Musings outside an ATM Booth : Indian love Story
While the recent cash crisis had led to much constraint, friendships have been forged; love stories have been born in ATM booths and many a heart broken! And as I sit on a cement block in a cold November evening waiting for a friend who has dragged my lazy behind to keep her company as she bears the chill outside one such booth, I am once again reminded of the many oddities of life. Oh how I wish for the Pradhan Mantri to take a peek and also a bow for this ruckus, conveniently given breath at the initial weeks of the month when we all need to settle our rents and ration.
It is an impatient lot! The old security guard with his rust eaten rifle and glaucomic eyes could only do so much if the crowd was to get riotous. But everyone wants a little something to spend and so, it is a heartwarming sight of human camaraderie as they all laugh in sympathy as the nervous performer inside the booth punches the wrong digits and her card slips from her fingers on to the floor.
The curious and the bored ones occasionally steals a peek as I type this on my phone, in an almost saint-like pose, without a care about the precious two thousand that looks like a Monopoly note, the maximum withdrawal allowed in a day. Little do they know about the pile of debt I have racked up over the past two weeks.
Inside the booth, the machine is churning overtime and spitting crisp notes in tens, twenties and hundreds. If it happened to have a mind on its own, I am certain that it would have loved the attention and the many caresses. On the other hand, I thank the heavens it is not. I can imagine it barking insults at the lot for punching in wrong figures and digits as the grumpy old woman with betel nut stains on her mouth would do at the nearest bank. Bless her anyway.
The wind is getting colder by the moment and my fingers are going numb. My half empty constitution reminds me that I haven’t had the scent of pork in a long time, a long time. A middle age man walks up smartly to the front of the line, stands on his toes, takes a look inside the booth and with a tsk, leaves.
But the spirit is not broken yet. My friend emerges out of the standoff with fresh notes. It is too late to buy pork at the bazaar. The toilet has given her a beckoning call apparently. Canned fish for dinner it is. Wiping off the liquid on my frozen nostrils, I take a leave of the booth for the moment, but not before leaving behind an aura of solidarity for my fellow citizens who are braving the cold for a better tomorrow on a very literal note.
While the recent cash crisis had led to much constraint, friendships have been forged; love stories have been born in ATM booths and many a heart broken! And as I sit on a cement block in a cold November evening waiting for a friend who has dragged my lazy behind to keep her company as she bears the chill outside one such booth, I am once again reminded of the many oddities of life. Oh how I wish for the Pradhan Mantri to take a peek and also a bow for this ruckus, conveniently given breath at the initial weeks of the month when we all need to settle our rents and ration.
It is an impatient lot! The old security guard with his rust eaten rifle and glaucomic eyes could only do so much if the crowd was to get riotous. But everyone wants a little something to spend and so, it is a heartwarming sight of human camaraderie as they all laugh in sympathy as the nervous performer inside the booth punches the wrong digits and her card slips from her fingers on to the floor.
The curious and the bored ones occasionally steals a peek as I type this on my phone, in an almost saint-like pose, without a care about the precious two thousand that looks like a Monopoly note, the maximum withdrawal allowed in a day. Little do they know about the pile of debt I have racked up over the past two weeks.
Inside the booth, the machine is churning overtime and spitting crisp notes in tens, twenties and hundreds. If it happened to have a mind on its own, I am certain that it would have loved the attention and the many caresses. On the other hand, I thank the heavens it is not. I can imagine it barking insults at the lot for punching in wrong figures and digits as the grumpy old woman with betel nut stains on her mouth would do at the nearest bank. Bless her anyway.
The wind is getting colder by the moment and my fingers are going numb. My half empty constitution reminds me that I haven’t had the scent of pork in a long time, a long time. A middle age man walks up smartly to the front of the line, stands on his toes, takes a look inside the booth and with a tsk, leaves.
But the spirit is not broken yet. My friend emerges out of the standoff with fresh notes. It is too late to buy pork at the bazaar. The toilet has given her a beckoning call apparently. Canned fish for dinner it is. Wiping off the liquid on my frozen nostrils, I take a leave of the booth for the moment, but not before leaving behind an aura of solidarity for my fellow citizens who are braving the cold for a better tomorrow on a very literal note.
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