As I dropped a few coins into my piggy bank this morning, a sudden thought struck me—I hadn’t added anything to it in quite a while. I began to wonder why and realised that with so many digital payment options like GPay, PhonePe, and card payments, we hardly carry cash anymore.

And if there’s no cash, where would the spare change come from to feed the piggy bank?

I remember a time when saving money was a habit we cultivated without even realising it. We had dreams attached to those savings, dreams that filled our little piggy banks with hope and anticipation.

Back in the day, we had these tiny clay pots with just enough space to slide in a coin or a folded note. Once the money was inside, it stayed there until the pot was full or a real need arose. To retrieve the money, we had to break the pot, which made the savings feel like a treasure once we finally got to it. This process taught us the value of patience and discipline, as we had to resist the temptation to break the pot prematurely.

As I matured, so did piggy banks. Tin containers with slits became the new norm. Some had lids; others didn’t. The ones with lids allowed us to dip into our savings occasionally, but the ones without lids were more of a commitment. There were also rectangular boxes with locks. You could drop money in without unlocking it, and the key would only come out for special occasions.When we were kids, saving money was a thrilling game. Our parents occasionally asked us for change, and we’d proudly dig into our piggy banks, keeping meticulous track of every coin that came in or went out.

I remember my childhood piggy banks—those humble clay pots and tin boxes. My father gave me one rupee every day, and I’d eagerly add it to my collection. As I grew older and started earning a bit more, I had a wallet for my notes, and there was a rule—once I had saved up about a hundred rupees, I’d exchange them for bigger notes from my father.

Then came the hostel days, and honestly, I can’t even remember how or when that carefully saved money was spent. The piggy bank days seemed to fade away when I opened my first bank account.

But then, marriage brought me to Dubai, and I returned to that old habit of saving. This time, it wasn’t a clay pot but a plastic bread box that became my piggy bank. Every time I returned home, I’d toss my spare change into it, and after a year, when I was ready to leave for further studies in India, I had saved up around a hundred or so dirhams.

When I returned to Dubai in 2010, I started saving again. This time, I made a rule—no counting the money until the box was full. Back then, card transactions weren’t as widespread, so the piggy bank was still a trusted companion for emergencies. I once counted my savings and found I had a thousand dirhams. I ended up using that money to buy books—something that brought me immense joy.

Kids today might roll their eyes and think, ‘Why am I rambling through the good old days?’

They might say, “We get pocket money and save too.”

But ask those who grew up without pocket money about the significance of a piggy bank. Or ask a homemaker who doesn’t earn a salary about the joy of buying something essential with saved coins or the satisfaction of using that money during tough times.

When I added those coins this morning, I realised that months had passed since I last did so. The piggy bank is full now, but I’m almost afraid to see how much is inside. What if I can’t save this much again? After all, cards may be convenient, but a piggy bank has its own charm—one that no digital transaction can replace.

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