Coming Home: Part 3

The stench of stale urine hit me as we walked down the corridor of the 14^th floor of a high rise building in Cuffe Parade, Mumbai. My Mom and I had just driven in to Mumbai and were going to stay the night with her friend. She had asked us to come to her workplace. She is a big boss in a big bank. The nameplate outside her door was half the size of the door. Very imposing. Her secretary had 4 phones on her desk. I was impressed. After waiting for 15 minutes while she finished up a meeting, we were ushered inside her office.

It was 750 square feet of plushness, with a marbled floor that gleamed with polish. Venetian blinds were thrown up on one side to reveal a view of the Ocean. I was admiring the skyline and the tiny boats docked in the harbor when R Aunty’s voice interrupted me.

“Kasab came in from there,” she said.  Way to kill a buzz. I let the blinds down and went and sat down quietly. We sipped the adrak-wali chai that is a panacea for all ills while she caught up with my Mother. R Aunty is one of those women of substance. Single Mom with 2 girls. A career that she has worked her way steadily to the top at. Now, less than one year away from retirement, she is one of the highest ranking officials in the Bank she works at. Testament to this fact are the 5 phones on her desk. Nobody who is not important has 5 phones on their desk. One of them is always buzzing too. She is also a most entertaining conversationalist. Her stories are told well and embellished with detail (not always, I am afraid rooted totally in fact, for she loves to tell a tale!).  This day she regaled us with the story of the father of a Bollywood starlet (who shall for obvious reasons remain unnamed) who came to her because he wanted her to write off a loan for the staggering sum of 6.5 million $ that he claimed he was unable to pay. Story below is entirely in her words and 100% true. I decided to write it in first person, because honestly, some of the zingers just don’t sound as impactful when paraphrased.

FoS- Father of Starlet, RA-R Aunty

FoS: “Good morning Ma’am. It’s so wonderful to see a woman in a top position. What you have achieved is amazing.

RA: Have you never seen a woman in a position like mine before this? You are behind the times. Please, have a seat.”

FoS: “Ma’m, I simply cannot pay back the loan. Would you please just write it off with some “minor adjustments” between ourselves.  (Minor adjustment is Indian for kickbacks!)

RA: But your daughter is doing very well. Surely she can help you.

FoS: Oh Ma’m! We are estranged. When she sees me, she looks away and I also look in the other direction. She will never help me Ma’am. Maybe you can help me, please.”

RA: “One moment please.” She picks up her phone. “Clerk, bring in Mr. FoS’s credit file please.” Once she had the file, she opened it up to show him a clipping. It was a picture that had appeared in the newspaper 4 days ago. It showed said starlet at a social do with her arms entwined around her parents, who stood one on either side of her.

RA: “It looks to me like you and your daughter are on very good terms Mr.FoS.”

FoS: “Arre Ma’am. Yeh sab toh karna padta hai media ke liye. She doesn’t like me at all. That’s the fact.”

RA: “OK. If you can’t pay up, I have attached your house, I will also attach your factory.”

FoS: “Ma’am, you can’t be so cruel. I will come on to the roads. I have nothing. Look at my clothes. I barely have money for a decent set of clothes.” Suddenly his phone rang. He rummaged around in both pockets, first fishing out one phone, which was not the culprit, then the other, that was. After a hushed conversation, he came back to her.

FoS: “Ma’m, can we get parking down here?”

RA: “Parking here is only for the people who work in this building. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

FoS: “Is there anyway you can help? They are not letting my driver wait downstairs.”

RA: “What car is it? If it’s a small car, we can try and squeeze it in.”

FoS: Puffing chest out. “It’s a Mercedes, S-Class.”

RA: “In that case, since you don’t have money, why don’t you leave the car here, I will attach that too. It will be a drop in the ocean of the money you owe us and are unwilling to pay.”

FoS: “Ma’am, you are a bloodsucker!”

RA: “If you can’t mind your language, please leave.”

FoS: “You don’t know who I am. I will make sure you will regret this behavior.”

RA: “Do what you want. Now leave. This conversation is over. Expect a notice soon. I am attaching your factory.”

The encounter in the office ended there, but RA dragged them to court, sold his factory and recovered a vast sum of money out of the total amount he owed them. The story is legendary in the bank, and a very big feather in her cap. Iron Woman, she is.

While we were chatting, another officer requested a meeting. She allowed us to sit in. It was the most entertaining 20 minutes of my life.

NMoB (new manager of Bank), RC (random clerk), RA- R Aunty.

RC: “Ma’m, Mr.NMoB has just recently taken charge at X branch in Mumbai. He has come to us with a request for write-offs for small loans of 400 accounts at his branch.”

RA: “What is the total amount he wants a write off for?”

RC: 150,000$

RA: “I can’t write off that much all at once. Mr.NMoB, are you familiar with these loans?”

NMoB: “Yes, Ma’am. I have gone through the files.”

RA: When did you take charge?”

NMoB: “1 month ago.”

RA: Who was the loan officer who granted these loans at your branch?”

NMoB: “Mr.Loan Officer Asshole”

RA dialed her secretary. “Put me through to Mr.Loan Officer Asshole now.”

RA: “Mr. Loan officer Asshole, I have here in front of me, a request to write off 400 loans from your branch. Are you aware of this?”

Mr.Loan Office Asshole: “No, Ma’am.”

RA: “Have you made attempts to recover these loans?”

Mr.Loan Office Asshole: “No, Ma’am.”

RA: “Did you sanction these loans?”

Mr.Loan Office Asshole: “No, Ma’am. The Manger signs off on them. I did nothing.”

RA: “The Manager signed the loans, the clerk filled up the forms. What did you do?”

Silence at the other end.

RA: “Are you familiar with loan protocols?”

Silence at the other end.

RA: “How many years of service left before you retire?”

Mr.Loan Office Asshole: “3 years,”

RA: “For your sake, I hope they go by quickly. Thank you. Good bye.”

So, for some reason, I got a huge kick out of watching her hand this arrogant, inefficient chap his balls on a platter. Gave me a huge kick. She then administered some sharp words of wisdom to Mr.NMoB and gave him several instructions before saying she would visit his branch next month to take stock.

After they left, I commented on her Iron Woman persona. She sighed and said, “I am head of recovery. Around here, we call it the mortuary…where retrieval is next to impossible. Talking tough is my job. Not my true personality but a façade I have to put on. Some days after I go home, I just want to sit quietly and not talk for the rest of the evening.”

When I grow up, I want to be as badass as her. I told her that as we dug into Paapdi chaat and the most mild gol-gappas I have ever had at a chaat place near her workplace. It was like Arnav and Khushi’s Gol gappa Ve. Sweet, but no kick.

She lives, by the way in a posh flat in a 35 storey building on Cuffe Parade. One of the most expensive areas in Mumbai. Her flat is worth about 8 million $, she informs me. It’s an official residence, granted to her by the bank. It’s a very nice house, I tell her. Then, I peer out of her kitchen window. Paan stains and trash line the space between her apartment and the next. 8 million $ for a view of the mottled, red stain that paan leaves everywhere and the smell of rotting trash.

After a minor incident that night when I managed to push my contacts way up into my eyelids, leading to about 5 minutes of panic, and sat through Balika Vadhu (because Badass she might be, but she still has poor taste in soaps!) I went to bed.

The next morning I had my visa appointment at the US Consulate in Bandra. The appointment was at the insanely early hour of 7.45am. We woke at 5.30 and left home by 6.15am. It was one of those crazy, rainy mornings in Mumbai. When even this dirty, grimy, grey city looks pretty. We drove past Marine Drive, where there were a good number of walkers, out for a morning stroll in the pelting rain. The sky was completely overcast and the horizon was barely visible over the ocean. The sea looked restless, as mighty waves crashed into the sandbars at Marine Drive. I was reminded of that last scene from “Wake Up Sid” where Sid meets Aisha at Marine Drive on a rainy Monsoon morning. It was exactly that kind of day.

“I love the Mumbai rains, it makes even this city look nice,” I told my Mom as we drove past Worli into Bandra.

30 minutes later

“I hate the Mumbai rains,” I muttered to myself, as I stood outside the US Consulate at 7.30 am, soaked to the skin under my rain jacket and umbrella, clutching my handbag to me for dear life. About a thousand people (no joke) stood in a long, winding, snake-like queue outside the embassy, waiting to get in. It took 30 minutes for me to enter their hallowed premises. My shoes and socks were soaked. I was drenched. And when I opened my handbag, I found to my horror, that some of my documents (thankfully not my passport) were also wet. I spent the next 2 hours blowing gently on my I-20, trying to dry it out before my turn to be interviewed arrived. The lady sitting next to me gave me a disdainful sniff. “You should always double protect all your documents. It’s the Mumbai Monsoons, no?” she said superiorly. She was absolutely correct of course. I should not have assumed that a sheet protector inside a leather handbag would be sufficient protection. But, since I was feeling particularly hard-done by, and was cold and miserable, I merely sniffed and didn’t offer an apologetic response, or in fact, any kind of response.

So, the protocol to be issued a Visa at the US Consulate is not very complicated. Just involved. To me, it seemed like to going to Tirupati. Tirupati, for those who do not know, is the shrine of Lord Balaji, an avatar of Lord Vishnu, the preserver. Located in the Tirumala Mountains in Andhra Pradesh, it is considered one of the most holy temples in South India. By default, therefore, it is one of the richest Temple Trusts in the nation. When you go to Tirupati, you have to take a bus or a car up the hill to the temple. Then, to gain access to the inner sanctum, you have to stand in line. It is a long, long line that moves fairly quickly. You stand for a while, then you get tired and you squat. Then the entire crowd ahead of you moves all at once. So, you get off your haunches and move with them. This procedure continues for several hours until you reach the inner shrine, where Lord Balaji resides. Bedecked in diamonds, his idol winks at you, and barely you have had a moment to fold your hands in a Namaste, when the temple priests will push you away. “Jaragandi, amma, Jaragandi,” is the oft-repeated refrain. It is an anticlimactic feeling like no other. You wait for hours, for a glimpse of the Lord for a few seconds.

Like Tirupati, is the US Embassy. You wait for hours and hours, twiddling your thumbs. Every so often, an entire group of people moves in to the inner sanctum where the arbiters reside, and the herd outside changes seats, moving ahead. In my case, I sat there, shivering with cold, as my thin kurti was soaked as were my socks and I could take neither off in public! Then, your token number flashes on the screen and you go for your own personal darshan with the Visa Gods. The entire process takes about 2 minutes. In my case, because I was so lost in my own abstract universe of nothingness, it takes 20 minutes longer, because no one told me I had to get finger printed before the interview. To be fair to the US Consulate, they are efficient and the process is streamlined. To me, they were courteous. No complaints there. I also spent my 2 ½ hours there, viewing and listening in with great interest, other people’s visa interviews. I know it’s eavesdropping, but if people must talk loudly, I can’t help hearing what they say!

Students were asked how many exams they’d failed in the course of their education!  They were also asked how much their fathers earned. I frowned to myself. Since I am fully funded, such issues do not concern me. But if asked, I honest to God, do not know what my Dad makes. Really. No Joke. The newly-wed brides wanting to join their husbands were asked to display their wedding pictures. “Show me the pheras,” said the lady conducting the interview. She knew pheras! I was impressed. Then, I guess it’s her job to know what pheras are.

It’s worth a sociological study, the US Consulate. People going for interviews strike instant friendships. The relief on a kid’s face when their student visa is granted is palpable. They smile and hop and skip and jump their way out. Then there are the complainers. “Isn’t this an American place? Aren’t they supposed to be punctual? My appointment was at 8 am. It is now 10.30am. “You and 300 other people had appointments at 8 am lady,” I bit back the retort that almost escaped. They’d actually done a nice thing by allowing everyone with appointments in the morning, inside the Consulate that day all at once because it was raining so heavily. So, yes, it was slightly chaotic. But, better chaotic and inside, than getting Pneumonia outside, no?

After I was done, I exited the inner sanctum of the US Consulate Devasthanam and  stepped into a ginormous puddle. I was beyond caring now anyway. It was time to drive back home to Pune. Pune which resides happily on the Leeward side of the Western ghats. Pune, where it rains, and it even pours on occasion. But never storms like Mumbai. Pune, where the drains work. Somewhat. Pune, where my home is.