The banker and the boomerng – a short story

Long ago, but not very long ago there lived a bank employee along with several other bank employees. That is everyone thought he was a bank staff because he went to the bank in the morning and came back in the evening, though there is no proof if he really ‘worked’ there.

There also lived a union which was flourishing and a Bank which was sick and dying; the former is where the banker dedicates all his efforts and toil while the latter is the place in which our hero spent his time along with his comrades. Incidentally, though the Bank is the one which was paying him- through its bleeding nose at that- the banker owed his loyalty and allegiance to the union which was fetching him grand hikes.

For the sake of record and to get the settings right it must be mentioned that there also lived certain unfortunate beings called ‘Customers’ who banked with the banks but could never bank on the bankers.

It was a hot February day in the middle of a week, a full fledged working day. Children went to school, men and women, who were neither employed with the government nor with the Public sector, were at their workplaces and even the Parliament was in session at its noisy best.

But the Banker was at his home enjoying a wonderful holiday that he has declared for himself. His union leader had assured him that he might even get paid for that day. Well, the Banker was on strike.

Of course, his conscience, which also strikes work on such occasions did show signs of being awake. He had in the morning, felt a pang of shame that he should remain holed up when even his wife and their young daughter were busy with their vocations. But such ‘suicidal’ thoughts vanished immediately, for, it is only for their sake that he was toiling…by shirking work.

Sure, such holidays have become frequent, but so what, after all it is his democratic right and socialistic obligation to strike work if he is not taken care of as he would like to be. Also who in this busy world would bother to notice the mundane banker and his troubles unless they raise the banner of revolt?

And even more horrifying was the fact that the next door government staff, who does even less work, had just got a hefty pay hike by merely threatening to strike work. What socialism is this, wondered our banker, indignantly.

The banker scanned the morning papers. There was no mention of the strike by the bank staff…well, there it was in the Engagements column. As usual, Veerappan dominated the front pages. He has now kidnapped a few union leaders and has announced through the familiar cassette sent through a familiar editor, that he needed them to learn some lessons on bargaining as also to enlighten himself on how to hold the country to ransom. The brigand’s tone betrayed a marked sense of inferiority complex and an eagerness to learn.

By noon, our bankman was bugged and decided to get some of his personal work done. A lethargic stride to the nearest post office ensured that he reached there just before lunch time, only to be told that he has to wait for at least two hours for ‘work’ to resume. Our man turned to leave but was stopped by a sympathetic clerk.

The staff informed him that he had better wait as they were planning to strike next week depending on whether the bankers’ strike succeeded, and it would be too late and futile for anyone to post anything. Our hero winced. At his local telephone exchange it was a different story, though.

The man at the counter told him that the time for payment of his bill has elapsed and he would accept only cash. Our hero realised he did not have enough as he had forgotten to withdraw money. It suddenly dawned on him that there was no chance tomorrow too. The Telephones officer was unrelenting and made it clear that the line would be disconnected if the bill was not paid forthwith. Curse the strike, thought the banker, and immediately bit his tongue.

The EB men were more considerate. Though this bill too was long overdue, they told him that the line would not be disconnected as the line men were on a strike.They were on a strike because, a few linemen in distant Arunachal Pradesh were drawing five rupees fifty three paise more than them.

Add the proportionate DA and such other things and the anomaly gets truly astonishing, they argued. Our banker walked back, relieved and with a sense of pride too. After all, there were virtues in strikes too, he thought with a feeling of justification. The deja vu lasted till he reached home, when he discovered to his dismay that there was no power- just a routine power cut, courtesy, Man from Arcot.

Unfamiliar as he was to sweating it out anywhere, our banker grabbed the phone, but it was as dead as Graham Bell. The telephones men had really meant business. A brisk walk, brought him back to the EB. The men there were less patient this time. ‘We told you, you dumb fellow, that the linemen were on strike and might not be around tomorrow too’, they said, ‘ You see, those in Arunachal….’. Our hero broke into a run, homeward.

The local grocer glared at him, the friendly shoemaker turned away and even the vegetable vendor failed to greet him as our banker walked past all of them en route to his home. His other neighbour who runs a small scale unit, simply shut his door on sighting him. Just to refresh your memory, these are the Unfortunate beings mentioned in the opening para. What crime have I committed, wondered our hero, in a familiar display of lack of self-realisation. He got the answer when he reached home.

‘I am not going to school anymore, dad’, his daughter informed him. Tomorrow is the last for my term fees, she said tearfully. ‘But I gave you a cheque’, said the banker, ‘why did you not give it to the school’. The daughter, who was crying till then, was suddenly angry:’ well, they refuse to accept cheques because they are not sure when it will be cleared. They want only cash’. And added,’ Why are you bankers, doing this, dad?’. Our banker was now crying.

The moral of the story is…no, we will leave it at that.

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