Small houses hunched over shoulder-high boundary walls disgorge a few tardy inhabitants onto the narrow street. My place is plain, unlike some of the pink-painted, column-sporting mini-monstrosities nearby. A gray cement block, more or less, with rectangular windows, a couple of balconies too narrow to use, and the best bloody tree in the neighborhood: a banyan that’s been around forever and covers most of the dust patch I call my front lawn.
I drive fast, belching up the taste of egg from time to time, and I’m thinking about an appointment I have at ten which I’d rather not have at all. Still, I’m not happy when my car’s engine dies on me and a quick glance tells me that I’m out of fuel. I try to make it to the next petrol pump on sheer momentum, but there’s too much traffic and I have to hit the brakes. I take off my jacket, roll up my sleeves, open the door, and push with one hand on the steering wheel until the car is by the side of the road. People honk at me unnecessarily as they drive past, and my white shirt is turning translucent in spots.
I walk the half-kilometer or so to the station and buy some regular, a container, and a funnel. It’s 9:48. Petrol swishing beside me, I jog back, inhaling the dark smoke buses spit in my direction and feeling sweat fill my eyebrows and overflow, stinging, into my eyes. I restart my car, driving with one hand and unbuttoning my shirt with the other so I can dry myself off with a rag.
I’m in the office by eleven minutes after ten, cold because I’m soaked and the air-conditioning in the bank is always too strong. I smell like a garage on a windless day, and I’m sure I look a mess.
Raider sees me and shakes his head. Raider’s real name is Haider, and his dream is to become a hostile takeover specialist on Wall Street. He’s the only man at our bank who wears suspenders.
‘You’re in for it, yaar,’ he says.
‘Is he here?’ I ask.
‘Is he ever late?’
‘Is he pissed?’
‘He isn’t smiling.’
Raider’s talking about my client, Malik Jiwan, a rural landlord with half a million U.S. in his account, a seat in the Provincial Assembly, and eyebrows that meet in the middle like a second pair of whiskers. His pastimes include fighting the spread of primary education and stalling the census. Right now he’s sitting behind my desk, in my chair, rotating imperiously.
‘You’re late,’ he says.
I’m in no mood for this. ‘Sorry, Mr Jiwan, my car –’
‘Never mind. Has my check cleared?’
‘Your check?’
He strokes his beard and looks at me, saying nothing.
I remind myself why God gave bankers lips: to kiss up to our clients. ‘Please tell me: what check?’
‘The check for thirty thousand U.S. I deposited with you.’
‘Let me just find out.’ I call customer services and give them the account number. ‘I’m afraid it hasn’t gone through yet.’
‘That’s ridiculous. I deposited it a week ago.’
I’m enjoying his discomfort. ‘International checks can take some time.’
‘Didn’t I tell you to take care of this personally?’
‘I don’t remember your saying that, Mr Jiwan.’
‘Well, I remember saying it.’
Good for you. ‘Next time you really ought to consider a cashier’s check.’
‘Are you making fun of me?’
God forbid. ‘No,’ I say.
‘Young man, I don’t like the way you’re smiling.’
I’m not one of your serfs, you bastard. And I want you to get the hell out of my chair. ‘Mr Jiwan, I’m not trying to be disrespectful.’
‘Your tone is disrespectful.’
Before the Day of Judgment, as every good banker knows, will come a Night of Insolvency. And on that Night I intend to go calling on one or two of my more troublesome clients. But for now my bank is still sound, and I’m limited in my choice of responses to Mr Jiwan’s attempt to impose feudal hierarchy on my office. ‘Mr Jiwan, I’m doing my best to provide you with any service you require.’
‘Do you know who I am?’
I’m beginning to lose my patience. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘I can have you thrown on the street.’
‘Don’t threaten me, Mr Jiwan. I don’t work for you. You’re a client of this bank, and if you don’t like the service you receive here, you’re free to go elsewhere.’
‘We’ll see who goes elsewhere. I want to speak to your Branch Manager.’
‘Certainly.’ I escort him to my BM’s office, outwardly calm, because I don’t want him to see me squirm. But from the way my BM grabs Mr Jiwan’s hand, in both of his, and also from the way my BM bows slightly, at the waist and at the neck, a double bend, I know this is going to be unpleasant.
‘Ghulam,’ Mr Jiwan is saying, ‘this boy has just insulted me.’
‘Shut the door, Mr Shezad,’ my BM says to me. ‘What happened?’
I know I need to present my case forcefully. ‘Sir,’ I begin.
‘Not you,’ my BM says. ‘Malik saab, tell me what happened.’
‘I told this boy to take care of a deposit personally. Today, when I find out that he hasn’t done so, he calls me a liar, and says that I never told him to. He’s rude to me, and when I tell him I won’t stand for it, he raises his voice and tells me to take my business to another bank.’
My BM is looking at me with hard eyes. ‘This is unacceptable, Mr Shezad.’
‘Please let me tell you what happened, sir.’
‘You told Malik saab to take his business to another bank?’
‘You see, sir –’
‘Mr Shezad, this isn’t the first time a client has complained about your attitude. You’re on very dangerous ground. Just answer my question.’
‘No, sir, I didn’t say that.’
‘Are you saying that I’m lying?’ asks Mr Jiwan.
I’ve had a bad day. A bad month, actually. And there’s only so much nonsense a self-respecting fellow can be expected to take from these megalomaniacs. So I say it. ‘This is a bank, not your servant quarters, Mr Jiwan. If you want better service, maybe you ought to learn some manners.’
‘Enough!’ my BM yells.
I’ve never heard him yell before.
His voice brings me to my senses. What am I doing? Fear grabs me by the throat and makes me wave my hands like I’m erasing the wrong answer from a blackboard. ‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ I say. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Jiwan.’
They don’t say anything.
‘I don’t know what came over me,’ I go on. ‘It won’t happen again. I’m very sorry.’
My BM says, ‘You’re fired, Mr Shezad.’
A quick side step into unreality, like meeting your mother when you’re tripping. Am I losing my job? Right now? Is it possible?
Pull yourself together.
‘Please, sir,’ I say.
‘No, Mr Shezad.’
‘But please, sir. Please.’
‘No.’
I leave my BM’s office, leave them both watching me, and walk to my desk, and I look around it, and there’s so much to do, so much work to do, and I can do it. I can do it. But I can’t concentrate. My nose is running, and I taste it in my mouth, and my face is hot even though I’m cold.
Everyone is staring at me. How can they know already? I want to tell them it’s a mistake, but I look down at my desk instead. Just act natural. Don’t draw attention to yourself.