We are now into Day 45 of the demonetization saga and the only thing that’s changed is that truck drivers no longer think they have the worst job in the country, when they look at the guys stocking the 2 lakh ATM’s across the country.
At the risk of incurring divine wrath one is reminded of the Xmas carol advising children not to pout or shout… Based on recent experience, more of us believe in Santa Claus than the RBI and it does seem as if Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer is replenishing the ATM’s, with Rahul Gandhi at the controls.
Inevitably a vast number of theories are floating around about the efficacy of the operation since we desis don’t allow minor details like ignorance to stand in the way of our expressing an opinion. When short on facts, we blithely fall back on personal experience.
If I had a new Rs 2000/ note for every lurid anecdote I’ve heard I’d be filling the damn ATM myself, but there is already far too much garbage in TV and social media on this painful subject, why add to it?
Instead, let me tell you about this American, Robert P. McCulloch who was duped into buying what he thought was London's most famous landmark, Tower Bridge, but which actually turned out to be the decrepit 1831 version.
Robert, who bears more than a passing resemblance to Trump in both appearance and bravado offered $2.6 million and the City Council, privately reflecting on the truth of the adage that ‘suckers are born every day’, grabbed the offer before the ink had dried on the parchment.
Villagers told to hold on to the loot stashed in their Jan Dhan accounts would be better off scamming gullible Trumpistas. ‘This one is same marble table where Mumtaz Mahal ate biryani and nalli nehari, saheb.
That one is cane chair sparingly used for supporting the imperial bottom. Now I make special price for you, one time only.’ Alas, we just don't think on a large enough scale, unless we have blue blood in our lineage.
My friend Jerry headed the Asian operations of one of the world's largest banks not too long ago. Jerry’s CEO, a scrappy, hard-bitten, Brooklyn Jew called Stein had impulsively decided to check out ‘whether the natives in Hindoostan’ were as friendly as the guidebooks suggested.
Accordingly plans, both master and contingency, on a vice-regal scale were made. Which is more than can be said for our demonetization exercise, but why go there?
Wines of the finest vintage and pastrami from Stein’s neighbourhood deli were flown in, the Presidential suite was reserved, elevators checked and private planes chartered.
Nothing was considered too lavish: all the stops were being pulled out and then some, as Ivanka may have said.The highlight of the trip was an elephant polo match followed by a banquet with the Maharajah of J…
Bank managers and palace flunkey scurried around like headless chickens. Orders were issued, elephants trumpeted and all through the afternoon, his royal highness attempted to live up to his title: the Maharajah got well and truly pissed.
Consequently the atmosphere at dinner was ever so slightly little strained with anxious bankers wringing their hands between courses, praying no imperial insult would come Stein's way. Blood will tell, however, and blue bloods, even with a fair amount of Black Label in the bloodstream, never forget that breeding is everything.
‘You bloody Americans, what? You have almighty dollar and you think you rule the world?’ roared his Highness who was now well and truly in his cups. ‘Tell me did any of your ancestors fight in the wars? Where are you from in America?’ ‘Oh, um Brooklyn, your Majesty,’ replied the hapless Stein,’ choosing what he hoped would be the safest reply. ‘Burklin, never heard of it. Tell me Stein, do you want to become a lord?’ inquired the Maharajah in a sibilant whisper, a sudden gleam in his bloodshot eyes.
Snobbery and annoyance at the American-bashing fought briefly in Stein's mind before the former prevailed. ‘Me? Omigod, yeah, sure. I mean yessir, I mean, yes, your Highness,’ babbled Stein, unable to believe his good fortune.
‘Bring me my bloody sword, Beli Ram,’ commanded the Maharaja imperiously and when it arrived, he solemnly tapped it on Stein’s brawny shoulder saying, ‘I now pronounce you Lord Stein of Burkline.’
Grabbing the turban off the astonished bearer, the Maharajah told the kneeling banker to rise, and with consummate regal panache placed the colourful headgear on his bald head.
On Jerry’s last visit to the Big Apple, he called on his boss and a misty-eyed Stein pulled out a photo album documenting his ‘knighthood’. As he left, Jerry noticed that the turban occupied pride of place in a glass-fronted cabinet. Sic transit gloria.
Ajit Saldanha has a finger in the pie, and another on the political pulse. And when he writes, he cooks up a storm.
