MEMORIES OF A STRIPLING :The office-goer - Part 1

Chartered Bank, Calcutta. Edward Thornton, architect

One Saturday a month, up to the age of around ten, I would wake up feeling very important. This was a Special Saturday. Special Saturdays, as the name suggests, were different from other Saturdays. On normal Saturdays, my father used to work half-day, while I would while away my time with my mates in the para. But not on Special Saturdays. Once a month, it was my turn to be an 'office-goer'. I would try to imitate father`s morning routine as much as possible. Get up promptly at 6.30 a.m. Drink my Bournvita and glance at 'The Statesman' over his shoulder as he drank his coffee. Shaving wasn`t an option for me yet, much to my annoyance. I would shower, carefully comb my hair and fuss over my shirt and half-pant. I would carefully buff my shoes with Cherry Blossom to make sure they were shiny and pester mother for a new pair of socks.

Mother would prepare two lunch boxes, instead of the usual single box for father. I would fend off friends who would come up to me asking if I wanted to play cricket as I impatiently paced up and down the verandah, waiting for father. He would finally appear, angry at something or somebody, threatening mother with dire consequences “if it happens again”, whatever it was. He would look critically at me and would calm down. Like two athletes waiting for the starting gun, we would pause fractionally in front of the gate, and then we would be off!

Holding his bag in his left hand, and gripping me firmly by the right, we would stumble and trip over the ‘kuccha’ road in a race against time. It was always the same! We could leave the house fractionally earlier and take it easy, but no! This was the great family tradition. Give the bus a sporting chance by leaving home a shade too late! The distance to the CSTC depot at “teen number Garage” would be covered in exactly 4 minutes and 16 seconds, just as the 8.30 Office Special was about to pull out. Father would frantically push me in and jump in after me.

The journey to Dalhousie would take 45 minutes and sitting on the top deck of the bus, I would watch the stops go by. Down Lansdowne, then Elgin Road, past Rabindra Sadan, Chowringhee, the wonder of the maidan and the grandeur of the Grand Hotel and Shahid Minar. Father would give me a running commentary that was repeated each time we took the trip. “This is Birla Planetarium”. “Over there is Eden Gardens”. “The REAL name of Shahid Minar is Ochterlony Monument”. “One day I will take you to Grand Hotel, but only if you are nice to mother.”

Council House, Calcutta, built 1764

Finally we would get off at Dalhousie and walk over to Council House Street. Our first stop would be at the Standard Chartered Bank where I had my own “Children`s Account”. I would walk proudly up to the teller with my “piggy bank”. Actually, it was shaped like Donald Duck, with a slot on the top. It had a tab-opening at the bottom which was secured with a piece of wire and a red wax seal.

Donal  Duck 'Piggy' Bank

I would hand over my Donald to the lady cashier along with the yellow passbook adorned with cartoons of Mickey and Minnie Mouse and encased in a plastic cover. The cashier would smile benevolently at me and solemnly break the seal with a pair of tongs and spread out the contents of my Donald on the counter. I would wait with bated breath, for her to pronounce a verdict. After a careful examination of the contents, the obvious candidates for the wastepaper basket would be removed (scraps of paper, Chiclet wrappers etc.). She would then carefully count the notes and examine them for tears, ink blotches, doodles, staple-pin holes etc. Similarly the coins would be counted. There would be some anxious moments while she took some coins over to the Head Cashier and I would crane my neck over the counter and watch from afar as they talked and gesticulated to one another.

At last she would come back and say to father. “Sir, we found two 5 paise coins which were partly defaced

2 naya paise, 1970

but we decided to take them anyway since you are a good customer. But I am sorry we cannot take this coin because it is from Bhutan. Then, she would beam at me and say. “So this month`s total is Tharttee-too rupeeees and twwwennty sixxx paise. Are you happy?” She would then offer me a boiled toffee as a sign of the bank`s appreciation of me as a valued customer. I would snatch the sweet and promptly pop it into my mouth, lest she should change her mind and want the sweet back. In the meantime, she would solemnly enter the magic number for that month in my passbook, and ring the bell for the peon to take it to the Chief Cashier for his seal and signature. My Donald would be conveyed to the appropriate functionary who would reseal it and bring it back to the counter. Finally, approximately half an hour after we first arrived, we would be ushered out of the bank by the mustachioed guard with the shotgun and the bandolier across his chest.

Department of Industry and Trade, corner of Hare St. and Council House St.

The Standard Chartered Bank branch on Council House Street is now defunct. There is still a board outside announcing it as the premises of the bank but it is locked and the once pristine façade is a shambles.

By now father would be boiling with impatience and suppressed rage at having “wasted half an hour.” But I would already be looking forward to the next stop. We would head for the Reserve Bank building and enter the lobby. Being a regular, I was pally with the security staff and they would greet me as a long lost friend. Dad would deliver me into their safe hands and go off to his office. The next hour or so, I would spend on a unique attraction: Calcutta`s only set of escalators! Even Dum Dum airport didn`t boast escalators in those days, neither were there malls or Metro stations featuring them. The Reserve Bank of India`s building was the only place in town where an eight-year-old could amuse himself by riding on them. I would go up one side and down the other, ad nauseam until I had my fill.

Reserve Bank of India, Calcutta. John A. Ritchie, architect

I would then say my goodbyes to my friends, the security staff, and make my way to dad`s office, just in time for lunch and the bus-ride back home! Such it was to be an “office goer” on Special Saturdays!

Text by Shankar A. Narayan Photo credit: Dipanjan Ghosh