City of joyless queues

The ATM attached to Union Bank of India says ‘Out Of Cash’. Ma and I walk through the doors of Union Bank, hoping to withdraw money for upcoming monthly expenses. Inside, it is crowded — testy and apprehensive-looking people are milling around the counters. It is the middle of a working day, and all of them are here to access their money.

I count about 70 people in the small space. A man with documents from the Institute of Neurosciences is pleading to be allowed to take out more than just ₹10,000. The staff refuses. Someone in the queue tells him that other banks were allowing individual withdrawals of ₹4,000 only. “At least this one is letting you take out more.”

The man explains he needs more money as his wife had suffered a cerebral stroke in June and was under treatment. Her medicines and hospital visits cost quite a bit. To make matters worse, his pension had not come this month. People commiserate even as the line “Ki aar korben bolun (well, what can you do)” is thrown around liberally.

A woman, with a toddler daughter in tow, asks if she can withdraw ₹50,000 on a current account. Yes, she is told. Others protest — “This is how money will run out”. The woman explains she needs to pay her staff salaries. Another woman pipes up to say she has to be back home soon, as her daughter will be returning from school. At this point a bank teller gets up, looking worried.

He tells a woman sitting across from him, “Don’t take any more cheques. We are running out of money.” People go into a tizzy, there are loud protests. Fortunately for us, Ma’s name gets called and she gets her money.

Are we there yet?

It’s three weeks after the demonetisation of ₹500 and ₹1,000 notes, and my mother cuts a cheque for Ratna Medical Stores, our neighbourhood chemist for more than 30 years now. Chandan, the man at the counter, is accepting cheques only from his regular customers. He skips questions on his policy towards new buyers. The store, which doesn’t plan to use Paytm or other online wallets, won’t accept cheques for much longer. I drop a cheque and a list of medicines to be delivered home, before heading out in search of the new money.

Before visiting Ma’s bank, I had been to every ATM in the area —ICICI, HSBC, SBI, HDFC, Axis, Indian Overseas Bank — and none had cash. The situation had been no different over the past several days. “ATM-er shondhaaney haara uddeshey ghoorey berai roj (I walk around every day, futilely searching for working ATMs),” one weary-looking fellow outside an SBI ATM had commented.

I distinctly remember the morning after the demonetisation move was announced on November 8 night. My mother had gone to stay with my aunt for a while. The two decided to visit their bank to take out money. At the Bank of Maharashtra, they could not take out more than ₹1,000. So they went to another bank and I joined them there. It was chaos inside. I saw a family of six — an elderly man in a dhoti-kurta and the rest women — with photocopies of ID proofs in their hands. The man was instructing them to visit different branches and meet back here. This was a common sight over the next few days. Queues everywhere, and everyone seemed to be permanently saddled with plastic bags or folders with passbooks, chequebooks, IDs and so on. And everyone looked harried and anxious, craning necks to spot a working ATM.

Money talks

Flitting to and from numerous ‘out of service’ ATMs, I find that the conversations in the markets, shops, roads, footpaths, and chai ki dukaans mainly centre around the cash crunch. A middle-aged man outside an IndusInd ATM says he hasn’t been able to withdraw cash anywhere, adding, “Aami ekhaney moshari khatachhi aajke (I am setting up my mosquito net here tonight).”

“ Kee holo, bondho keno ? (Why are you closed),” asks a man of a raddiwala (scrap dealer) who has shutters down. “ Paisa nei (no money),” he answers resignedly.

Rabin Mandal, a vegetable seller at Lake Market, says sales are down drastically as people are buying groceries online or at supermarkets that accept cards. A major market that is usually filled with hustle and bustle, the Lake Market is mostly empty these days. Mandal, who’s been here for around 25 years, says most vendors have been forced to offer credit to their regular customers after the demonetisation. “But for how long can we continue like this?” The sellers are stuck with a huge inventory of perishables. “I used to pick up stuff worth ₹4,000 and it would get sold in 4-5 days. Now it’s taking double the time to sell the same quantity. Very soon we will have to get used to starving. Previous governments had the slogan ‘garibi hatao’ (eradicate poverty), Modi says ‘garib hatao’ (eliminate the poor),” he says with a wry smile. When I remark that he is at least able to see the funny side of things, he responds with a shrug: “ Aar kichu korar nei, didi (what else to do).”

Somewhere over the rainbow

A ride in a shared autorickshaw quickly descends into an acrimonious argument among the passengers. One of them says demonetisation will be good, only to be countered with an “exactly how” from a sceptical co-passenger. “Well, I have heard they will deposit money into people’s accounts, and that we won’t have to pay income tax,” says the believer. The sceptic shakes his head. Quite a few appear convinced that there’s a pot of gold at the end of the cash crunch. My household help Deepali remains hopeful after her 20-something son apparently told her that he received messages on his smartphone exhorting people to have patience, as something good will come out of the demonetisation. Deepali is not without her fears though. She has two sons — one each in school and college. There are fees to be paid, and last week there were medical bills too, after her younger son came down with an unexplained fever. Dengue is common in her area. Deepali is also worried about the money she sent her ailing mother in a village a while ago — all in the old notes.

“I hope she will be able to change them,” she says, adding that people near her home are struggling to get change for their ₹2,000 notes. It’s her neighbour, a woman in the housekeeping section of a nationalised bank, who helped her exchange some old currency.

Let them eat cake

When I visit my bank the next day, one of the staff says they have been working non-stop the last few weeks. Several stories have surfaced of bank staff collapsing, and even dying, due to stress. When I post about this on Facebook, several people comment that the bankers must have had prior heart ailments. The move has unwittingly cast light on the sheer callousness harboured by a certain section of people towards the sufferings of their less-fortunate fellow citizens. As someone else commented, “This inability of a part of the population to look beyond the tail of the car in front of them in the parking lot of a mall has legitimised this horrific move.”

My posts about the plight of ordinary people invite derision along the lines of “Mamata’s sister!” and “Why don’t they go cashless?”

On an autorickshaw ride, the FM radio is blaring ads of various banks and companies. ‘Live a cashless life’. An SBI ad promises that its app will make your “zindagi aasaan”. The driver, a young fellow, laughs when I ask if he is going cashless. “Didi, most of us do not have the money to buy a smartphone. What will we do on the Net?”

Near the New Alipore auto stand, a group of youngsters are pointing their phone cameras at the sky. A cluster of backlit ads have popped up on lamp-posts in the area — they show a smiling Prime Minister Modi assuring you that “your money is safe”. Other ads show more smiling people who seem vaguely familiar, perhaps from an old ad for rural water schemes. One ad has a young man in workout gear doing push-ups. All of them say, “My money is safe”.

“In whose safe? That is the question!” sniggers a young man. His friends burst out laughing. “Hey, have you heard this song on demonetisation?” asks a girl. “It is sung to the tune of the old Raj Kapoor hit ‘Kisi ki muskurahaton pe ho nisaar’. As the friends cluster around, she plays it on her phone:

Yeh jo line mein khada hai tu aajkal

Kya sochta hai desh jayega badal....

Kisine loota hai din-dahade loota hai sambhal,

Desh prem ke naam par...

Bhale mache desh me hahakaar,

Modiji ke baaghon me rahe bahaar

Desh prem ke naam par

(This queue you are standing in nowadays; you think it is for the country? Someone has robbed you in broad daylight, beware; all in the name of nationalism; so what if the country is in a mess; let Modi’s gardens always bloom; all in the name of nationalism.)

Anuradha Sengupta is a Kolkata-based freelance journalist and founder-editor of Jalebi Ink, a media collective for children and youth

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