The biography of coins

TEXT AND PHOTOGRAPHS BY ANMOLL MAKKAR
Kaithal, Haryana

There is no present without history. We all are extensions of our past experiences, encounters, the eras lived, the events survived, and that is also the legacy we carry in the form of old material possessions. These coins belonged to my paternal grandfather, my dada. Today, they remind me of the time I spent with him and the lovely bond we shared. For me, these coins are a symbolic of our relationship but for him, they were means to reckon with forgotten memory, to feel and live again in the time which had passed.

Sh. Roshan Lal Makkar, fondly known as “Bauji” by all his loved and near dear ones, migrated from Dera Ghazi Khan, present-day Pakistan, during Partition in 1947. He was born on October 10, 1938 and belonged to a family of zamindars and landowners in the Multan area. His father, Sh. Pokhar Das Makkar was an affluent businessman and trader of dry fruits, who settled at D.G Khan and was a chaudhary of his community. My grandfather was eldest of the four siblings, two of whom were born after the migration to India. His elementary education was at the local government school, and one of his fondest memory of that time was commuting on his father’s tonga or horsecart, and having wholehearted conversations with the tonga driver, who he called, chaalak bhaiya! He would laughingly narrate how only his father had a tonga in a periphery of around 30 kms, and taking it at a matter of pride, he’d feel like a nawab each time he sat on it. These coins often became a reference point for us to discuss such heartwarming stories of the short time he spent in what later became Pakistan, how his family heritage was left behind across the border, and what restarting a livelihood in India meant.

My father is one of seven children, the only son among six sisters. My parents lived with my grandparents, which meant that from twelve grandchildren, I was the only one to spend everyday with them, giving us unlimited access to one another’s time, until I left for boarding school in my adolescent years. I shared a special bond with my grandfather, more precious perhaps than with my father or any of his other children. He always used to say, “Mool se byaaj pyaara hota hai”. It means interest is always dearer than the premium amount, which meant I was more cherished and loved than his own children.

Everyone had seen a strict and reserved side of his; it was only with me that he would let his guards down and show the emotional, softer and tender version of himself. It was a norm in our house that the hour post dinner was reserved for dada-poti(grandfather-granddaughter) talks and no disturbance of any kind from anyone would be entertained. We talked about everything, all while eating whatever fruit was in season. I would sit on the left side of the bed, while he’d be seated on the floor in virasana position, digesting his food. At times I tried to decipher his personal diary written in Urdu, but no one knew how to read or write it.

But the past came most alive whenever these coins were taken out. They were charged with stories that may not have emerged otherwise – each coin held a different tale, a different style of narration, the varied emotions giving those aged metal pieces a meaning. At times, our talks would be seamless filled with banter, sometimes they would be ridden with ideological and analytical exchange of information and other times only a few words were spoken, and silence would be enough to convey the essence of what other was thinking.

When I was 10 years old, I vividly remember looking at one of the paisa minted in 1945 – a ring with beautiful intricate designs, now rusted – and quipping like a lost greedy child, “Why do we not have more of these?” Little did I know that the time period it belonged to carried such dark memories, that while they could never be erased, they could also never truly be forgotten. It was then that I learnt for the first time about the gravity of chaos, struggle, and ugly bloodshed that had taken place during Partition. He looked at me, then smiled and said, “Beta ye bhi pata nai kaise bach gaye, hum log isko salwar ke nefaa me daal kar chupaa kar laaye the, kyuki bohot loot-maar chal rahi thi.” He and other members of his family had carried the money hidden inside the drawstrings of their pants, and despite all the looting, it had made its way across the newly-made border. People on both the sides were being killed if they didn’t belong to the majority religion, thrown off trains and trucks like rugs and sacks amidst tumultuous relocation.

Bauji, then a 9-year old boy, was separated from his parents on the long and harrowing journey from Dera Ghazi Khan, and stayed with acquaintances from his village in refugee camps installed in Amritsar and Ambala districts of the newly independent India. Staring at the coins, but looking further back in time, he’d said with a blank expression, “Hum log zinda hai ye toh kismat achi thi, Zindagi ki koi keemat thodi na thi beta uss waqt. Haalaat hi waise the.” I learnt that there was such shortage of food and basic amenities that people survived without eating for days, only the lucky ones could manage it once a day. The tents were overcrowded to thrice their capacity and only the fittest could survive. People used to snatch the goods provided by the authorities and it was a common sight to witness scuffles all across the camps.

The waiting period was testing and he wasn’t sure if he would ever see his parents again. Due to miscommunication at the hands of the government, he shuffled between the two cities often to look for them. Finally, three months later, he was reunited with his parents, but was heartbroken to find out that he had lost his new born sister to those dire circumstances. Eventually, the family settled at Kaithal, now Haryana and he completed his studies from Panjab University.

Anytime we’d have such conversations, he would be silent for some time after, immersed in thoughts. I was only 10 years old during these storytelling sessions, not much older than he had been when he survived such physical and emotional upheaval, but I didn’t know how to react or what to say, and would often wait for him to emerge from the whirlwind of memories. In hindsight, these stories were formative in my understanding of my grandfather’s struggles and successes. 

In another instance, while eyeing the golden-hued 20 paisa coins from 1969,1970 and 1971, I was intrigued to know what he did then. He had just entered the state politics of Haryana by mid-1960’s and was affiliated with Indian National Congress Party. The saga of his social activism continued for over three decades till the assassination of the former Prime Minister, Sh. Rajiv Gandhi in 1991. After that, he took retirement from active politics and limited himself to political consultancy, but had already become “Netaji” by then for the whole district of Kaithal. It was during our conversations about his life in politics that I could see the joy in his eyes, a soft smile and a strong force in his voice. I always marveled at his life, as to how a young boy from the soil of a land now so far away, having undergone the intense experience of Partition with personal struggles of his own, managed to plant himself into the social and political activities of the state. The stories from the time when he was being taken as a political prisoner on multiple occasions and him participating in ‘rallies and padyatras’ would always behold my attention.

Details of the coins in the collection are as follows:

One quarter anna dating to 1911
Obverse: Crowned Head of King George V with the lettering, GEORGE V KING EMPEROR
Reverse: Denomination, date below within floral pattern.

One pice/paisa dating 1945
Obverse: Small date, small legends, rounded crown
Reverse: A floral wreath surrounding the table

One pice/paisa dating 1953, 1954
Obverse: National Emblem i.e the Lion Capital surrounded by the lettering GOVERNMENT OF INDIA
Reverse: Denomination in English and Hindi, date below a galloping horse

One pice/paisa dating 1964
Obverse: National Emblem i.e the Lion Capital surrounded by the lettering Bharat (in Hindi) on left side and INDIA on right side.
Reverse: Denomination in Hindi lettering “rupaye ka sauwa bhaag”, 1 paisa, date below the numerical 1.

20 paise dating 1969, 1970 and 1971
Obverse: National Emblem i.e the Lion Capital surrounded by the lettering Bharat (in Hindi) on left side and INDIA on right side.
Reverse: In middle picture of a lotus, denomination above the lotus with left and side lettering of “paise” in Hindi and English respectively. Year below the lotus.

10 paise dating 1988
Obverse: National Emblem i.e the Lion Capital surrounded by the lettering Bharat (in Hindi) on left side and INDIA on right side. “Satyamev Jayate” engraved below the emblem.
Reverse: Denomination in middle, with left and side lettering of “paise” in Hindi and English respectively. Year below the denomination.

5 rupee dating 1986
Obverse: right profile of Indira Gandhi with her name engraved in Hindi and English respectively. The years of her life, 1917-1984 are below.
Reverse: National Emblem i.e the Lion Capital surrounded by the lettering Bharat (in Hindi) on left side and INDIA on right side. “Satyamev Jayate” engraved below the emblem. Denomination engraved below the emblem in middle, with left and side lettering of “rupaye” and “rupees” in Hindi and English respectively.

5 rupee dating 1989
Obverse: right profile of Jawaharlal Nehru with his name engraved in Hindi and English, and the year below. Lettering janamshati in Hindi on the left side of the year and Centenary in English on the right side.
Reverse: National Emblem i.e the Lion Capital surrounded by the lettering Bharat (in Hindi) on left side and INDIA on right side. “Satyamev Jayate” engraved below the emblem. Denomination engraved below the emblem in middle, with left and side lettering of “rupaye” and “rupees” in Hindi and English respectively.

Our tradition began in the early 2000’s, continuing sporadically whenever I’d visit home from school and college and finally saw its end in 2017 when he passed away at the age of 79. Now when I look at them, these coins are not just symbols of my relationship with him and the source of tales narrated, but an object that can hold multiple truths for multiple generations – his, mine, and the futures’. They were the building blocks of my own exposure and experience towards life. Today I understand, marveling at these round bits of metals, that human life is transient, belongingness passes on, and that each one of our experiences is unique; we all rise, fall and then rise again. The coins are safely preserved in a cloth potli with a woven floral pattern, and are kept in the home locker. Someday, these same coins will again become folklore for a future generation. As a remembrance, I keep adding a coin each year to the collection with a new denomination and minted date.