The Lament of Eight Annas

No, don't give me money now. Let me become a pauper first, and then I'll ask. I like asking you for things.

When I was small and went to school, my friends' fathers would stop us on the way, lift us into their arms, pet us, and slip us a rupee or eight annas. I could never understand why no one ever gave me money when I left for school or came home. That little me used to ache with such sorrow, thinking about it. No one ever held little me in their lap and gave me eight annas.

That sharp regret from childhood—not getting a single rupee—it lingered with me for ages. Now, if I wanted, I could keep both my pockets full of rupee coins, but that small child inside me has never stopped feeling that old hurt. Some griefs never leave you, not in a lifetime.

I want to ask you for money sometimes the way I used to ask my father—even if I become a millionaire through work or business, give me a little money now and then. I lost my father before my childhood had properly begun. I don't want to grow old before I've lost you too.