.

This Eid holidays, I had a little free time. Thought I’d clean the basement. That place is like a mini museum of old family stuff. Huge steel cupboards, full of memories, old clothes, photos, dusty books...

And then, tucked deep in one corner, I saw a small purple cloth bag. My heart beat weird for a second. I picked it up and opened it slowly.

And man... I was shocked.

Inside, there were neat stacks of five and ten rupee notes. Old ones. All lined up perfectly. And on each one, there was a date written. Like: “March 7, 1991 – Aloo gosht was amazing today.” June 12, 1994 – Your biryani made my day.

I just froze. My eyes got teary. That wasn’t just money. That was love, saved up. Like frozen little time capsules of a life well loved. Notes dad gave, and mom kept, again and again, with care. With love. Her secret treasure.

I held them in my hands and I could feel their presence... both of them. Mom’s soft scent, dad’s smiling face. I could imagine her taking those notes out sometimes, reading them again, maybe hearing his voice in her head... maybe just holding on to those memories the only way she knew how.

After dad died, mom tried a lot, but her food never tasted the same again. It wasn’t about the recipe. It was about the feeling. The vibe. The love. Something was missing. The spark was gone. People used to tell her, “Dear Begum, your husband didn’t just leave, he took the taste from your hands too.”

Back then, I used to think they were just saying that out of emotion. But now I get it. Fully.

When a husband supports his wife, praises her, makes her feel seen... everything about her shines. Even the food.

Dad wasn’t just giving her money. He was giving her love. Appreciation. Respect. He was saying, “You matter. What you do matters.”

And now... I look at my own wife. And I think... have I ever thanked her like that? Have I ever made her feel like her small daily efforts are noticed?

These notes from mom’s bag didn’t just come out of some corner in the basement. They slapped my heart, bro. They taught me what real love looks like.

Love doesn’t always need big gifts or huge romantic words.

Sometimes... just a small note... a soft "thank you"... can be everything.

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