The last coin

Visual Concept:

Foreground

An old man with kind eyes, sitting cross-legged under a neem tree, gently feeding a biscuit to a loyal, scruffy dog beside him.

Background:

A dusty village road with a small tea shop in the distance, and a warm sunset casting golden light across the scene.

Atmosphere:

A peaceful, rustic vibe with soft, warm tones—yellows, browns, and oranges to evoke emotion and hope.

Optional Detail:

A young boy in the background sketching the man, hinting at the turning point in the story.

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tten village nestled between two barren hills, lived a poor man named Ramu. He had calloused hands, a tired back, and a heart full of dreams. Every morning, Ramu would walk to the nearby town with a small basket of firewood on his head, hoping to earn just enough to buy a loaf of bread and a little rice for the night.

His hut, made of mud and straw, barely held together against the wind. He had no family left—only a stray dog he named Bholu, who had found him on a stormy night and stayed ever since. They shared their hunger, their laughter, and their silence.
One particulab evening, after a long and unfruitful day, Ramu reached into his cloth pouch and pulled out his last coin—a dull, worn-out rupee. He looked at it, then at Bholu’s eager eyes, and sighed.

“Only enough for one roti,” he muttered, “and not even a full one.”

He went to the tea shop at the corner of the street, the one owned by an old, grumpy man named Sohanlal.

“I have one rupee,” Ramu said, placing the coin on the counter. “Anything I can buy?”

Sohanlal frowned. “One rupee barely buys a cup of tea these days.”

“I’m not asking for much,” Ramu replied. “Just something small for my friend and me.”

The old man hesitated. Then, perhaps seeing the dog’s wagging tail or Ramu’s hollow cheeks, he muttered something under his breath and handed him half a biscuit.

“Take it,” he grumbled. “Don’t expect charity tomorrow.”

Ramu smiled faintly. “Thank you, saab. I’ll repay you when luck turns.”

As he stepped outside and broke the biscuit in two, handing the larger piece to Bholu, a faint voice called out.

“Excuse me, sir?”

Ramu turned to see a boy in neat clothes, probably from the city, holding a sketchpad.

“I saw you give your dog food before eating yourself,” the boy said. “That was… kind. May I sketch you?”

Ramu looked confused. “Me? Sketch?”

“Yes,” the boy replied. “I’m an art student. I need real faces. Real stories. You look like you’ve lived one.”

Ramu chuckled. “I suppose I have. But what good is a drawing of an old man?”

“To me,” the boy said sincerely, “it’s everything.”

So, Ramu sat under a neem tree as the sun dipped low. Bholu lay beside him. The boy sketched, capturing the wrinkles, the warmth in Ramu’s eyes, the loyalty in Bholu’s gaze. When he finished, he handed Ramu a note—a hundred-rupee bill.

“For your time,” he said. “And thank you.”

Ramu was stunned. “Beta, this is too much. I can’t—”

“Please,” the boy interrupted. “Art is priceless, but your moment gave it meaning.”

That night, Ramu bought warm food—for both him and Bholu. He even bought a blanket to keep the cold away. He saved the rest.

The next day, he returned to the same spot, hoping to see the boy again, but he never came back. Days passed. Then weeks. But that one sketch had started something.

Sohanlal, the tea shop owner, noticed the change.

“You seem different,” he said. “Smiling more. Eating better.”

Ramu nodded. “A stranger reminded me I still matter.”

He started carving small wooden toys during the night, things he used to make as a child. He set up a small mat beside the tea shop. At first, no one noticed. But slowly, children began stopping. Then parents. Tourists.

One day, a woman bought a carved elephant and asked, “Who made this?”

“I did,” Ramu said proudly.

“It’s beautiful,” she replied. “You should sell these in town. There’s a market for handcrafted items.”

Ramu took her advice. Within months, he was earning more than he ever imagined. He expanded his stall, hired two young boys from his village to help, and even built a proper roof for his hut. Bholu now had a bed of his own.

One afternoon, as he was arranging his toys, a familiar sketchpad caught his eye. The boy from that evening—now taller, older—was in town for an art exhibition.

“Sir!” the boy said, recognizing Ramu. “You’re here!”

“And thriving,” Ramu said with a grin. “Thanks to one sketch, and one act of kindness.”

They hugged, the past and the present merging in a moment of quiet gratitude.

And so, the man with nothing but one coin found a new life—not through luck, but through kindness, hope, and the belief that every life holds a story worth telling.


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