The other day I decided to open a bank account with Andhra bank ( doesn’t have anything with Telangana sentiment) , the biggest mistake I did was to go to bank myself rather than sending my office peon. Its gut wrenching, as it is the first time I entered a public sector bank premises for any purpose. –I simply couldn’t handle the intensity and range of emotions that an Andhra bank experience took me through. I’m convinced it is a ploy by the government to nip the little rebel n you– nothing prepares you for a life of dealing with Andhra bank employees who do not give a fuck about what you want.
When you enter an AB outlet, you will notice a man your grandpas age carrying a double barrel gun. This is called security. Because really, nothing makes me feel more secure than a man needing a cataract operation carrying weapons from the sets of Sardar Paparayudu. When was the last time you saw dacoits charging in on horses trying to loot a branch even in Gooty? Wouldn’t it look fantastic when a bunch of thieves come in with quick loading handguns and shoot the place down and our man is busy trying to find bullets somewhere inside his medicine box? Isn’t it easier to buy a walking stick instead of a double barrel if they’re used for the same purpose? I know! Why don’t we just keep cannons inside the outlet? Seriously, that’ll scare them! Cannons! Even our man will look more authentic standing next to one. Not like anyone is going to museums in India, plus the kids will have fun shoving their heads inside the barrel instead of running around like puppies on crack trying to scratch a tick on their ass.
You will then meet the employees. You know how in superhero movies a mad scientist always inserts a serum inside a human body which goes terribly wrong and creates the villain? That’s what DRDO does with Andhra bank employees. Able-bodied individuals are taken from each state and inserted with a serum that makes them equally shitty no matter which state or branch you have the misfortune of visiting. They’re like human Mig-21s. I’m surprised every employee doesn’t have a serial number (AB-05-3304/172) written with a chalk on their forehead like every computer desktop, almirah, metal chair and everything else that is classified as government infrastructure. There’s a fun game I like to play when I’m at AB i.e. spot the employee who’ll keel over and die of diabetes first.
AB branches operate on a crucial principal i.e. every branch will have multiple counters out of which only ONE will be functional. Other counters will either be empty mocking your existence or have employees sitting around drinking tea refusing to do your work. It’s the governmental equivalent of showing rebellion by wearing a Che t-shirt. You then stand in a “queue” flanked by two people on either side whose only job is to somehow cut in front of you if the opportunity arises. They are usually older, have a big cyst on their scalp and pull every emotional card they know. The first includes not saying a word – just looking at you every three seconds and grinning nonchalantly. The second is the emotional card of having to deposit money into a distant relative’s account who has blood cancer (a trope from 80s Telugu cinema where for some reason that’s all people got) and won’t be able to recover if a sum of 900 rupees isn’t deposited immediately. The third is when they realise they have an account in Central Bank of India and not AB and that they just wasted theirs and everyone else’s time. Finally after an hour when your turn finally comes, an employee will emerge from the back bearing prasad from a recent trip to a religious centre which will then lead to a 30 minute conversation between the tea drinking employees about all the religious centres they have ever visited and which offered the best prayer conversion rate so their mother in laws would get herpes and kids wouldn’t have to work in an AB. There are higher chances of Narendra Modi getting a U.S. visa in one shot than your work getting done at these ironically named “single window” counters. When they say 0% interest, they’re talking about how they feel about their work.
What this waiting period does provide however is a chance to reflect on the deeper, more existential questions in life. For example, why does an Andhra bank poster of a fixed deposit always feature a white baby doing shit like growing a plant? First off its not an Indian baby if it doesn’t have a black circular spot on the forehead atleast 40 cm in diameter that will miraculously save it from ill will. When was the last time you saw a baby who was fond of gardening? An accurate representation would be a baby eating mud and shitting itself crying while the parents pull their hair out trying to access their fixed deposit. Why does Syndicate Bank have a dog as their logo? Why do I know things like Syndicate bank having a dog as their logo? Will Syndicate bank be successful in Korea because people love eating dogs? Am I supposed to be turned on by the aunty counting money in slow motion while constantly licking her finger?
While in that queue, an aunty saw me carrying my application receipt and started chatting me up. I say chatting me up because it sounds sexier than using the word conversation.
Beta, you’re applying for the new application?
(ledandi naaku janaala hair oil vaasana peelchalani sarada ( no aunty , its fun to smell people’s hair oil) Haa aunty
At this point aunty looked at me as if I was Deepak Chaurasia’s testicle and turned away. If there was ever an justification for my helpless impulsive shopping, its never having to step foot in an AB ever again to deposit money again. I hope you never have to either, unless you have an account in the State Bank of Travancore. You know your bank is shit when the kingdom its named after doesn’t even exist.
When you enter an AB outlet, you will notice a man your grandpas age carrying a double barrel gun. This is called security. Because really, nothing makes me feel more secure than a man needing a cataract operation carrying weapons from the sets of Sardar Paparayudu. When was the last time you saw dacoits charging in on horses trying to loot a branch even in Gooty? Wouldn’t it look fantastic when a bunch of thieves come in with quick loading handguns and shoot the place down and our man is busy trying to find bullets somewhere inside his medicine box? Isn’t it easier to buy a walking stick instead of a double barrel if they’re used for the same purpose? I know! Why don’t we just keep cannons inside the outlet? Seriously, that’ll scare them! Cannons! Even our man will look more authentic standing next to one. Not like anyone is going to museums in India, plus the kids will have fun shoving their heads inside the barrel instead of running around like puppies on crack trying to scratch a tick on their ass.
You will then meet the employees. You know how in superhero movies a mad scientist always inserts a serum inside a human body which goes terribly wrong and creates the villain? That’s what DRDO does with Andhra bank employees. Able-bodied individuals are taken from each state and inserted with a serum that makes them equally shitty no matter which state or branch you have the misfortune of visiting. They’re like human Mig-21s. I’m surprised every employee doesn’t have a serial number (AB-05-3304/172) written with a chalk on their forehead like every computer desktop, almirah, metal chair and everything else that is classified as government infrastructure. There’s a fun game I like to play when I’m at AB i.e. spot the employee who’ll keel over and die of diabetes first.
AB branches operate on a crucial principal i.e. every branch will have multiple counters out of which only ONE will be functional. Other counters will either be empty mocking your existence or have employees sitting around drinking tea refusing to do your work. It’s the governmental equivalent of showing rebellion by wearing a Che t-shirt. You then stand in a “queue” flanked by two people on either side whose only job is to somehow cut in front of you if the opportunity arises. They are usually older, have a big cyst on their scalp and pull every emotional card they know. The first includes not saying a word – just looking at you every three seconds and grinning nonchalantly. The second is the emotional card of having to deposit money into a distant relative’s account who has blood cancer (a trope from 80s Telugu cinema where for some reason that’s all people got) and won’t be able to recover if a sum of 900 rupees isn’t deposited immediately. The third is when they realise they have an account in Central Bank of India and not AB and that they just wasted theirs and everyone else’s time. Finally after an hour when your turn finally comes, an employee will emerge from the back bearing prasad from a recent trip to a religious centre which will then lead to a 30 minute conversation between the tea drinking employees about all the religious centres they have ever visited and which offered the best prayer conversion rate so their mother in laws would get herpes and kids wouldn’t have to work in an AB. There are higher chances of Narendra Modi getting a U.S. visa in one shot than your work getting done at these ironically named “single window” counters. When they say 0% interest, they’re talking about how they feel about their work.
What this waiting period does provide however is a chance to reflect on the deeper, more existential questions in life. For example, why does an Andhra bank poster of a fixed deposit always feature a white baby doing shit like growing a plant? First off its not an Indian baby if it doesn’t have a black circular spot on the forehead atleast 40 cm in diameter that will miraculously save it from ill will. When was the last time you saw a baby who was fond of gardening? An accurate representation would be a baby eating mud and shitting itself crying while the parents pull their hair out trying to access their fixed deposit. Why does Syndicate Bank have a dog as their logo? Why do I know things like Syndicate bank having a dog as their logo? Will Syndicate bank be successful in Korea because people love eating dogs? Am I supposed to be turned on by the aunty counting money in slow motion while constantly licking her finger?
While in that queue, an aunty saw me carrying my application receipt and started chatting me up. I say chatting me up because it sounds sexier than using the word conversation.
Beta, you’re applying for the new application?
(ledandi naaku janaala hair oil vaasana peelchalani sarada ( no aunty , its fun to smell people’s hair oil) Haa aunty
At this point aunty looked at me as if I was Deepak Chaurasia’s testicle and turned away. If there was ever an justification for my helpless impulsive shopping, its never having to step foot in an AB ever again to deposit money again. I hope you never have to either, unless you have an account in the State Bank of Travancore. You know your bank is shit when the kingdom its named after doesn’t even exist.
