WHEN Mushtaq Ahmed Yusufi, a reputed banker and a man of letters, was asked to name his favourite fragrance, the humorist instantly replied: “The fragrance of new currency notes is most exotic.”
Exceptions apart, bankers are generally regarded as a dry sort of people. It is not the kind of dryness that is caused by climatic changes; nor is it the dryness that needs moisturizing creams, lotions or gels for saturation. It is in a way injected in the temperament by work environment, elusive figures, lifeless ledgers, vapid vouchers, problematic papers, distressing documentation, noisy aura, nutty clients, unintelligent colleagues, sifarished bosses — all pestering six days a week from 9am to 6pm, aggravating the drudgery and increasing the depression. Naturally, as the banker emerges from the grating gloom he continues to suffer from the hangover and is in no mood to talk, mock or rock. To boot, the hapless banker is branded a ‘bore’.
That is exactly how I was classified by friends and relations just a few months after I had joined a bank. But bankers are human beings too, after all, I thought, and apart from the five senses, they must be secretly nursing a sixth sense too — a sense of humour which is probably drowned in the monotony of work. So I began to jot down every thing queer and quixotic I read, heard or noticed in or about banks or banking and would like to share a few anecdotes with my readers.
In the late 1960s, when the only bank in the private sector faced a competitor, the management slightly changed its recruiting policy. Sportsmen, who had so far been thought to possess a playful nature, were now also considered for appointment, though the management itself knew nothing about sports. One of my arthritis-afflicted friend was asked by the chairman of the selection committee.
“Do you play sports?”
“Yes — hockey.”
“Which position?” asked the chairman.
“Left out,” replied my friend and got the job.
As far as I was concerned, “Come early, go late,” was the rule I was told to abide by at the time of my appointment.
Reaching the branch at 8:15am, I sat wondering the wisdom of the dictum, when a small girl stepped in and asked Aik double roti, aik makhan. When I told her this was a bank and not a bakery she went away giggling. I reported the incident to the manager and was told that it was a poor marketing technique on my part. He spelt out what he thought was the correct marketing technique. “You should’ve bought the items yourself, taken them with the girl to her house, told her parents you were a bank employee, left your visiting card with the request to come to the branch and open an account.”
This reminds me of one of my colleagues who used to work late and reach home by 11:30pm everyday. His faithful wife, who kept waiting hungry, got weary. Infuriated, she one day dashed to the bank, brushed aside all protocol and barged into the office of the chief yelling, “Is this a bank or a hotel?
“This is a bank, madam,” was the chief’s instant reply.
“Then why does my husband return home after midnight everyday?” she demanded an immediate answer and left angrily banging the door behind her when the reply was delayed.
Each branch of the bank I served was allocated a certain amount to help the poor. A manager of small branch situated in the interior of Sindh spent more than the authorized allocation. All letters calling for his explanation remained unreplied. Irritated, the chief executive asked him to report to the head office immediately.
“You don’t have the courtesy to reply my letters,” howled the annoyed chief.
“Forgive me sir,” replied the manager meekly, “My parents have taught me that it is discourteous to reply back to seniors.”
Placated, the chief executive asked him to justify the excess expenditure.
“Sir”, replied the manager, “My branch is located in the most deserted part of Sindh. I cannot find any faqir in the area. So I engage drumbeaters to announce the occasion. The allocated amount is spent on feeding the poor; the extra amount is paid to the drumbeaters.”
This brings me to another anecdote. An extremely religious person approached the branch manager for opening a joint account in his wife’s name. As the signatures of his spouse were infirm, the manager asked him to submit a passport size photo of his wife. When he brought the photo, the astonished manager asked, “Who is that in the burqa?”
“She’s my wife,” the die-hard replied.
“How do I know who is inside it?”
“Because I say so,” he angrily replied.
This is not it. Once the manager of a reputed bank wrote to a client (once a valued customer, now a defaulter) to clear his long overdue loan with up-to-date interest, which was a substantial amount. After several reminders, the client replied: “Sir, I will not settle your claim. Reason: your letter begins with Bismillah and Islam prohibits interest as well as everything clubbed with it.”
If that’s not enough, here’s another amusing tale. Owing to insufficient funds in the account, a cheque was returned by the cashier with a memo stating “Refer to drawer” — (a banker’s euphemism to camouflage their client’s financial status). The account holder who got back the cheque angrily rushed to the bank and went straight to the teller, “Why refer to me,” he growled, “Refer to the manager who gave me the cheque book.”
And now an interesting case I had read somewhere quite some time back: A crazy client made out an exact facsimile of a cheque on a parchment and presented it at the bank’s counter for payment. Taken aback, the cashier, after consulting his superiors, refused to pay. The crazy client sued the bank. After hearing the arguments of both sides, the court ruled that the law defined a cheque as an instrument in writing but did not specify the material on which the cheque could be written. The bank honoured the cheque with damages.
