I want to buy shoes.
Black or brown does not matter; leather or synthetic is hardly the question; high-heels or flat is not the dilemma. The only condition is that the pair I buy must be of size 7.
My size? Well, it's 9.
Doesn't make sense? It will. Read on.
The need to buy shoes (size 7) has arisen because of ICICI bank.
Or, to be precise, the banking that is done at the Borivli west branch of the bank as I recently discovered when I wanted to open a current account with them.
Here are excerpts from the painful experience:
Visit 1: I, along with my partner, visit the said branch to find out what needs to be done to open a current account. The branch is crowded like a railway platform (after a couple of trains are announced to be cancelled), and noisy like a fish market on a Sunday morning.
I can bet my last rupee that the earlier jobs handled by the architect who designed the interior must have been a police lock-up room and the cage of a municipal dog van. I must, however, admit that this third job was slightly better done. There was at least one uncluttered, clean and neat thing—and spacious too: the cabin of the branch manager who sat with his back to the working area.
''We want to open a current account,'' I said to the lady who was busy doing some calculations at the front counter. She did not look up. I wondered if they had started employing deaf/mute on humanitarian grounds. I repeated the same sentence, this time a little louder so it could not be lost in the din of the background babble.
She looked up at me (she could hear!), and gave me a typical ''can’t-you-see-I-am-busy?'' look before lowering her eyes again to fix on the ledger in front of her. I looked around to see if anyone there was not busy.
There indeed was! A lady, on the wrong side of forties, was complimenting her colleague (who was on the right side of thirties) on her new hairstyle. My partner, who is bald, obviously thought it the most useless conversation, and interjected, asking for a current account opening form.
The lady with the oh-so-boootiful haircut gave an annoying look, followed by an advice: ''You see, today is Saturday, and yesterday was a holiday. You can see this rush at the counters, why don’t you come back on Monday?''
Hoping that perhaps by honouring her request we may get better treatment and whole-hearted co-operation on Monday, we said, ''okay''—and left.
Visit 2: One look inside the bank on Monday, and we instantly knew our strategy had misfired. The lady whose favours we had hoped to win was absent. Deciding not to take any chances, we straightaway headed for the manager's cabin. He immediately directed us to another lady, who promptly took out the account opening form and handed to us. When we asked her for a list of documents required for the purpose, she asked us to wait, attended a couple of other customers who, apparently, knew her by her first name, and then gave us a look as if she was seeing us for the first time in her life. ''What do you want?'' she quizzed. Shocked by her amnesia, I waved the form she had handed to us 10 minutes ago, and said, ''you were to tell us about the documents to be attached with this.'' She perhaps felt I was being rude, and curtly said, ''Fill up the form and you will know yourself.'' ''You told us to wait,'' I could not keep the edge out of my voice. ''Let me see,'' she took the form from me, and stared at it as if trying to recollect, ''the company rubber stamps, partnership deed, last two years' balance sheets and a cheque for Rs.25,000/-,'' she rattled out.
Visit 3: Armed with all the documents and rubber stamps, we approached her after a couple of days. Her stern glance told me she had not forgotten our unpleasant exchange of two days ago. I tried to sound as polite as possible and handed her the form with all the attachments as required. She took it, glanced through, and asked me to wait. After about 10 minutes of doing some other work, she checked the papers again, called me to tell that the partnership deed needs to be notarized. ''But you can check the true copy yourself against the original; after all, it is not a simple photocopy, it is attested and certified by a special executive magistrate!'' I protested, ''and you never told me about it when I asked.'' ''It is common sense,'' she said. I wondered if it was a plain statement or a taunt. ''What else?'' exasperated, I asked. ''Nothing,'' she said with an unemotional face, ''the rest is fine.''
Visit 4: So we had to engage a Notary who attested the partnership agreement and put his typical, red seal on the copy. Handing it over to the lady at the bank, we asked her when we could hope to operate the account. ''Come after a week and inquire,'' she said nonchalantly. ''A week?'', I almost shouted, ''a week to get the account operative?'' ''Yes, you can go see the manager if you wish,'' she said with finality. The manager endorsed her view saying that they have to get ''clearance'' from the head office to open any current account. ''But my dear sir,'' I said, ''I am just opening an account with you; I am not asking for any credit or overdraft facility!''
''It’s just a formality,'' he said in a robot-like tone, without a trace of emotion, ''but it has to be done.''
This was plain ridiculous. But having already wasted so much time, I thought it better to go through the agonizing wait of a week.
Visit 5: ''There is a query from the head office,'' greeted the branch manager when we went after a week. I wondered if he was secretly happy to announce that. ''Your signing arrangement is not mentioned in the partnership deed.'' I tried telling him that the partnership deed is not a document that needs to spell out signing arrangements in a bank account. I also pointed out that we had given clear instructions on their account opening form that ''either or survivor'' will operate the account. ''If you want,'' pleaded I, ''we will give you a letter signed by both to that effect.''
''You see,'' said the manager, ''I understand what you mean. But rules are rules.''
''But this is a funny rule,'' I cried, ''no other bank has such a ridiculous rule!''
''Maybe, maybe,'' he stoically said, ''but if you want to open account with us, you must get this clause incorporated in your partnership deed.'' His voice had a ring of ultimatum, and a hint that I was only wasting his time.
I picked up all the papers, and turned to go. When I was at the door, he added, ''And yes, please don’t forget to again notarize the new agreement after putting in this clause. That should help us to process your request quickly.''
I did not even have the energy to turn and tell him that he was not likely to see me again.
I felt dejected, demoralized—disgusted! I was filled with pain. For being helpless against such moronic rules that had made a simple act of opening an account more complicated than even filing the tax returns.
There was only one remedy for this kind of pain. Abraham Lincoln prescribed it many decades ago.
''All pain in the world can be forgotten!'' he had said, ''just wear shoes that are a couple of sizes smaller--and walk. I promise you only that pinching pain will remain, all other pain, all other troubles will vanish.''
Now you know why I want to buy shoes.
And yes, I am looking for size 7.
