The Price of Ten Rupees.
The Price of Ten Rupees
Lessons in lending money
Ihad a friend once — Edward Gamini. A thin boy with quick eyes and a grin that disarmed even the sternest master. One hot afternoon, under the banyan tree behind our classroom, he asked if I could lend him ten rupees.
Ten rupees.
I can’t quite recall how I came by that money in 1970. Perhaps an uncle had slipped it into my hand during a visit, or maybe I’d found a few forgotten notes tucked in one of Father’s drawers. Whatever its origin, it seemed an immense fortune to a fourteen-year-old — enough to buy patties, cream buns, and bottles of orange barley at the school canteen for a week, or two, if I were careful.
But boys at that age do not think of such things. Money is not yet sacred or serious; it is another thing one passes around, like a marble, a ball, or a secret. So I lent it to him, trusting that he would return it during the holidays.
A month later, I rode my old Raleigh bicycle to his home in Dalupitiya — a long, dusty ride past coconut trees and slow bullock carts. His house stood on a rise, its white walls bright in the afternoon sun. Behind it, the factory sighed out a long ribbon of smoke.
Gamini met me at the doorstep, barefoot and uneasy. He had no money to return.
I rode back slowly that evening, something heavy pressing on my chest. It wasn’t only the loss of ten rupees; it was the first faint crack in the windowpane of innocence. At fourteen, in 1970, ten rupees was like a bone in the body. You felt its absence.
Still, I didn’t learn the lesson.
There were more to come — four, in fact — before I truly understood.
⸻
Years later, at Aquinas College, there was Kingsley. We had studied together at school, and our friendship had ripened into the easy familiarity of young lads. He was a cheerful fellow, always borrowing trouble and, at times, money.
This time it was five hundred rupees he wanted — a princely sum in those days, equal to two months’ pay for a clerk. I didn’t have that kind of money, so I borrowed it from another friend, Nimal Logus — a kind-hearted man who never said no. It was a chain of goodwill that soon turned into a chain of regret.
Kingsley promised to return the money in a month. But the weeks became months, and silence grew between us. One afternoon, desperate and ashamed, I went to his home.
His father came to the gate — a tall man with bespectaled and black hair and the look of one accustomed to command. I told him, as politely as I could, about the matter.
He listened without expression and said,
“I cannot answer for my son’s commitments,”
and turned away.
That was all.
No apology. No kindness. Only those words that left me standing there, small and foolish in the bright sun.
I walked back slowly, my pockets empty, my pride bruised. It was my second lesson in lending — that not all debts are paid in money. Some are settled in humility.
⸻
Around that time, there were two others — Hamlet and Shelton — boys I could never refuse.
Hamlet was wiry, with thoughtful eyes, the sort of friend who would share his last lunch bun without being asked. His people were poor, preparing for his sister’s wedding — a wedding that already seemed too heavy for them. I remember sitting in his small house one evening, the air thick with the smell of kerosene and curry leaves, listening to his mother’s quiet worry about dowry and expenses.
It wasn’t pity I felt. It was something quieter — a rebellion against helplessness. I wanted to do something, anything, to ease their burden.
So I went to Nimal Logus — the wealthy shopkeeper near the junction, the same man whose generosity seemed endless. I told him about Hamlet’s family, and he gave me five hundred rupees, which I passed on. For one evening in that little house, I saw laughter instead of worry.
Shelton’s story was much the same. His father had fallen ill, and medicine cost more than he could afford. I remember his trembling hands, his eyes lowered in embarrassment. Once again, I went to Nimal, and once again, he helped.
I helped them because, even then, I believed friendship meant standing beside another man’s storm — even if all you carried was a small umbrella.
⸻
But over time, I began to see that Nimal Logus’s generosity had its shadows. He ran small businesses, always surrounded by boys — offering a cigarette, a cool drink, or a note folded into the palm.
Then came the letters — affectionate, unsettling — sent to some of those boys. And I began to understand what the elders meant by their quiet warnings.
Nimal was not our friend, not really. His kindness had a purpose of its own.
I drifted away from him, quietly. By then, I had begun to recognise the pattern: money, kindness, generosity — all can turn into traps if one is not careful.
⸻
A few years later, in Dubai, I found myself working in a bank, earning more money than I had ever imagined. The desert sun was fierce, the pay was good, and I was young and full of purpose.
Then one evening, there was a knock on my door.
It was my old roommate, Rajakaruna. He needed five hundred dirhams.
Without a thought, I withdrew it from the bank and handed it to him. He never returned it. I never asked.
Perhaps, by then, I had learned my lesson.
Not one written in ledgers or taught in classrooms, but one that sits quietly in the heart — that money, when mixed with affection, grows complicated.
Now, when I think back on those borrowed rupees and vanished dirhams, I don’t feel anger or regret — only a kind of gentle amusement. Life, in its own manner, pays you back — with understanding, not coins.
And somewhere along that long road from Dalupitiya to Dubai, I think I finally settled my debts — not in money, but in knowing.
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