Small change

He held up the rupee coin in the light of the dying streetlamp. The light that danced off the tarnished metal in the silent gloom made him flinch but he kept looking, eyes half-closed buddha-like. No, not in greed or in triumph but in wonder; that this was all one got for braving the merciless sun overhead and underfoot, running in rags passed as heirlooms from generation to generation, begging of glum men wandering lost in the park or at the railway station in words that made little sense. There was magic in it, he understood. And those who knew how to use it, when they had drained all the magic off it, threw it away to kids like him: worthless; but it helped live. One day, he told himself, I'll get a new coin, and then I will not need to run ever in the night when the police constable comes among us drunk, venting his fury on our bare bones; and I will throw the used coin on the face of that filthy rat from the opposite bank who stole from me the red car at the traffic signal yesterday.

He held up the rupee coin in the light of the dying streetlamp. He saw in the light that danced around the edges of the coin, the laughter of the young girl in the coffeeshop. Frayed and bright, nervous, waiting to please, so sure yet so unsure. This was what she too was worth, to be held in his hand against the light. Protecting him from the light and her eyes from the ugly leer. The coin in his hand gave him the right to say so. Hadn't he earned it, with the sweat of his brow and with the work of his hands? This, finally, was the meaning of life: to hold in one's hand one's worth, honest and hard-earned, and if it be slippery, to hold it firm and feel happy in the glow of possession.

He held up the rupee coin in the light of the dying streetlamp. Not much in it, this piece of metal that sold itself, bought itself. Besides he had the job now and his new set of credit cards. The coin clattered away into a gutter, leaving in its tinkling wake the sound of a wasted silence.