It started about three years ago!

I was in my office, engrossed in work. I do not particularly have an excellent eyesight. I can’t read well without specs. To top it off, my eyesight is worse with specs! So, I tend to stoop at my desk, not allowing more than a ten inch separation between my aging eyes and whatever object I may be looking at. My style of observation has the added advantage of increased concentration. You may safely say that I don’t only look at the object, I even listen to it, though it may be only a piece of paper!

I was engrossed in looking at some paper, when someone knocked. I keep the door of my cabin open, and expect the visitors to just come up to my table, take a seat, and start the conversation from the word go. This saves time on pleasantries that are not meant but yet uttered. My colleagues are aware of my eccentricities and tolerate them.

I looked up. It was not a colleague. The visitor was a young man. A young man, who, perhaps, was short of cash. His necktie was dirty and beyond washing, his shirt collar was black with grime, his leather belt was cheap and his trousers needed ironing.

Obviously, he was a salesman.

Courtesy demanded that I offer him a seat, and I did. The salesman, a young man of about twenty-five, began in his typical salesman rhetoric. He demanded to know how many times I went out to a restaurant, how many times I travelled by air, etc., etc. He demanded information of very personal nature, and I was reluctant to share it with an outsider generations younger to me. But the young man was persistent, and I ended up supplying all the information to him.

The young man produced some papers, asking me details and scribbling. Finally, he thrust a bunch of forms under my nose. “Sign here,” he commanded. “But I don’t need a credit card,” I retorted.

“Sir, you are getting it freeeeee,” he smiled, as if he were informing that I had become the President of my country.

“Free or paid, I do not need another card,” I protested.

He looked at me with pity. “What is the harm if you have a card?” he asked.

“Well, I already have some. And, while you claim that it is free, you will ask for money when it becomes due for renewal next year.”

“I will not ask for money, Sir.” The man was confident.

I thought it over. Yes, what would be the harm if I possess another card? If I accept the card, the poor fellow may get some much needed commission, I thought, and signed on the dotted lines.

The young man was correct. He never asked me for money. The card provider did. Every year, without fail. I kept on paying, before finally deciding to put a stop this year. I refused to accept the card. The company sent a letter informing that it had received the card back. And sent me another notice to pay. Followed by another notice. And another. And another.

Isn’t it a bit too familiar?