3
Prose
Pieces of Clarity
Sneha Sharma
Growing up in India, I learned one of life's most valuable lessons through a torn ten-rupee note and my mother's wisdom. In our culture, when elderly relatives visit, children show respect by touching their feet, often receiving a small monetary blessing in return. As a child, I saw these blessings as a path to my ultimate desire: Lalaji's samosas from the school canteen, crispy triangles of joy dipped in tangy tamarind sauce.
One day, my maternal grandmother visited with her sister, my grandaunt. Unbeknownst to my young self, there was tension between them. My grandaunt harbored resentment because my grandparents had declined her proposal for my mother to marry her wealthy nephew. She never missed an opportunity to remind us of our modest means.
Oblivious to this drama, I eagerly touched both their feet. My grandmother gave me five rupees, but my grandaunt, with a telling smirk, handed me a ten-rupee note. I was ecstatic, already tasting those samosas.
Hours later, my mother pulled me aside and instructed me to return my grandaunt's money. When I refused, my usually gentle mother transformed from Mother Teresa to Mother India, delivering a stern lesson in discipline. Nursing my stinging cheek and wounded pride, I made a rash decision: if I couldn't have the money, no one would.
In a moment of defiance, I tore the note to pieces. Panic set in immediately, and I scrambled to find tape in my father's room. But hearing my mother's approaching footsteps, I hastily discarded the torn note and fled, dreading another confrontation.
The next morning, I found the ten-rupee note on the table, meticulously pieced back together. As my cheek tingled with anticipation of punishment, my mother sat beside me instead. "Do you see these lines where the tape is?" she asked softly. "They're like scars we get when we fall. This note will never look the same, but it's still worth ten rupees."
She continued, explaining how my grandaunt's gesture wasn't kindness but an attempt to diminish us. "We may not be rich," my mother said, "but that doesn't make us any less valuable."
After a thoughtful pause, I asked hopefully, "If we're not returning it, can I have my samosa?"
My mother laughed. "Nice try! I've already returned a new note to her. This one is going into your piggy bank."
That day, my mother didn't just repair a torn note—she imparted a lesson that would stick with me forever. Our worth isn't diminished by our scars or mistakes; they're simply part of our story. Life will hand us torn notes, but how we piece ourselves back together truly matters. And that understanding is worth more than all the samosas in the world.
As for the glued note in my piggy bank, it remained a constant reminder that our value, like that of the mended currency, stays intact despite the visible scars we carry.