Haven't written anything in ages, but a recent traumatic experience has shaken me enough to take up the pen again. I had to to the bank. Yes, that's it. That's the traumatic experience. And no, the source of the trauma was not the fact that my account had dried up like the wells of my home state do in summer. Any visit to any bank for any reason puts me in a state of extreme nervous tension- comparable to what i feel when I'm appearing for an interview or an oral. I behave like a moron once I'm in one of those places. And invariably get shouted at. The shouting acts as fodder for my next visit's tension. This particular visit was made with the intention of getting a demand draft

I enter the Bank, and it is filled with busy people. In a bank, busy is synonymous with rude. Avoiding them, i look around for a friendly face. The only not-so-busy person i spot is a rifle carrying guard. Summoning all my courage, i go and ask him where should i go if i want to get a demand draft. In a kinder voice than i'd expected, he guides me to the counter and also tells me to ask how much commission i'd have to pay for the draft. A shouting later, i have the form and commission amount. I fill up as much of the form i can understand (yes, it is in english) and am back to the counter man. I dont know where in the form to put the commission amount. Before i can open my mouth to ask him, he grabs the form from my hand. One look at it, and he shouts - "Madam, u've not written anything here, not even the amount". And i manage to splutter - "I wanted to ask what to write". He looks at me as though i'm speaking in some African language. "What to write? What to write ?" - he's stuck that that sentence, not wanting to believe that someone can ask that. I clarify - "Yes, where to put the commission amount". And while he's barking an answer at me, another bark joins in. Several barks later, I'm the proud owner of two forms - one for the draft and the other for the commission. After going through both the forms, i go back to the counter man to submit the forms, but by now, there a line of people waiting to get shouted at. I'm almost at the head of the queue when i realize that nowhere have i mentioned the name of the person to whom the draft is to be made. Sprint out of the queue before the counter man can bark again. After a lot of deep and profound thinking, i realize that probably the Payee column should be the place to put that name. I scratch out Vinaya from there, and put the right name. I'm back at the end of the line, but the rifle man, who'd seen me sprint tells me to go directly to the head of the line. Blessing him, and asking Him to join me in this noble cause, I'm back to the counter man. This time surprisingly, he has nothing to bark about. He writes something on both the forms and hands them over to me. Feeling like i have the key to a priceless treasure in my hand, i look around for the rifle man to ask for directions. By this time, he's convinced that i am an African aadivasi on her maiden visit to the civilized world. He points me to where the cashier and the teller sit and says, go give the forms to him. I promptly head for the cahier's counter. A finger tells me I'm at the wrong place. I submit the forms and the amount at the teller's counter and that guy tells me - collect the draft from there after 10 minutes, pointing vaguely in the direction where all the employs of the bank except him are sitting. To terrified to ask where exactly there is, i nod and come out. 10 minutes later (which i spend trying to get my heart to go slow), I'm back to the rifle man. He tells me "you-see that-RED-shirted-man-there, go-ask-him -if your-draft-has-arrived", pronouncing each word very slowly, not sure whether the African aadivasi even understands the language he's speaking. Gratefully nodding my head, i go and ask the red man. He says he hasn't got the draft yet. I sit down to an infinite wait. Some time later, that man says, "Go collect it form that man there', telling me even how to get there. Grateful, i walk up to that man. He looks up and says "Yes mam, how can i help you? ". Not expecting such courtesy, i manage to splutter - "Draft". He says, "Oh yes. Please sign here". I obey. I'm sure any self respecting handwriting analyst would place the age of the hand that made that sign at not less than 75. Collecting that damned draft, i walk out of the dreaded place. Coming out, i look around to see if i can see the rifle man to thank him, but i see him busy helping a fellow tribesman. Shooting him a grateful look, i get out of the place with something looking suspiciously similar to a cheque. Only, instead of my name it contains the Bank's name below the dotted line. And they say, what's in a name !!!

I am going to name my child Union Bank so that he/she never has to suffer the trauma i've had to.