The Hindu Business Line : Life was a silly, endless wait

"Ennada, pullaikku enna speed (What's the speed of your son)," asked Krishnan in Tamil of my father, while one was eyeing the passing beauties on an evening near Lake Market, in south Calcutta. Speed referred to the skills in typewriting and shorthand; a 40 by 150 — 40 words per minute in typewriting and 150 words in Pitman's shorthand — meant a good rating. Its equivalent in modern days is computer skills with every young man and woman preparing their bags for the trip out to Australia or New Zealand with America falling slightly out of favour.

Krishnan was employed at the Canara Bank as a head clerk and had enough powers to recruit friends and relatives. There were no written tests and no interviews. One word from Krishnan, a typing test (at best) and the job was yours. At its worst, the modern version is a phone call from "higher authorities" to break the queue and nab a job. Krishnan spat out a chewed tobacco on the footpath and told my father, "nalaiki pullaiye annuppu; Rahu kalam 10 mani vare (Send your son tomorrow after 10 in the morning when the Rahu kalam is over)." My father was happy as his no-good son would get a job and that too at a bank.

To the family, one was a disappointment, not being up to the mark to be a mechanical engineer or doctor. A youngster was not thought classy if he did not have a B.E or an M.B.B.S. after his name. It also enhanced one's value in the marriage market.

The next day, one set out from home after 10 in the morning, walked the long way to Esplanade and came back home in the evening without going for the interview. Neither Krishnan nor my father ever talked to me of the job at Canara Bank. I never liked the idea of stepping into a bank. For no valid reason, banks and bankers always put me off and still do today; one is equally nervous at the strident tread of policemen. One opened a bank account for the first time at a branch of Canara Bank in Dombivili (East), when one was 30 and had married.

My wife Rama took the initiative, as she could not think of her journalist-husband not having a bank account. It did not matter that her journalist-husband was earning a paltry Rs 700 per month with interest-free borrowings from Radhai, my aunt and other friends filling up a regular, late-month fiscal deficit. That account with Canara Bank still continues with a shift in branch from Dombivili to Borivili.

When private banks came into being, one built an alternative option with a joint bank account at one of the loudest private banks in the country. For some time, it was fun with the young staff eager to help. There was the hope that a standing customer would be at least offered a chair; the customer continues to stand. He is nowhere and cannot even demand a pass-book from a private bank detailing his own debits and credits. This after the RBI, months ago, telling private banks to offer pass-books (free) to depositors. Who's afraid of RBI? I prefer to deal with government banks as the law makes me one of the owners and also because one has no expectations.

Any bank transaction will take about 30 minutes and one is resigned to wait. Life was a silly wait when one started working as a journalist trainee in the Times of India, earning Rs 400 per month. In the first six months, we were sent by the company to learn Pitman's shorthand at a tutorial class on D.N. Road. None of us learnt anything. If one went for a long walk to the Gateway of India, a second colleague went to an afternoon film show at New Empire. We were about seven, including Allwyn Fernandes now with Rediff.

By turns we were made editors every week to bring out an 8-page journal with Pathanjali Sethi overseeing the production as the Training Officer. That was the only instance of this writer becoming an editor. The journal would be sent to senior journalists who would throw it into the waste-paper basket with a wry face. Those days, reporting meant walking to an event, opening a note pad, and taking down in shorthand everything said.

After the event, the reporter came back, sat in front of a typewriter, placed the notebook on the side of the machine and turned into prose the many dots and lines on his notebook.

Sometimes, the reporter looked like a musician playing musical notes from a notebook stuck in front of him. There was this senior reporter (hailing from Noorni village in Palghat) in the Times of India, doing the Mantralay (earlier Sachivalay) beat, walking into the office in the evening and taking his seat in front of a typewriter.

He would gulp down half a bottle of cold water, open a snuffbox and take a strong pinch before getting to work.

For some, the act of consuming the dark brown powder was a benediction, while for others it was a loud affair ending with an "ah".

The white, pocket-sized container would be first taken out from one's pant pocket; held in the left palm between the forefinger and thumb, the snuff box would be tapped on the table's edge before being opened by the rotating motion of the thumb.

The thumb and forefinger of the right palm would dip into the brown powder for a pinch, which would hit the roof of the head when inhaled strongly.

A swish of the nostrils with a kerchief and the report would start flowing. This gentleman introduced me to snuff, which had to be given up under protest from friends who would start sneezing at the sight of my snuff box.

P. Devarajan