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There was no bank in our seaside village, Muthukur, in the early 1950s. There was a Post Office which had a sort of Savings Deposit Scheme. But I guess Father didn't use it much.
The nearest bank was in our District HQ, Nellore, 12 miles away. And whenever Father used to go there I used to tag along with him in the front seat of our KVR Bus...I was ten then. His official work of drawing the monthly salary of all his teachers was in the Imperial Bank of India (now SBI).
Father perhaps didn't like the word 'Imperial' since he was an armchair freedom fighter. So he had a Savings Account in the District Cooperative Bank at Pogathota. This suited him since it was mostly deserted unlike the crowded Imperial thing.
One day, he was busy in his DEO's office at Nellore, and asked me to go to the Coop Bank and draw Rs 20 for him. That was the first time I entered a bank. Father gave me a duly filled-in and signed Withdrawal Form enclosed in his Pass Book.
I found there were four or five counters behind the glass wall with pigeon holes in them, manned by as many clerks who were trying to look busy...I was their only customer at that hour. There was another counter separated from the rest with an impenetrable wall which was addressed: Cash. The guy behind it was counting and recounting his various monies taking them out and putting them back in their respective drawers.
And there was a lone seat behind which sat: Manager...a formidable-looking chap in thick specs.
And a liveried Peon.
I went in and stood in front of the Cash Counter, and when he at last looked me up, he saw the form in my hand and asked me to go to Counter #3.
Which I did and inserted the Pass Book and the Withdrawal Form into the hole. The clerk there inspected it, turning it back and forth and forth and back, and asked me how I was related to GRK. I said I am his son. He didn't look very convinced...GRK was so handsome and I very ordinary with a height just about reaching his window on tiptoe.
And he asked me if I could sign in English. I said yes. Then he thrust the form back to me and asked me to sign it on its reverse, saying:
"Received Cash...
...G. Prabhakara Sastry"
And I was worried since I didn't receive any cash yet...and I demurred.
He thought I didn't know the spelling of 'received' and so he wrote it out for me.
I still demurred. But I signed and asked him for my cash. He asked me to go and sit on the bench there and when the Cashier shouts my name I should go there and get my cash...there was no 'token system' in the Coop Bank.
I was sure that the clerk was going to pocket my entire money or at least some of it.
And I stood gloomily worrying what Father would say, and trying to watch what was going to happen to my form.
Nothing happened for 10 minutes. Then the clerk beckoned the peon and passed on to him a register with my form and pass-book enclosed in it.
The peon went out to spit (along with the register) and I was sure he would run away with my form.
He did return and placed the register on the right side of the table of the Manager who tried to look busy scanning a fat book.
After another 10 minutes the Manager sort of condescended to open the register and made several entries here and there and replaced it on the left side of his table, signing my form with a flourish.
It lay there for another 10 minutes...at the end of which I saw the Peon carry in a jug of coffee and pouring it out to all the yawning clerks in their dedicated glasses.
After everyone had their fill, and the peon had his, he carried the register back to the original clerk who took his sweet time and made more entries and kept it back on his table.
After another 5 minutes the Peon, now fully awake, carried my form and pass-book to the Cash Counter and kept it there. And it lay there since the Cashier had gone out to the toilet maybe.
At last the Cashier returned to his seat and beckoned to me to come.
...And then I found Father walking in with fury at my imbecility.
And he took over from where I left and rebuked me for taking such a long time to do such a simple thing...
...All he had to do was to go to the Manager's table and sit there chatting...the Peon brought his Rs 20 and his pass-book with a salute.
I guess they were deliberately delaying the show till Father came...they were perhaps not very sure of my DNA.
Since then I hated the Cooperative Movement...despite the delicious Amul Butter which I consume in tons these days.
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