A number of recent scandals in the institutions which sit on our hard-earned money have lent them the character of barely-disguised pissoirs. The stench is all pervading. It is no play on words to say that urea is stinking in a very stately manner, and without any reserve whatsoever! We have seen the siphon work miraculously. No one knows how much of the securities-scam money was siphoned off, or where it was siphoned off to. In the pissoir scandal the siphon has worked even more smoothly and silently. But God, the stench! I just cannot comprehend the infallible omnipotence of the great Indian siphon when so many mechanisms are in place to prevent fallible men from falling prey to temptation.I remember, many years ago, while attempting to provide mobility to an unusually stubborn automobile through the good offices of a starting handle, I broke my wrist. It was painful but, horror of horrors, I found myself almost a functus officio. I could not even initial files, let alone sign my name in full. A
dreadful impotence descended on me. How would I be able to make all those queries, raise all those objections that were so integral to my function?
But a more immediate problem put these thoughts on the back burner. It was the end of the month and I had to take some money out of the bank. I took out my chequebook and wrote out a cheque. The signature resembled the path taken by an ant suffering from St Vitus' dance. Anyway, I sent the cheque to the bank by messenger. Two hours passed with no sign of the messenger's return. I was contemplating whether to send another after him when, suddenly, there was a commotion in the hall outside. I went out to see what was happening. There the messenger was, flanked by two policemen, with an assortment of other characters. They were all so excited that it took me ten minutes to find out what had happened.
It transpired that the attendant at the bank counter had taken one look in the specimen signature folio and refused to honour the cheque right away. My man had tried
to explain that the ant's crawl was on account of a fracture suffered by the account holder. The cashier joined in and after a few others had analysed the situation, they came to the conclusion that the poor messenger had fraudulently obtained a leaf from my chequebook and was trying to withdraw money from my account!
He had tried to explain, but no one listened. The Nagarwala case was still fresh in public memory. Ultimately, the people at the bank had called in the guardians of the law -- and hence the procession. I explained the position, showed my fractured wrist and signed the cheque. The ant-crawl signatures tallied. The messenger was off the hook.
But my liquidity crisis remained. How was I to get the money? My own money. All of Rs 300! Ultimately someone suggested I go and meet the agent at the bank. I went to him but, predictably, he expressed his helplessness. He could not authorise a payment unless the signature tallied. An hour was wasted trying to convince him. Then someone remembered the
legal provision which is invoked when an account holder becomes an invalid! I was immediately reclassified and placed among the halt and the lame and asked to sign an affidavit and indemnify the bank. "In the event, heretofore and notwithstanding..." and much more gobbledygook was deployed. The document was duly signed by two witnesses. Only then did I get Rs 300 of my own money.
This makes it so difficult to explain how such a lot of money managed to change hands without security in the scam. But that is so only if you exclude the theory that the bank was so committed to increasing exports that, one fine morning, it just exported $40 million.
Copyright © 1998 Indian Express Newspapers (Bombay) Ltd.
