Cash Q

Having heard and seen in the media the new experience that everyone is facing these days in India, I ventured out of my virtual world to gain first-hand bricks and mortar experience. I walked up to my Bank branch that I frequent when in town, armed with my cheque book. There were just 4 men standing outside the door, but when I tried to enter the guard stopped me and asked the purpose of my visit. I flashed the cheque book and told him that I wanted to withdraw money from my account. He asked me to join the four guys and wait. After 5 minutes when the guard again appeared at the door, I showed him the words "Preferred" on the cheque leaf and asked if I could get the 'preference'. He gave me the helpless smile and shrug of shoulders. Another 5 minutes and the five of us got ushered into the branch. My account manager recognized me and greeted me. When he learned the purpose of my visit he pointed towards the two counters that had about 30 people each standing and told me that I could choose to join either of the queues. Very helpful account manager! Next time when he makes an overseas call to speak to me, I will let him know my exact feelings.
As I stood very patiently and with every intention of seeing this through, I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. I turned around to see a gentleman with a couple of forms and cheques in hand. When I inquisitively arched my eyebrows, he said - ' Sir why don't you go to that counter, there are only two people waiting there'. Of course, my parents have taught me as a kid not to talk to strangers and over the years I have grown very skeptic of strangers who try to help me in a bank. So my response was I am OK here. Then two others also said the same thing to me. In a democracy, you cannot refuse such an offer voiced by more than one person. I moved to this shorter queue and stood happily there. The gentleman from the longer queue then explained to me - ' Sir this line is for senior citizens, why should you wait so long in the other line'.
I was out of the bank in another two minutes. So it didn't take me five hours to withdraw money but the experience has now got me staring into any mirror that I pass by. Senior citizen - who me ? Couldn't be, at least not yet! 

when past comes haunting

It was in October 21years ago that I first left the safe shore of home and the first foreign land that I touched down was Kuwait. Again I was back in the same land for a two-day business trip. An uneventful and empty flight brought me into the city. Uneventful, yes until the bumpy touchdown. I did my regular routine, done it at least 10 times in the past decade and half, of rushing to the Visa counter and picking up a number from the token machine. The next part of the process is anybody's guess - your number appears on the screen and you go to the counter and hand over the paperwork along with the cost of Visa and get a paper that allows you entry into the country. So here I was at the counter when my number came up and the polite lady after some checks on the computer screen asked me to take a seat as she had to check more.

Now, this was an unscripted activity. A different activity from the usual. After a decent wait of over 30 mins, I got called by an in-charge with stars on his shoulder. He said 'you have a fine'.

Not fully understanding what he said, I replied 'yes, I am fine'.

Then his next comment slowly sunk in 'no you are not fine. You have an outstanding fine'.

That was an Oops moment for me and I asked 'what fine'.

His response was ' I don't know, telephone, electricity, anything!'.

'But I left this country in 2000. 16 years ago. While I have come back at least 10 times on short visits and never once have I been told that I have some dues'. the response was a shrug of shoulders and a request for me to sit and wait.

After a lot of 'please wait for one minute', actually after two hours I was informed that I had a due from a traffic accident. 

That eventful morning then flashed before me, the grey wintry morning when I had an accident on the fifth ring road. Yes it was in 1999 December, almost 17 years ago. I recollected the white smoke that billowed out behind my car as the rubber burned the asphalt or was it the other way around. Either way, I had hit the car in front and I was unhurt. Couldn't say the same about the car, as I had to exit from not my usual exit door. In two minutes a police car reached me and was controlling the rush hour traffic around us. I felt more important when I saw the police helicopter hovering over us but then it disappointed  me by flying away. The gentleman whom I hit, let me rephrase that, the person driving the car which my car hit, drove me away from the accident site. I do recollect us going to the police station and sorting out all the paper work.

But now, after 17 years the incident had come back on the screen of an official. I expressed my willingness to pay and another chapter of the saga was opened. They, the officials, did not have a clue  about the process to accept this payment. It took another two hours before a genius appeared on the site and took me to a different counter where the payment could be accepted through a manual transaction.  Paper, pen technology saved the day for me.

As I write this I still am sure I had paid this fine 17 years ago! 

Clinical visit

Touch wood! My association with clinics have been limited and rare. I am not the healthiest specimen on the face of earth but probably the laziest and a firm believer of time being the best healer. My better half being non-believer of the idiom, forced me to visit a clinic for a chronic issue that I had been carrying around for over 10 years. The issue was a harmless swelling behind the ankle that kept me company all these years without complaining of my foot odour or any other discomfort that I subject my lower extremities to. 

So off I went to the nearest clinic. This was a new one that I was venturing to as I had moved house recently and the old clinic did not move with me to this side of the town. This clinic, looking more like a five star hotel, was recommended by a well meaning friend. I walked into the cool confines of the entrance lobby and looked for the reception. Having located the reception in the bright cavernous lobby, I marched  purposefully  to the lady manning the counter. To a  not so welcoming look I said the greetings, which got reciprocated grudgingly and the eyebrows formed a interrogation sign. Paradoxical words " how can I help you" sounded from below the interrogation sign. The conversation went this way .

Me - I would like to see a GP, please.

She - We don't have GPs , we only have specialists. Which specialist would you like to meet?

Me - I am not sure, that's why I prefer meeting a GP who can then direct me to the right specialist.

She - what exactly is your problem?

Me  - I have a swelling behind my ankle 

She - Can I see ?

Me - Are you a doctor ?

By then she walked around the counter and said - I am not a doctor but I can decide which specialist you should go to.

I exposed my ankle and she let out some sympathetic noises, which sounded like the mother hen chiding young chicken, and said - let me refer you to Surgery.

As the word surgery cut into me, I stitched it with a response - I would still prefer a doctor to diagnose and refer me to anyone else. 

That response of mine questioned her years of experience sitting at the reception and handing out diagnoses and remedies to uninitiated souls like me. She certainly did not take it kindly and pronounced her final judgement.

She - I have seen this before also and the surgeon will have to operate on this and cut it out. The only way to treat this is to surgically remove it. 

Me - Thank you .

I rushed out of the clinic and i could hear her trying to reassure that it wasn't as bad as she made it out to be, but I was keen to break Usain Bolt's record. Once in the safer confines of my car and a kilometer from the clinic I wondered with such receptionist around what would the doctors role be?