Stunned by the viral spread of credit cards, a paan shop owner is advised by a well-meaning friend to introduce his own credit card
SOMETIME back, the credit card was a prestigious piece of plastic. It was issued to men of means. Its possession and use at designated centres was considered as a status symbol.
Of course, some information was required of the applicant, namely age (neither an old fool nor an irresponsible youth); income (preferably with more than five zeros suffixed to a figure and whatever the source); references (any except that of policemen); profession (legal or illegal); and the most-wanted ID card (with unmasked photo). On successful completion of these requirements, you were allowed to buy now and pay later.
With the passage of time, mushroom institutions (particularly financial) leaped into the credit card biz. They have not only pushed up the demand for telephone directories to get the contact name and number of potential victims, but have also relaxed the requirements pertaining to age and income, eliminated references and ignored profession. Their mode of approach is unique: a call at a odd hour will inquire about your health and if okay, will then begin listing the advantages of falling prey to their call (the disadvantages are for you to assess). If, God forbid, you are unwell, they will call back later when you are ready to be sacrificed. Not only that, a number of canvassers are let loose for gifting the cards whether you like to have them or not. Lured by the lucrativeness of the card business, petrol pumps, renowned hotels and fast-food restaurants have also ventured into the arena. The only forsaken ones are the small shopkeepers.
Stunned by the viral spread of credit cards, I suggested to a friend who has a paan shop adjacent to a tea stall to introduce his own credit card, which would skyrocket his business and land him in a supermarket.
“You mean the aaj udhar kal naqad business?”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t have the know-how nor can I afford a professional for it.”
“It’s easy,” I said in an encouraging tone. “ All you need is an empty cigarette packet, a pair of scissor, ball pen, stamp pad, rubber stamp of the name of your shop, notebook, and the sacred book.”
“I have all of these things — except the sacred book. Why do I need it?”
“You see, my friend, everything in this business depends on faith. Yours is a small business, so ask your customers to hold the sacred book and make them swear that they won’t default.”
“Like a witness in a courtroom?”
“That’s it.” “And then?” he asked curiously.
“The rest is easy. You cut the cigarette pack in a rectangular shape, stamp it with your shop’s name, give it a number with the name and address of your customer and an expiry date, then copy the same details in your notebook. When an apparently affluent but factually penniless person approaches you, you can sell your things and ask him to enter the amount in the notebook and sign it.”
“But how can it help expand my business,” he asked, interested and inquisitive.
“You know so many in your trade. Maybe they have the goods you don’t have. You can arrange with them to sell these items at an extra price, which is your profit, to your customer who approaches them with your card. Every evening you can pay cash to your fellow traders and take back the card. Later on, you can collect the amount with your profit from your customer.”
Assiduously, he worked hard to implement the cigarette pack credit card business and made progress. However, the graph of his cash sales dropped. At times, he would bring cash from home to pay his colleagues who accommodated his credit card customers; but his credit business showed an upward trend.
To attract more people, he put up a prominent signboard; Udhar Paan Ghar; employed a graduate whom he seated in the adjacent tea stall with an order to serve him tea at 11am, lunch and evening tea with snacks. As his credit clients increased, he assigned the collection job to the graduate employee. Whenever I passed by his shop, he would greet me respectfully, radiating a smile of prosperity.
One day I found the shop closed. It remained closed for quite some time. I became worried and inquired his whereabouts from the neighbourhood tea stall.
“He has been arrested,” I was told. “Why?” I asked, astonished.
“They — the police — said he had no license to do the credit card business.”
“But it was just Udhar Khatta,” I explained in a sympathizing tone.
“Sahib, that’s just for public record. In fact, the poor fellow didn’t have enough ready cash and the policemen could not benefit from his Aaj Udhar Kal Naqad Scheme!”
Stunned by the viral spread of credit cards, a paan shop owner is advised by a well-meaning friend to introduce his own credit card 
