Ms. Daruwalla shifted her silver-chromed spectacles up by an imperceptible inch and fixed me with a stony glare that suited her oval demeanour rather well.
‘You will have to wait. Mr. Sharma isn’t in.’ Ms. Daruwalla declared gravely, and returned her gaze to the latest edition of Asiaweek, opened to the ‘film-review’ page on her desk.
The quiet office hummed with activity. Thousands of books, of different colours, and sizes lay in neat piles, decked all the way from the floor to the roof. Though there were many people present in the hall—all busy in various chores—there was not one who spoke in more than whispers. Being the P.A. to the Director and the head of the office staff at India Publication House, the largest book distributors in the country, Ms. Daruwalla took her job very seriously and ran the office with an iron hand.
While I twiddled my thumb for want of anything better, I studied the stern profile, which showed to advantage. Ms. Daruwalla was equipped with a heavy jowl, a soft mouth, and black eyes with large pupils. Her short hair barely reached the shoulders and was always held with a black band that made the bun look even smaller. She wore heavy make-up, reeking of Rexona body deodorant, and a bevy of brass trinkets on all her fingers. For her age—she must be at least fifty if she was a day—she was slim and upright. Forever dressed in a brown Punjabi suit, Ms. Daruwalla had the most mobile nose I had ever chanced upon. The round long conk was a kind of forewarning to the outburst that was to follow. Were she about to admonish, it would start twitching from left to right, prior to cursing, it would curl up and down, and at the rarest of rare occasions, when she decided to smile, it would quiver like a horse’s—throughout the length. Presently, it did nothing.
I took a deep breath and looked around hopefully. What else could an aspiring writer do, whose book was about to reach the market through India Publication House? I had an appointment with Mr. Sharma, the Director, at 10 a.m. to discuss some final issues regarding the book’s launch, and even after 30 minutes past the hour there was no sign of him. I spied my favorite Ms. Sonia, the comely accounts executive, hopping across a big brown box at the farther end. Catching my eyes, she gave an encouraging smile and disappeared behind an iron rack.
‘Excuse me,’ I cleared my throat, ‘but I had an appointment at ten!’
Ms Daruwalla briefly looked up, her nose twitching from left to right, and without uttering even a monosyllable dropped her eyes back to the magazine. We remained thus for some more interminable minutes. The hard-backed chair only adding to my discomfiture. A quarter of an hour later, I decided to mobilize.
‘I got some work,’ I declared, extracting myself out of the chair. ‘I’ll come later.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Ms Daruwalla interjected placidly.
I hurried out of the office and exited into the marble-stoned corridors of Maker Chamber’s 14th floor. I scratched my head, as I looked up-and-down the deserted corridor, since I had absolutely nothing to do, and cursed myself for not carrying a book—the unfinished ‘Merry Go Round’ by Maugham, lying at home, would have been just fine. It was nearly eleven, and though it was my off day, I had another appointment at 1 p.m. with the Crossbook manager, where I planned to do the book launch.
From the corner fountain I had a glass of cold water and decided to walk down the stairs and again come up, and continue till 1230, and if Mr. Sharma did not materialize by then, then to head for Crossbook.
While approaching the staircase, I crossed an officer bearer, balancing a steel tray with four teacups in his hand. ‘The lift is that way, sir,’ he gesticulated.
‘I know, thanks. I want to walk down.’ I returned his grin and started descending the steps, one-by-one.
I did the whole operation slowly, deliberately, resting my weight on each step, balancing in mid-air, following carefully my every foot, as my body shifted from one to another. It was an exercise solely for the purpose of whiling away the time. On reaching my 100th step, I stopped to catch some breath. Through the door, leading from the staircase landing to the main corridor outside, I saw that I was on the 3rd floor, and an orange neon sign, with a large red coloured arrow pointing to the right, directed one’s attention towards ‘The Manchurian Bank’. I remembered having read about the bank sometime back. I guess it was concerned with their latest ATM center in the city, which was inaugurated by some Bollywood star.
I quite liked the Garamond typescript and the orange logo of the bank. After a brief moment of indecision I decided to explore further. On entering the corridor, I discovered that the bank occupied nearly half of the 3rd floor. Here, the white marbled floor was bordered with a foot-thick edge of the black mosaic that shone like a mirror.
I walked along the serpentine corridor to finally reach a dead-end, where a dark-mustached security guard presided behind a table, with the 12 bore rifle on his back very much evident. He eyed my Spartan wardrobe with silent censure and raised his right brow, albeit discreetly, while caressing lovingly the shining barrel of the gun. With a writer’s fanciful disposition, I had to gulp twice toward the sense of panic slowly percolating from my innermost being.
The thick glass façade with a pair of large brass handles—‘Manchurian Bank’ emblazoned across—beyond which a sleek décor of the red carpet and several counters with smartly attired executives in attendance, beckoning the visitor to the world of high finance, rather unnerved my constitution. Viewed as such, since I had no business or any worthwhile transaction to do with the bank. An idle loiterer would certainly be scorned upon—I vaticinated. With no possibility of retreat, I decided to plunge ahead regardless.
‘Ahem! Hummm…,’ I addressed the guard, ‘is the bank open?’
‘Yes, sir. Please go in.’ the guard exposed a row of saffron-coloured teeth and pushed the door slightly to allow my ingress.
The moment I stepped in, my rubber sandals slowly sank into the carpet. My unaccustomed eyes devoured the interior. The front lobby, where I stood, was shaped almost hexagonal with a set of sofa to the right and one to the left. A small door to my right, led to a smaller room, where I spied a pair of girls busy sorting out huge sheets of computer printouts.
Facing me were four glass-decked counters placed on a continuous pedestal of sparkling mahogany. Immediately next to the right-most counter, stood a pigeon rack holder, a small round table, and a curl-back single cushioned chair. The rack held several catalogues, brochures, and forms related to the bank. At the cash counter, a bejeweled lady of expansive girth was busy gathering a bunch of sweet crisp 500 denomination notes. Another elderly gentleman sat pensively on the sofa, pouring through a coloured pamphlet, looking every bit befuddled as I was.
At the far end of the lobby, where it narrowed down to a moderate passage for entering further into the bank, a receptionist presided behind her eponymous desk. And precisely at this moment, her full, almond eyes, smiled at me in an obvious gesture of bonhomie.
With halting steps I approached the girl, whose beige-hued business suit mingled so optimally with the interior opulence.
‘Good morning, sir.’ The girl greeted. ‘What would you like to do?’
‘Nothing really, just stretch my legs and snooze a bit,’ I mused silently, while inspecting the pearl-motif teardrop pendants suspended from her ears.
‘Well, you see, I would first like to know about the bank, what you have to offer, policies, and then… maybe, I would go for an account.’ I said, returning her beatific smile. Expecting a reproach, I was pleasantly taken aback when she answered with a note of genuine delight in her dulcet tenor.
‘Of course, sir! Please have a seat, I’ll ask one of our marketing people to help you out.’ Monica, as I read on her breast tally, said good-naturedly.
Though I would have preferred to occupy the sofa next to the reception desk, what with Monica’s benign presence, I had to saunter to the one near the glass
door, since the former was taken over by a pair of cute couple cooing contentedly sweet nothings to each other. Well, it was pacifying to note that I wasn’t the only one around to visit the bank with a different purpose.
A little later, as I lazed into the soft cushion, I saw a diminutive girl egress from the passage near the reception, and amble so superbly with an economic gait towards the exit door. As she crossed Monica, a faint smile exchanged between the two. Dismissing her as a client, I observed the svelte sari-clad lady who entered just then, and deposited herself rather coyly into space next to me. A faint aroma of lilac engulfed my senses, which felt quite nice and appropriate. The bank was really good—I subliminally felicitated myself for my excellent choice. Mr. Sharma and his P.A. on the 14th floor could go to hell, if they so desired.
‘Excuse me, sir, can I help you?’ A lilting cadence suddenly jolted me out of my reverie.
I looked up startled to my right and found the same petite girl staring down at me with a smile radiant enough to illuminate even the gloomiest of hearts. What caused a moment of a phony, on my part, was her stunning coiffure. The healthy bounce of auburn hair girdled the sensuous face like a pulsating halo, falling lovingly below her shoulders, and reflected the ambient light akin to a diamond-studded brilliant tiara.
I sprang to my feet with surprising alacrity. No way could this slip of a girl be a marketing executive. With a dove-like innocence emanating from her striking countenance, she appeared far too angelic to handle the big bad world of money. And her informal attire did nothing to modify my earlier impression.
A faded stretch jean draped her lower limbs, which ended at a pair of blue canvass shoes with white synthetic rubber soles. A deep blue Lycra polo neck T-shirt hugged her graceful figure, while a silver chained periapt snuggled around the neck that shone like tufa in sunlight. The ears were covered with that enticingly abundant coiffure; hence I couldn’t tell if she wore any adornments. She sported a gold Tanishque watch on her left wrist and a black elastic headband on the right. She must be using it to tie up her hair while commuting. Finally, I observed the mirthful demeanour. The narrow nose perched atop a pair of fine lips—encrusted in mocha-brown Revlon gloss, which was parted presently to reveal a perfect set of ivory dentures, struck me like a blessed vision. The honey-colored eyes, crowned by a well-trimmed pair of brows, looked into mine with an unnerving sincerity.
‘You work here?’ I asked surreptitiously.
‘Yeah! I am a sales executive.’ She gave a tiny nod. The smile not deserting her face even for a moment.‘Well, actually, I would like to know about the savings account.’ I blurted.
‘Sure, sir. We offer a savings account with unmatched services, like free ATM card that is also an international debit card, any branch banking, phone banking, home delivery, and,’ she suddenly stopped, ‘Sir, please take a seat.’ She gestured at the only vacant chair.
‘Come on, how can I? While you are standing!’ I declared gallantly.
‘Ok!’ She broke into a trill. ‘Well, as I was saying, you also get add on cards if you open a joint account, then depository services, free draft delivery, extended banking hours, Sunday banking, free banker’s cheque at any of our branches… oh, excuse me! I’ll be right back, meanwhile please go through this account opening form.’ The girl lifted a neat looking form from the pigeon rack, and handing me the paper, darted away through a small door that seemed to lead to the powder room.
I was in a nice fix all right. Here I was, chatting away with the most charming girl I had ever seen in my life, on the verge of opening an account without even a rupee in my pocket and the accursed minutes ticking by. It was close to one p.m. and I would miss my Crossbook appointment if I stayed even a moment longer. The girl had given me a perfect opportunity to terminate the episode then and there, and I would be a fool if I did not grasp it. But a hesitant minute later, I realized to my utter dismay that I could not simply walk away so abruptly. I could not leave the girl in a lurch, maybe she got some extra commission on the accounts that she opened. I decided to tell her the truth, apologize profusely, and then take a dignified departure.
The lovey-dovey couple had now vacated the other sofa and I sank into it with my legs crossed. A little later, the girl joined me. She took her place quite informally beside me and fixed me once again with that dazzling smile.
‘So, what do you think?’ She asked gaily.
‘What’s the minimum balance one has to maintain?’ I asked, for the sake of asking anything.
‘A quarterly balance of Rs. 5000.’‘Well, maybe I’ll come back some other time,’ I said, ‘you see, I am not carrying any cash or my cheque book.’
‘So what! You can always deposit it tomorrow. You must be employed!’
‘Not gainfully, but, yes.’
‘And what do you do?’ She asked.
‘I am a primary school teacher, in the Naval Public School.’
‘The one in Colaba?’‘The same.’ I said grimly. My monthly take-home pay was Rs. 5000.
‘Then you are in luck. For defense personnel and teachers we don’t ask for any minimum balance. Would you fill-up the form now?’ My beautiful companion asked brightly.
‘Well, I… I am not sure.’ I mumbled.
‘I’ll help you, start from the top, and ask me wherever you get stuck.’ She pressed a Wilson jotter in my hand. I had no choice but to continue.
After filling up all the columns and rows, one of them even asking my preferences in music, I handed the form to the girl. Promptly, she signed on the row marked ‘Introduced by/Verified by’. I craned my neck to decipher the signature. It read: Diana. The trailing twist of ‘D’ extended effortlessly onto ‘i’ and after a tiny gap, the rest of the three letters continued in an unbroken scrawl. The name immediately triggered the memory of one of my stories, where one of the central characters too was named ‘Diana’. I told the same to Diana.
‘Is it? Really! Wow, you are a writer!’ Diana exclaimed.
Though externally she was vastly different than her fictional counterpart, the real Diana was equally enchanting and utterly lovable.
‘Well, congrats! You are now an esteemed account holder of the Manchurian Bank. Please wait here, while I complete certain formalities.’ Diana got to her feet.
‘But you didn’t check anything? How do you know that I am, what I claim to be?’
‘I can tell, don’t you worry.’ Diana tossed her hairs lightheartedly.
‘Are you always so trusting, or you are a woman of extreme intuition?’
‘Both. Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back.’ Diana walked away into the passageway next to the reception. Once again, as she crossed Monica, they exchanged a conspiratorial smile.
For no reason at all, I felt extremely elated, and awaited eagerly for Diana to return. The minutes gradually ticked by. One after another, three momentary neighbours came and departed from my sofa, but no signs of Diana yet.
About 25 minutes later, an impeccably attired man of around thirty came out from the passage and approached me briskly.
‘Good afternoon, sir, I am Sagar.’ He said smoothly. ‘How can I help you?’
‘You don’t have to. I already opened an account.’ I said.
‘When?’‘Just now; about half an hour back, maybe.’ I explained.
‘Who opened it for you?’ Sagar asked bluntly. His mask of politeness slipping gradually.‘That girl, Diana! She has taken the form for some formalities; she should be back any minute.’
‘Excuse me! Could you repeat that name please.’ Sagar sounded highly agitated.
‘D-i-a-n-a,’ I spelled out each syllable. ‘The same as prince Charles’ late wife.’
‘You must be mistaken. There is no such person working in this bank. Can you describe her?’
I did to the best of my abilities, and as I elaborated on the episode from the beginning, Sagar grew more and more agitated.
‘This is ridiculous; there is no Diana in this office, never has been.’
‘She went in there, sometime back, perhaps I can spot her.’ I said, and walked towards the passage.
‘Tell me the moment you see her, she is an imposter, planted by our rival bank to tarnish our image. God knows what other calamity she would cause. I hope you did not hand over any cash or cheque to her. And I might tell you that if you incur any loss due to your transactions with this girl, then you can’t hold Manchurian Bank responsible.’ Sagar led me into the cluster of cubicles.
I peered everywhere, even startling a young boy hiding beneath a table, entered each office, peeked into all the cubicles, but there was no trace of Diana anywhere. She had simply disappeared like mist under the morning sun. By now, I was as baffled as my escort. Did I dream about the whole incident? Diana did seem supernal at times. Could she be an angel, folklore; or a fable perhaps?
‘I don’t understand.’ I said morosely. Suddenly, the day appeared bleak. Where did she go? Why did she do this to me? I was sure; Sagar had taken me for mentally imbalanced. Then I remembered the receptionist.
‘You can ask Monica. She seemed to have known her.’ I exclaimed.
Sagar went to the receptionist and rapped on the table quite loudly. Monica looked up briefly.
‘This gentleman here says that a girl named Diana opened an account for him, and you had smiled at this girl like an old acquaintance. Any idea who it could be?’
Monica wrinkled her forehead. ‘I have no idea. I don’t know any such girl, neither here nor anywhere.’
‘It’s the girl who wore a blue T-shirt with blue jeans, and was sitting beside me. You two had smiled at each other when she crossed your desk. Don’t you remember?’ I cried hoarsely.
‘I think you should take rest. Too much stress can cause hallucinations. There is simply no such person I know of.’ Monica remarked sardonically.
I locked my eyes with that of Monica. This was certainly some conspiracy. She did not lower her eyes; she was telling the truth. I must have caught a snooze after all, and dreamt the whole thing. Could dreams be this real? The memory of Diana’s haunting visage tangoed in front of my groggy eyes.
‘I am sorry, I think I better go now.’ I said to Sagar and Monica.
‘What about opening an account?’ Sagar insisted.
‘Not today, I am not feeling well… some other time.’ I took leave and wobbled out of the glass door.
The security guard was absent from his post. Could he be a dream too? I turned at the corridor and stepped towards the lift. I was about to press the lift button, when I decided to retrace my path and check if the bank was still there. Maybe, I was still asleep, and there never was a Manchurian Bank. I darted around and found the security guard, very much at his station outside the glass door of the bank.
At the ground floor, I exited the lift along with a Parsee couple and a charming lady, twirling a red vanity bag. It was nearly three in the afternoon and I was far too late for my Crossbook appointment. A day that had begun with so much promise, now lay like an ancient ruin ahead of me. I would be returning home empty-handed. I descended the Italian marbled landing steps with a heavy heart and was about to round off the portico pillar when a girl suddenly jumped right onto my path and I stopped abruptly with a sharp intake of cold breath. Another second’s delay, and I would have crashed into her. For good ten seconds, once again, I lost the faculty of speech. Diana barricaded my way with her captivating smile etched from ear to ear. I must be sleepwalking again. I turned 90 degrees to my right and started walking away from the apparition.
‘Come on, Mr. Satya! Won’t you give me a chance to explain.’ Diana hailed from behind.
‘Please go away, stop haunting me. I know you aren’t there. You are only a fantasy.’ I spoke without turning around and quickened my pace. Maybe it was black magic.
I heard running feet. Then she caught my left hand.
‘I am extremely sorry for what I did at the bank. Please don’t go away.’ Diana said pleadingly.
Her touch was real enough. Slowly, I turned around. I felt her palm, curled around my wrist; she was flesh-and-blood all right. The pursed lips and the dancing eyes made her absolutely adorable; I couldn’t resist a smile.
‘Who are you?’ I asked softly. ‘Are you real? Or only a dream?’‘Of course, I am real! I am Diana Fernandez, and… I do not work at that bank. Actually, I am Monica’s friend—the receptionist, remember! Well, we had a bet this morning that if I could pass myself off as a bank employee and get someone to open an account, then she would treat me at Taj…’ Diana said.
‘And you found me the most gullible!’ I said haughtily.
‘Certainly not, in fact I found you to be the most sporting person who would be able to see the whole thing in its right spirit. As you see, if you decide to complain to the Manager, Monica will lose her job. Moreover, today is 1st April, and I am sure you will forgive us.’ Diana extended her right arm with an open palm.
I took her hand and shook it warmly. Being impulsive by nature, I welcomed life’s unexpected meanderings. The day had turned into a brilliant one, after all. I gave Diana a broad smile.
‘How did you disappear, so suddenly?’ I asked.
‘There’s a rear door, a fire escape actually.’ Diana replied. ‘So! Do we still stand guilty?’ she asked impishly.
‘Of course! Unless you opt for penance.’ I mimicked her intonation.
‘And what would that be?’
‘Have dinner with me, tonight. I can’t afford Taj of course, but we can go someplace equally chic.’
‘Really! We must go to Taj,’ Diana cried jubilantly, ‘and the treat’s on Monica. Can she join us?’
‘Why not?’ I said gleefully. Escorting a pair of exotic beauties on any day was the stuff that dreams are made of.
‘See you then, at Taj reception. Say at eight?’ Diana said. ‘And I apologize once again.’
‘You don’t have to. I am happy indeed to make your acquaintance. Bye, bye, see you!’ I returned her wave and came out of the building complex, humming a melody under my breath.
A soft unbearable lightness of being propelled my feet on the ground beneath. The bustling street outside and the harsh sun, the maddening milieu, the scent of roasted groundnut wafting in the breeze, the ludicrous bevy of street urchins, the black smoke spewing taxis, everything appeared different with a hidden purport that had escaped me until then. Life is beautiful—I had read somewhere, and it indeed was. I had little time to prepare for the evening adventure, and hailing a cab quickly stepped in.
And here, my story must conclude. I know certain things have been left unanswered. Did they come to Taj, did I go? Did I meet Diana again? Did we become friends? What did Diana do? Where did she work? Who was she? Did I finally meet Mr. Sharma? Did my book eventually reach the stores? Could I manage the launch at Crossbook? Did I become a household name overnight? Or did I remain a non-entity as before? Was life an illusion, only to be cherished for the moment, or was it a series of juxtapositions, drawing us perennially from one
maze to another. Did I exist, do you exist? Is the world around us as fragile and temporal as morning dew?
To know the answer to all these questions and many more similar ones you will have to read some other story, some other time. For the moment, I retire. Au Revoir.