Latuwa

Dressed in not-so-white outdated attires,

balancing his walking stick,

the one that he held in his right hand,

Latuwa stood in the branch hall.

 

A bit lost, a bit worried.

Alone too.

Old, lonely, grizzled man,

in the sea of unknown faces.

 

The branch had just opened,

for operations. The routines,

debits, credits, advances, and deposits

would soon consume the day.

A keystroke here, a keystroke there,

the posting of entries, counter verifications,

money exchanging hands, account numbers and

often, the fates.

Within the strong rolling iron gates.

 

Before all that frenzy, a slight lull.

That early couple of minutes,

when the tidal wave

of customers had not arrived.

 

In those moments,

Latuwa gathered all his strength,

to ask that spectacled girl,

the one not from around there,

the details of his accounts.

 

The balance, the insurance,

the overdue liabilities,

the payback due dates.

Cliché inquiries.

The modish girl with thick glasses

was getting used to these questions.

She typed in his account number

and waited

for the figures to pop up.

And in that tiny twinkling moment,

she glanced,

at his wrinkled summer-tanned face.

A far-off look in his eyes.

 

He was there.

But he wasn’t there.

How many summers had he seen?

How many winters had he braved?

How many times he had taken that journey

from his village to this branch?

Did pennies matter at his age too?

Why is there nobody accompanying him?

Will he understand what I tell him?

Will his account balance suffice for his needs?

Whatever it was that was nagging him?

 

As the questions grew,

she closed her eyes.

Firmly but not tightly.

 

The scene ahead would shift.

To a dreamy hazy blur.

Right?

A deep sigh.

Which she released

her wishful thinking.

 

She opened her eyes.

And faced the

disappointing rural reality.

A hundred bucks, uncle.

Insurance not yet credited.

She didn’t smile,

as she usually did,

with other customers,

while she answered their queries.

The numbers were bare minimal.

She closed her eyes again.

This time she hoped

she could wash her sin.

 

She had just told a man,

a proud, poised human being,

that he was nearly indigent.

On his face.

Without feeling ashamed.

Damned be this routine!!!

 

But Latuwa stood there,

askance.

He had not been able to hear her.

 

This time it took all of her strength

to repeat her words.

This time Latuwa reacted.

 

He stepped back.

Just one step

and he withdrew from her desk,

from the ugly, unpleasant truth.

 

Latuwa gathered his passbook,

his identity proofs

and the remnants of his hope

and moved to the next counter.

The man behind this worktop

resembled his kids.

His accent, his inflection, his words.

He could relate to these.

Geographical ties

are often more satisfying.

 

Her colleague reiterated the data.

But the modulations of his voice,

didn’t offend Latuwa.

Latuwa nodded, understanding perhaps,

that changing the workstations

would not change the status of his account.

He didn’t recoil this time.

 

He gathered his papers again,

hiding them, carefully, very carefully,

like precious jewels, in the baggy pockets

of his rather long loose shirt.

He breathed in the dense summers

and prepared to leave the branch.

A bit lost, a bit worried.

Alone too.

Old, lonely, penurious man,

in the sea of unknown faces.

 

Yonder the doors,

dark, sinister clouds masked

the bright, beautiful sun.