Battle with the bank

It is that time of year again, and I don’t mean anything to do with celebration. People are running around with furrowed brows and glowers that would rival a hungry alligator’s. and the papers and television commercial breaks are all about scams – aka investments – that can help you make some money instead of paying most of it to the government in…hold your breath…taxes. Even after having complained for years that I paid more in tax than I actually made, I am still fairly honest about declaring to the authorities the amount of money that I earn and allowing them to take what they need to out of my paychecks before I get to even see them. Which means a nice dent in any budget that I may dream of, be it vacations in Manhattan or new carpets that Small Cat can shed on, a Rolex for Father or a diamond the size of – if not the Ritz – a nicely sized pea for me. And by the time I have enough saved up for any of those, it is time to hand a good proportion of it over to the Tax Man. But I remain honest…more or less.

As a result of all this, when the office sends around a notice about investments, I jump to it. And jumping means forwarding the email to Father, who painfully works it all out and tells me where to sign what. Which I do, like a good and dutiful citizen who pays taxes even though she grumbles a bit about them. And to be a good daughter who does not want to tax (ha ha) her male parent too much, I volunteered to go to the bank to do at least a part of the aforementioned investing. It would not take that long, I said with greatly misplaced confidence. I could do it easy. All that had to be done was to hand in a form or two, sign in various places, smile sweetly at surly clerks and swish nonchalantly out of there without a care in the world since my conscience would be clear and my taxes paid…almost.

As I said before, HA HA!

If life were that simple, I would be in Manhattan wearing my diamonds and asking Father for the time as seen on his Rolex while Small Cat burrowed under new silk carpets looking for her toys.

I went nice and early to the bank. Or tried to. It took a while, since everyone and their cousins were going in the same direction that I was and all of them wanted to get there first. So in good Mumbaiyya driving style, they all crowded and pushed into the same lane and honked madly as they inched forward in the rather futile hope of realising their unilateral ambition. By the time we got to the bank, I was more than a little frazzled and the driver was falling asleep at the wheel. I told him I would be about 15 minutes and walked in.

It has changed. The bank that I had been a customer of since I was about 11 years old had become all modern and futuristic. I was stopped at the door that had never been there before and asked to take a token by a security guard who needed to either learn some manners or understand that I was not the child he addressed me as. I punched the button he demanded and took the token he asked me to. And then I looked for someone, anyone, who looked as though they could help me. No one would, maybe no one could. Finally, a sweet short stout gentleman who had been most kind on a recent visit rescued me and told me what form to fill in how, which check to make out to what account and where to sign. I did all that and then was shown to a line I needed to stand in.

I stood. And stood. And stood. Then I sat, since I was wearing heels and my feet started hurting. And I sat and sat. Finally, after I glared at the Chief Manager, he came out of his cabin and asked me what I was waiting for, in a very polite and vaguely oily tone. I told him. He offered me a chair. And another. Then bustled off to see what the hold-up was. On his way there, he waved me to yet another chair. Then some minion came bustling up with a chair I had never met or seen before and asked me to sit down. The Chief Manager came past again. Another chair was shoved in my general direction. And, just when I was stepping forward to finish my work at the counter with the very bad-tempered clerk behind the glass, a security person (a woman this time) rushed up wheeling another chair that she made valiant attempts to shove beneath my bottom.

My work was finally done. By which time Father had got into the act, and called the Chief Manager, who was back in his cabin and bowing and scraping desperately, sweating slightly at the edges as he listened to Father’s most acerbic best over the fibre optic cable from the other end of the city. I popped my head into that same cabin, handed over my business card and said that ever since I had become a customer at the bank, it had gone gradually from decent to awful. I then smiled sweetly at the most uncomfortable Chief Manager and left.

It was only when I was in the car that the thought struck me: I could have collected all the chairs and sold them. The money would have paid my taxes, even though it would probably not finance a vacation in Manhattan.