Title: Memoirs of a Forgotten Coin: Echoes from a Village in Barishal

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Subtitle:

Once cherished, now discarded — this is the soulful journey of a coin that witnessed the simple, profound rhythms of rural life in Galua village, Rajapur.



Memoirs of a Forgotten Coin


My name is Coin.

Once, I gleamed in the sun, carried with pride. Children fought over me. Shopkeepers smiled upon seeing me. I could buy sweets, soap, or even a handful of puffed rice. I wasn’t just metal—I was magic.


Today, I lie covered in dust. Forgotten in a drawer, dropped by the roadside, swept under a mat. In this era of mobile money and digital wallets, I have become obsolete. Yet, deep inside, I carry a world of memories—of laughter, struggle, and a village called Galua.


My Arrival in Galua


I first arrived in Galua village, located in Rajapur Upazila, Jhalokathi district of Barishal. It was a beautiful afternoon. The air was heavy with the scent of wet soil. Mizan, a boy of eight, received me from his father during the village fair.


His eyes sparkled as he clutched me tightly. He ran to a sweets vendor near the school field. I bought him one small packet of molasses-coated puffed rice. That moment, I felt valuable—loved.


Passing Through Many Hands


From Mizan’s pocket, I traveled to a farmer named Anowar. He carried me in his lungi’s fold and used me to buy salt from a small shop beside the Bishkhali River. The shop had no electric lights, only a lantern swaying in the evening breeze. I remember the sound of frogs, the creak of the bamboo door, and the rhythm of rural life.


Later, I found myself with Rashida Begum, an elderly widow. Her sons had moved to the city. She kept me in a wooden box filled with old buttons, faded prayer beads, and torn banknotes. She touched me gently, as though I held the weight of time itself. I stayed in her box for years—untouched, forgotten.


Time Moved On


The world changed. Plastic money came. People tapped screens instead of exchanging coins. I, once proud, became a joke. Children no longer played shop with me. Grocers refused to accept me. I was now “useless.”


One day, Rashida’s old box fell during a storm. I rolled out and landed near the clay floor. There, I lay—cold and alone—until little Rifat, Rashida’s grandson, picked me up.


“What is this?” he asked.


His grandfather replied, “That’s an old coin. We used to buy many things with it once.”


Rifat’s eyes grew wide. “Can I keep it?”


And just like that, I was alive again—not as currency, but as memory.


A Pocket Museum


Rifat keeps me in his schoolbag now, in a small zipped pocket. He shows me to his friends, proudly calling me “a treasure from the past.” I may no longer buy sweets, but I buy smiles, questions, and wonder.


He once said, “When I grow up, I’ll write about you.” Maybe this is that story.


The Soul of the Village


Through me, you can still hear Galua’s soul—the whistle of the train in distant Rajapur, the splash of children in the pond, the morning azan echoing over misty rice fields. I am more than a coin—I am the witness of a time when people lived simply, valued little things, and respected every paisa.



Conclusion


I may be forgotten by the world, but within me lives a story—a story of a village, its people, and the invisible threads of connection. I am the memoir of a forgotten coin, and I still shine, not with silver, but with memory.





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