Rich man, poor man

I went with my rich friend to the bank. The manager came out of his office and escorted us in. A white-coated steward took our order for tea with milk, and coffee without — and in a moment, like some financial wizard, the man had produced a silver salver covered with biscuits. The manager wrung his hands like Uriah Heep on a good day and asked after my friend’s health. Then, as if it was the most important item on his agenda he asked after the health of his wife, the children and other sundry relatives. My friend sipped his coffee and related a wishy-washy, sad, sorry little joke.

The manager laughed uproariously and slapped the side of his thigh and said he had to write it down for future reference. My friend then said that he hadn’t brought the forms in complete because he hadn’t had the time and the seal was not on one of the affidavits. The bank manager pooh-poohed the shortfall and said, don’t even think about it, just leave the papers on my desk and one of my boys will deal with it. One of the boys came in, all black suit and sharp tie, radiating lemony cologne and possessed of the crispness of potato wafers. No problem, he said, when it was explained that the documents were incomplete, we’ll process it, anyway, right away. The manager then bent down, opened his desk and pulled out a pen and pencil set which he presented to my friend who did not even look at it. The manager said his gratitude would know no bounds if his esteemed client would accept this humble gift. He then escorted us to the car park, genuflecting like an out of order celluloid doll, up, down and side-ways as we drove away.

Awesomely impressed, I decided to do the same and pay my manager a visit. The doorman stopped me at the door (where else?) and asked me if I had an appointment. I told him I was a client. He said the manager was busy in a meeting. I said, he is not, I can see him through the glass door, he’s alone. The doorman called for help and a young lady said she would help. I said, it is about my account, I wish to talk to the manager about this deposit I wish to make, very hush hush.

She said you can talk to the Assistant to the Assistant Branch Manager.

I said I didn’t want to talk to the assistant to the ABM, I wanted the top man; this was big. The top man was “accessed” and I was told I had five minutes. I went in, shook hands and said, just the right time for tea. He didn’t pick it up. I said, a funny thing happened to me; I must tell you about it. He broke a pencil and said: I am a little busy. I said, I want to put in some money but I forgot to bring the necessary documents. The manager grimaced and said, what about the forms?

I said, I thought we could do them here together, over a cup of tea. He said, I am sorry, there is no time for tea, let me send you to our field officer.

But I want to talk to you, I said.

He said he would have to forgo the pleasure, now if I would be so kind as to “push off” he would appreciate it.

Five minutes later I 
was sitting with a trainee bank executive who wanted to know all my details, including my birthmarks and was asking me for two guarantees to my character.

You’re kidding, I said.

She said, no, it was procedure.

I said, why should I get two people to confirm my character to put money in your bank?

She said, well, we can’t just have anybody putting money in our bank, by the way how much do you want to put?

I said, ten. She said, mil. I said, no.

She said, ten what?

I said, ten thou’. She said, you want to put ten thou’ and you went to the branch manager, you please stand in the deposit queue.

I said, you want to hear a joke but she’d gone.

Guess there are some plus points to being rich.

bikram@khaleejtimes.com