Take a trip back in time every time you open the coin box. , Photo credit: Getty Images/iStockphoto
“YesGood morning brother. Do you have a coin collecting album?” I texted a dear friend whose family probably owned the oldest book-cum-stationery shop in my city. A few seconds later, he texted, “In the 1970’s I used to sell them in the decade. Check it out once. Otherwise I’ll make it for you!
A bibliophile reminisced about the time he used to collect and sell coin and stamp albums to enthusiastic teenagers. It was early morning, and the two of us were driving down memory lane.
I gave myself this morning the task of tidying up and arranging the locker. Silver coins were coming out of small brightly colored bags. While some still shine brightly when wrapped in plastic wrap, others have gone gray and worn out. King George V peeked from one coin and Queen Victoria from the other. The East India Company quickly followed, and then our visionaries and leaders. While the latter were relatively recent mints, others dated from the 1800s.
“Are you taking the day off from work?” My husband was walking around the bed full of coins, looking for a place to sit with his newspaper. I was reluctant to return the coins to the box, unwilling to relegate the memories to nooks and corners. These coins were a slice of life of a father and his little girl walking hand in hand in the streets of Kolkata’s congested Sonapatti area, browsing through glass showcases. My father was fond of collecting old silver and copper coins. He borrowed my mother’s orange velvet bag for this.
As I was the eldest of his children and very busy with the other two friends, he used to take me on his treasure hunt and weekly escapade to the silver market to rekindle my childhood passion. From one small shop to another, he would ask the silversmiths if they could buy a particular coin as we waded through the gutters. When they gave him one, he would caress it, read the embossed text over and over, and explain it to me. Then he would pause to remark, “Are you tired? Shall we quit our jobs and go home?” I would nod loudly in disagreement to prove that I was just as excited about the treasure.
What started out as a means to be papa’s favorite child has now become a middle-aged “daddy’s daughter”‘s most prized possession. Every time I open the box I am transported to a world of love, trust and security.
On my first visit home as a married daughter, my father asked my mother to hand over a bag of oranges to him. Sitting beside me, he took out a handful of silver coins and watched them slowly turn over. His voice was weak and he muttered, “Remember, we bought this from Ramesh Bhai. But he always charged exorbitant fees. He twenty four was the oldest. I should have bought it. You were very sleepy that day, remember? And then I had to buy your favorite Kaju Barfi to keep me from falling off the stool.
Papa walked for a long time, picking up a coin at a time and painting quaint pictures of the days spent plodding along on the cobbled streets of Kolkata.
Each purchase was linked to some other beautiful moment that magically cemented our relationship. He entrusted me with some of the most precious things. I hesitated. she insisted. I bow down Every time I went home, he would give me something to watch me pack my suitcase. At the altar of love, the same beautiful ceremony where we sat next to each other and remembered a young father and a young daughter not just coins but everlasting memories.
It’s been many years, but he still asks me where I lost the copper anna which was gifted to him by my grandmother and which I managed to nab for myself! I smile thinking about the childlike ownership I feel for everything that ties Papa.
And here I am sorting through drawers, sifting beautiful memories from the junk: clothes, jewellery, purses, and shoes randomly bought for social appearances, long forgotten.
I plan to preserve all the coins in an album. One of my children will cherish the legacy. I saw in a flash how as a child, he would often pull things out of my drawers to find something to hang out with. He tried to persuade me to give him his coins but to no avail. Finally, he appealed to the father, and the court ruled that I must one day hand over the silver coins to him!
I still remember my son knowingly bought all the pens from me. I packed them all in a brown cardboard box from which I would hand him over and over again. A sleek piece that cost me just because it wouldn’t budge from the shop. Then another one that looked like a gun. And this along with the laser light we bought at a local fair. He gleefully walked the long distance back to the parking lot, pen clenched in a fist, oblivious to his hunger pangs and the crowd pushing us around. As soon as the car stopped, I had to carry the sleepy child into the room, hands on my body, with a tightly held pen. Over time, he has moved from home to boarding school to college. A part of us continues to smile back at the brown cardboard box.
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