Unlike most of you, I don't have the luxury of determining my self-worth. I am valued at whatever is decided at the forex market every morning. Moreover, those motivational speakers, who tell you not to compare yourself to others, don't speak for me. I am constantly being benchmarked against the dollar. 

I hate being compared to my over-achieving peers. It's pretty unfair. Is it my fault that, unlike the dinar, I wasn't born in a mine of oil? And unlike the pound, I don't belong to a country of colonisers. The land from where I hail didn't bestow me with any such unfair advantages. Yet, I love this land, because this is where I rule. I am the biggest note available – all other notes pale in comparison. 

During Eid, faces beam when I'm handed down as salami. I am at weddings too – hanging around the groom's neck like a garland or at the entry pass to the gate guarded by the bride's brothers. Unfortunately, I am the coveted object on unholier occasions too. I have been slid down the table countless times as a bribe. 

Lately, I have been reflecting more and more on my glory. Because I'm afraid it's fading away. It all started one evening when the news reporter, with great sternness, read out, "The taka has been further devalued and the exchange rate currently stands at ninety-four taka for one dollar. Figures have crossed hundred in the open market." 

But I let it pass. After all, in this day and age, rumours are a dime a dozen.

Reality hit me only the next morning. Mr. Cashem, the man who used to lovingly stow me under his pillow, who used to check on me, and caress me during the most ungodly hours, no longer wanted me. He was on his way to the bank to have me exchanged for the petty dollar.

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I saw economists creating graphs – lines representing the value of taka going downhill. Do they realise how insensitive it is to make such a brutal representation of what is, literally, my self-worth? I am being bullied, everywhere. I am not wanted anymore. Everyone wants to get rid of me.

Tossed and tumbled countless times later that day, I ended up in a little girl's purse. She took out the 20 taka note sitting beside me, asked for a cone of ice cream and waited for her change. But alas, the 5 taka change would not come. 

"It's 20 taka now," the shopkeeper said. A drop of sweat trickled down my forehead. 

As days passed, I could fetch less and less. Indeed, I wasn't doing too well. My competitors, however, were worse off and there's no consolation bigger than that. The Myanmar kyat depreciated more than I did and the Pakistani rupee too. The other rupees – Indian, Bhutanese, and Nepalese – were struggling. I realised that it was my time to have a good laugh. And when I thought about the Sri Lankan rupee, I was rolling on the floor. 

Did anyone pick me up? Yes. I was pocketed by a man who seemed to harbour no intention of returning me to my legitimate owner. I felt valued. I was still wanted. 

Noushin Nuri is an early bird fighting the world to maintain her sleep schedule. She's on Instagram as @noushinnurii