The Vanishing ₹500

When a note disappears, it leaves behind lessons about work, discipline, and life.

- Basarat Bashir

I woke on 24 July 2025 with a rush pressing against my chest. Morning light filtered through thin curtains, falling across stacks of files and a half-packed bag. I slipped a ₹500 note into my pocket, careful, deliberate, like tucking a small hope into a hidden corner. I was already late for the High Court. Breakfast was a luxury I could not afford.

Outside, Srinagar was stirring. Sumos rattled over potholes, street chai steamed from small stalls, faint prayers drifted from mosques, shopkeepers called to customers, and rickshaw horns buzzed.

The city moved like a persistent current. I had to swim upstream to keep pace.

From NIT Srinagar, I caught a Sumo to Exchange Road, paying the driver with coins and a twenty-rupee note. Crossing M.A. Road felt like steering through a river of people and parked cars. Every step required attention, every glance measured for safety.

I climbed into an electric auto to reach Jahangir Chowk, the city humming around me in a mix of languages, scents, and hurried footsteps.

Then it happened.

As I reached into my pocket to pay, the ₹500 was gone. Every pocket I checked offered only air, a fifty-rupee note, a few twenties.

Fifteen minutes, that was all it took for it to slip from my grasp. Somewhere between NIT Srinagar and the court, it had vanished. The loss felt heavier than the sum itself.