Banker zindabad!

The nation was shell shocked by Modi’s announcement, fans started dancing and people like me started putting Facebook updates supporting him. Soon though, I started worrying about my Rs 500 and Rs 1,000 notes becoming invalid. I started digging into my little velvet pouch inside the wooden box, in the inner safe of the safe of my cupboard to check how many Rs 1,000 notes I have. I also shook my old family photo album to see if some notes would drop magically. Not black money; but a few notes that I had saved for a rainy day. My friend told me to give the money to the house help, making it their jhanjhat to get it exchanged.  

When I argued, she told me that they are strong enough to stand in the queue. I was angry with my friend, but that’s what happens when such a scheme is introduced. Gangu bai’s ageing mother stands in the queue while Gangu mops our floor. The watchman, the newspaper guy stand in the queue for hours, only to be replaced by the bank account holder when they reach the counter. This why the friend is now an ex-friend. That’s how ‘class’ism plays even in a city like Mumbai. 

After my dad had the notes exchanged, I paid all house help and others in new currency and with some old hundreds lying in my wallet. Soon all my paisas vanished and I was back in the HDFC Bank queue with my cheque. The line was longer than the one at Siddhivinayak on Tuesday, but trust a Mumbaikar to forge unique bonds even in the most trying situation. 

There were three queues but the staff was limited. Every note that came for exchange had to be checked to eliminate counterfeit ones. They could make no mistake in counting, could not take lunch breaks and their kidneys had to bear the brunt of being over capacity. Plus, they had to keep a tab on the exchange currency so that they didn’t fall short. Outside, the queue was moving slower than a goods train. People were bonding because of the shared frustration and building a force to fight the bank. 

The bank authorities came out to tell us, after a wait of five odd hours, that they have run out of currencies. They obviously frustrated themselves, so their tone and body language was not as polite as one would expect. That led to some angry reactions. We were given tokens for the next working day. We came again and stood for two hours. This time, the bank authorities were tired but had learnt to keep smiling. They handed me the notes and asked if I needed anything else. They were extremely polite. 

They learnt about this just like you and I did. Suddenly their leaves were cancelled, their office hours were increased and they had to perform under immense pressure. It is easy to say that it is their job and they have to do it, but well, we need to be thankful to the everyday service they provide. 

I returned to the bank with a small handwritten letter stating that I was inconvenienced but understood the pressure that they were in and that I thank them for the 330 days of wonderful service they provide. While Prime Ministers, old and new, fight it out in the Parliament about the lives lost, we forget a hero amongst us behind the counter. If you are reading this #ThankABanker.