My dad and I braved the signs and went inside. There was a sign inside telling us that the bank was indeed functioning normally in-spite of part of the workforce being on strike and agitating outside. In that case, I wondered why the bank needed to employ that many people in the first place! I had my answer very soon.
The receptionist was a young lady. I am sure she had not smiled in a million years (this was a government owned bank, you see). I told her what I wanted done and she gave me a ticket with a number on it. There were over a hundred customers waiting to be served. After what seemed like hours (but was actually 45 minutes), my number was called. I leaped up from my stupor and rushed to the counter. A grim looking clerk with a walrus moustache sat on the other side. "Account Number" he bellowed. "I do not have an account here" I replied. All I want to do is get a few US $ converted to Indian Rupees." "You need an account in this bank to do that" the walrus bellowed again. I could not control myself. "Now why would I want to open an account here. I don't even live in this city." That was a cardinal mistake. "If you do not live in this city, you cannot open an account in this bank" barked the walrus. "Then how do I get my money converted" I bleated. "You need to have an account in this bank" he said, seeming drop into a parrot-like stupor. I realized we were going around in circles.
Fortunately for me, my dad had heard this exchange from a distance. He came over and told the walrus that he had an account in that bank. "In that case, he can get his money exchanged" came the reply. The walrus then gave me another ticket with a number on it and directed me upstairs. He did not ask for my dad's account number or, for that matter, how my dad was related to me. For all he knew, a complete stranger could have walked up and told the clerk he had an account there. By this time, the heat was getting to be unbearable, even inside the building.
My dad and I climbed two flights of stairs. There was a wizened looking man with thick glasses sitting at a desk with a huge notebook on it. The ceiling fan was groaning and moving around as though in great pain. The fan blades looked like they had never been cleaned. The dust and cobwebs on the fan seemed ready to fall on us, wanting to go home with us when we left. I gave the man my ticket and after answering a few more questions, handed over ten $20 bills. He proceeded to count the money at least four times, each time wetting his fingers with his saliva (there was no way I was going to touch those $20 bills again). He then entered the serial number of each of the $20 bills into his big notebook. After what seemed like eternity, me made me sign the big ledger, next to what he had just entered. He then grunted something, gave me another token with a number on it and told me to go downstairs to collect the money. I went downstairs, waited another 20 minutes for my number to be called, and then went to the counter and collected my Indian Rupees. The clerk who finally gave me my Indian Rupees was another young woman who seemed to just sit there doing nothing most of the time. For the life of me, I could not understand why I had to wait 20 minutes.
I was overjoyed and relieved that the ordeal was over but also emotionally drained. I walked out with my dad, holding onto my Rupees for dear life. One of the striking bank employees accosted us as we were walking outside. "This bank is trying to computerize and put us out of jobs," he screamed, "Don't have a bank account in this bank." "Don't worry. I never will," I replied as I hurried out of there.
All this for wanting to convert US $200 into Indian Rupees.
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