I GUESS I got off the wrong side of my bed that day. I needed some cash to pay my utility bills and headed for the bank, a brisk three-minute walk from where I hang out. I put in my ATM card, punched my PIN code and waited. Nothing happened. No further steps could be seen asking whether I wanted a withdrawal or deposit or any such thing. I did what I usually do with home appliances like fridge, freezer and TV with a remarkable rate of success: I kicked the machine. Nothing doing. The machine proved to be pretty resistant. I looked around; it was early in the day and no one was behind me, so I kicked it again. A slip came out telling me that my card had been captured. I first thought the ATM was getting back at me for the violence I had resorted to. The note said I had to contact the bank immediately. That piece of paper appeared to be my arrest warrant. I pocketed it before anyone else could get hold of it, the one proof of my white collar crime.
I needed some money and instead my plastic was confiscated. Panic set in when I read the slip. The word ‘hot’ was mentioned against the car. And I read some other undecipherable code numbers through my glasses that probably connected me to some funds related to a terrorist organization. Perhaps, uncle Sam was at it. Anybody who has seen American programmes NYPD Blues and LAPD would be aware of the fact that ‘hot’ in the police world means stolen property. I looked for it in my wallet to see if I had slotted it in my driving licence by error. I had done it once stopping all operation at that ATM for the day. It was the right card.
Everybody in the bank looked at me rather oddly. Using common sense I deemed it fit to leave the scene without much ado and drove back. I was profusely sweating. I dialled the bank and asked for the man concerned and told him that my card had been swallowed by the machine. He asked me about when the incident had taken place and from where I was speaking. I told him that it happened five minutes ago and I was speaking from nearby. I did not want to give him my exact location. He told me to come to him for further processing. I guess my jig was up and I knew what processing meant. I had no option but to go back, for my money was there.
I gathered some courage and went right on. I gave the man that dreaded slip. He called in help and together they played some game on their personal computer. Then they called up a lady and the quorum was complete. The cubicle could take only as many people; had there been one more entity, the four of us would have been captured under the Hudood Ordinance. The trio kept looking at the monitor and me, alternately. I thought that they would call in security and pull my shoe off with which I had hit the machine before completing other formalities. And no way I was going to do that. See, I have this black toe. That is the reason why I put my socks on for 24 hours a day. Only my wife can knock them off. This and other unhappy thoughts kept my mind duly confused.
They could not find anything to nab me. The lady hurled a question at me: “Is it a joint account?” I said, “no.” But then I remembered that it was my son who years ago before going abroad had signed me into it. She said that the other partner probably had done it. I said how could a son do such a thing to his own father. He would not do it to someone else’s father for I knew him well enough. I found my feet and the energy started seeping back into me. I cleared my throat, clenched my fists and managed some coherent sentences to the effect that I was not pleased. And that I was in a hurry.
The lady sliced my card into two and got some forms signed. She said that I would get my new PIN code in 10 days. They apologized to me and gave me my cash.
I am never comfortable with these new electronic things. They can take you in and twist you for no fault of yours when you least expect it. Watch out.
I GUESS I got off the wrong side of my bed that day. I needed some cash to pay my utility bills and headed for the bank, a brisk three-minute walk from where I hang out. I put in my ATM card, punched my PIN code and waited. Nothing happened. No further steps could be seen asking whether I wanted a withdrawal or deposit or any such thing. I did what I usually do with home appliances like fridge, freezer and TV with a remarkable rate of success: I kicked the machine. Nothing doing. The machine proved to be pretty resistant. I looked around; it was early in the day and no one was behind me, so I kicked it again. A slip came out telling me that my card had been captured. I first thought the ATM was getting back at me for the violence I had resorted to. The note said I had to contact the bank immediately. That piece of paper appeared to be my arrest warrant. I pocketed it before anyone else could get hold of it, the one proof of my white collar crime.
