A good part of October went into this new-age banking, and shall try my best to not talk about all the semantics of providing your mugshots, repeated biometrics of thumb prints since the machine was well-worn out, with little stamina to bear the pressure of multitude thumbs, not to begin with providing your signature on a dozen of papers within the Lilliputian box to do so. (This without reading the wafer-thin papers since the text was diminutive as well, despite squinting over your reading glasses. For all you know, you might just be signing away your life’s savings!) This exercise could warrant a migraine but fortunately, I took out the ready-to-pull-out my hair rage, by ear-splittingly scraping butter on my near-burnt-to-a-crisp toast, and as if to wake those dead asleep, banging a spoon to unshell a boiled egg; called breakfasting in a bluster, I ‘d think. Before I proceed, funny you’d think, how bankers just tick the box for you to sign without informing you what these papers are for! A couple of times the banker even, as in an oversight, missed ticking the space that was to bear your identity until a cross-eyed you, inquired if this slot was for the same. Now it was the start of this month when my mother had been telling me to head to the locker, where most of my jewelry sat quite abandoned for years on, and think of wearing, and also remaking some redundant ornaments to something more of my taste. “What’s the point if you cannot enjoy what you have?!” her refrain, adding with a touch of loving sarcasm, “where went your love for baubles?!” This coming from a lady who never-ever was into jewelry—her simple diamond earrings, her sole wear after she gave up her exquisite yet understated “karha”, and rather invisible gold chain many, many years ago informing me that they came in her way while she slept, she catching some z’s with hand on cheek, and so the bangle was banished, as for the chain, it grazed her neck. This since she was too lazy (I would say tired!) to take them off. Anyways, back to the bank. Armed with a light-weight, single-minded, cast-iron attitude school bag, that had been bought over five years back for eight pounds, and have lugged around ever since, ferrying books, papers, an I-pad, chargers, besides an extra shirt since I sweat like a swine. I, with this Herculean bag in hand, headed for the bank locker. Of course, the husband, had to be dragged along since this was not an operation, I was going to do solo—suppose I dropped a pair of blue earrings (this while trying to recollect Thomas Hardy’s novel, “A Pair of Blue Eyes”!) In plain speak, assistance was inescapable even of the resistant kind! Once in the bank, with locker key quite contrary to the spouse’s approach—me thinking it was delighted to come out of the chockablock, stuffed-to-the-brim drawer—I was indifferently schooled that I had no access to my locker of nearly 30 years. Why so?! “Matters” had to be updated. Adhaar Card, Pan Card, papers of God knows what nature, and before everything, first and foremost, a 100 rupee stamped affidavit vouching for, I had not the faintest idea what, (the mystery remains!) and only after the documents were fine-combed by a lukewarm staff, could I go anywhere near my vault. That’s not where it ended—nearly two hours had already elapsed, and I felt as if this was like a life-sentence without parole. And my house-mate was not making it easier by scrunching up his face while fiercely flanking his legs that could possibly dent the floor. Yet, in his semi-defense can only say, that being the co-owner, rather co-renter of the locker, he too, had to do the same dance and song number, yours truly was subjected to…wearing thin the most patient of them all. Now for round umpteen: A poster on the wall blurted that the 100 rupees official stamp paper to legitimize the rest of the paraphernalia was available in the bank. Not so, blank-eyed it was relayed, without having the basic courtesy of even looking you in the face. They could be arranged from a nearby branch, but the guard would have to fetch them, and could only do so after lunch-hour was over. Most bizarre that the guard, with rifle hung across his shoulder, his self-headed pomposity right in your face, had to collect the legal papers. With vaingloriousness, he, on his own accord, tells you, looking you straight in the eye, that he couldn’t relinquish the ship since who would do the protective policing! Is the guard supposed to be running these errands, does this fall under the purview of his job-profile?! By now the worn-to-shreds partner was ready, justifiably so, on his way out, whoppingly infuriated, shouting that we’d return tomorrow. Me knowing, so much time this hare-brained hullaballoo had cost, taking away hours and hours of our work day, implored him to hang on, being also a firm believer via experience that, “Tomorrow never comes!” Now the bank manager having viewed our prolonged presence through his tufted glass cabin came out, offering tea and biscuits, small mineral water bottles, appearing from thin air. Once one thought all was sorted out, and one had the right of entry to check out one’s trinkets, the computer throws up another co-renter’s name. Your Mother’s! Initially the bank safe was in both of our names before the mate was included. Now the officers huddle together, explaining her name should be deleted, unless she too, wants to go through this drafting and redrafting procedure. In other words, being a rather very senior citizen, she could kick the bucket any time so…to placate you, the manager turns the rules upside down, announcing he’d make a video call to see that she is viewable and well. Hello?! Was my Mum some sort of a celebrity that her face would be recognizable to all and sundry?! And everyone knows that the picture on the Adhaar card has faint resemblance with your own face.
After all this brouhaha, me decided to purchase a Safe, hammer it into the wall of a cupboard and live safely ever after! I am taking the lead, and daresay I hear others following suit…