On Monday, following my wife’s instructions, I went to meet our bank’s family relationship manager, who over the previous year had enjoyed several cups of coffee, home-made cake and conversation at home with us. Now, he seemed to have trouble recognising me, gave me a “token” number on a slip of paper which seemed more than the sum of the people in the queue, and was hypocritically solicitous when he had to inform us all that money had run out in the branch.
We could choose to stay, he said, but was unable to confirm when currency might be received at the bank, so, of course, I opted to carry on to the office —only to be berated by my wife for not staying on in line.
We could choose to stay, he said, but was unable to confirm when currency might be received at the bank, so, of course, I opted to carry on to the office —only to be berated by my wife for not staying on in line.
The following day, I returned to the bank somewhat better equipped. Besides old currency notes and every form of identification, I had a hamper with parathas and sandwiches. Misraji had brought along a picnic table with a sun umbrella, which seemed silly seeing how it was foggy, but we had ourselves a party anyway.
Pam mausi was there with a bag full of peanuts and chikki; Janki scrolled through her mobile phone looking for inappropriate jokes to share; and when the tellers downed their shutters for lack of money, we agreed to meet in the evening to continue where everyone had left off.
On Wednesday, I read through War and Peace without a break and started on Anna Karenina but by then it was dark and the lights too dim. Still, the thought of reporting to my wife that I had reneged on my post kept me from going home, so I spent an additional hour at a coffee shop where they didn’t accept American Express credit cards, so I had to listen to a harangue about my inability to pay. I regret not having ordered the tiramisu, considering the management had to compliment my fare, the first freebie to be offered in Modi’s demonetised India.
On Thursday, with a bit of old-fashioned pull (on the promise of future chai-pani), things were sorted out fairly smoothly in terms of speed, but the bank was unable to dispense the weekly quota of currency, and irate customers complained about not having the means to pay for their children’s weddings, or hospitalisation, or tuitions, so long story short, I came home bearing IOUs from strangers and was relegated to sleep on the spare bed in the storeroom. Fortunately, dogs aren’t as fickle as humans and so I had the pooch to keep me company while swatting mosquitoes away.
Friday was payday for the newspaperwallah, the raddiwallah, the car cleaner, the driver, the gardener, the part-timer, both cooks, the dhobi, the chowkidar and the doodhwallah. They each argued that they would (a) not take cheques; (b) not accept old currency, and (c) not be fobbed off about delays in salary. So, my wife, who had been more successful than me in hoarding the candy pink Gandhis (issuing IOUs to several strangers on the pretext that her daughter — don’t ask! — was getting married, and where was she to arrange the currency from?) was forced to pay them to keep the services we were accustomed to, running smoothly.
As a measure of my gratitude, she purloined my debit cards and was last seen shopping online with them. Meanwhile, the human resources department has deducted a week’s salary on account of my continued absence from work. Hurrah for Modi’s cashless society that has rendered at least me truly cashless.
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