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HARDEEP BALI

It was the last thing I expected to notice at recently held Chinar Book Fest. The halls were alive with the scent of fresh pages, the sound of turning leaves, and the warm hum of ideas being exchanged. Authors signed books, poets recited lines, and artists displayed their works. Yet my attention was caught not by the bold colors on canvases or the spines of rare books, but by the quiet glint of silver on a young man’s hand.

It was a ring—plain, unpolished, and almost shy in its presence. However, there was something about it that seemed to carry more than its share of meaning. When I asked, Dipender smiled the way one does when they are about to open a box of memories.

The ring, he told me, had once been a one-rupee coin. But not just any coin. On the day he w

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