What I learnt about India standing in an ATM queue, thanks to demonetisation

It’s 7.30pm. I am standing in a queue, behind 75 men and three women, asking anxious questions to… well, whoever cares to answer: “Why is it taking so long for people going into the ATM kiosk?”, “What is that other queue there?”, “How are you getting your money?”, “When did you come?”

ATM gossip

A friendly young man flashes four plastic cards: “Ek ek logo ne teen-chaar card leke andar ja rahein hain. Isi liye ek-ek ko itna time lag raha hain (people are taking out money with multiple cards. Hence the delay).” I feel a bit inadequate when he asks: “You have only one card?”

An intense smell of alcohol wafts across. As I cover my nose, an elderly gentleman points to another queue, spilling onto the road - “It’s for that wine and beer shop next to the ATM.”

Hefty T-shirted young men stroll by, swinging bottles of alcohol and blowing cigarette smoke. They clearly don’t need cash.

“I am taking out money three times a day,” says a man with a sad expression on his face. “Don’t even have the time to eat.”

A scruffy, unshaven stranger (when did he get into the line?) says expansively, “I joined the queue at 7 in the morning. The bank opened at 9.30am. I was just behind 25 people.”

The lady next to me snorts: “My neighbours are queueing up at 4 in the morning. So much for achhe din.”

A white-haired woman with an arthritic gait says: “Don’t say that. We have to take this pain to get rid of black money.” She gets another snort: “You really think black money will go this way? Those who have black money buy land or gold. They don’t keep it at home like you and me.”    

New sanyas

I feel humbled. I have no right to complain about anything. I have not made such heroic efforts. I have not even approached a bank before this. I have proved to myself that I can survive with just Rs 40 in my wallet for three days.

And I have been exposed to the boundless generosity of the everyday Indian: the chaiwala in front of my office is supplying tea as usual and without payment (for now); the neighbourhood paanwala is sending pan leaves to my mother as usual without payment (for now); the petrol pump people are filling up my fuel tank on the old Rs 1,000 notes; the neighbourhood Big Bazaar is standing desolate, so that I can buy things with my piece of plastic, without crashing into other shoppers; my diet has become lean - no fish, no meat, occasional eggs, veggies and milk; I have said goodbye to cold drinks and Lehar chips.

And I am managing to ignore discount messages from fancy shops: so what Marks & Spencer’s is having a “flat 50 per cent off” mid-season sale?

I am into sanyasmode, thanks to Modi sarkar. The “disposable income” with which I - as one of the tribe of single working women - fuel the retail sector of the economy, is firmly in my wallet…er…in my bank. I am feeling virtuous and happy. 

Blood ties

A shout goes up. Somebody has spotted the money van of a big-brand bank. Rush! There’s no time to lose. All the men disappear, as if they never existed, shrinking the queue to half its size, leaving me and the two women open-mouthed.

In five minutes, one of them returns: “Madam, come and join the other queue. It’s still small.” How sweet Indians are, I tell myself, as we trot off.

As they “accommodate” us in the queue, a man flares up in anger: “You can’t break the queue,” he shouts. “They are our relatives,” our men shout back.

“Oh, yeah?,” he snarls. “Yeaaaah,” they chorus. “Can’t you see there’s no separate line for ladies and it’s getting really late?”

The process starts all over again. People go inside the ATM and don’t come out - for the longest time. And when they do, flashing 100-rupee-notes like victory sign, others erupt with shouts of “Yes!”

As hours pass, dubious-looking young men approach, gather, linger around the queue - some insisting they just want to take a look at the ATM machine, some laughing wildly, some asking if anyone would like to change money with them, some talking about other ATM spots that are deserted. We are advised to “just ignore".

God and good

As I finally leave, clutching my 20 newly-minted Rs 100 notes, I wonder what I will remember one day, many years later, when we - the children of affluent India who have never seen wars, Partition, droughts, famines or dearth, unlike our parents - look back at Narendra Modi’s currency experiment?

No, I won’t remember Modi or his “surgical strikes”. I won’t remember the scholarly debates on whether black money can or cannot be made “white” by withdrawing and reintroducing big notes; whether it is constitutional for a government to impose conditions on “promissory notes” or not; whether politicians who grandstand about “minimum governance” can pass on the burden to common people or not.

I will just remember faces - of simple, unassuming people, who do not have black money and not even enough white money, who believe in god and good, who laugh, cry, talk, yell, do all sorts of jugaad, yet always extend a helping hand -whenever, wherever.

My country: impetuous, brazen, but indefatigable, indomitable and always magnanimous.

Also read: Demonetisation is good only for Modi, no one else