By Amol A Sharma • November 29, 2014
It was Sunday morning. No one around. Streets were empty. Only trees, cars at parking, children playing cricket, but still busy restaurants, I wonder how. I entered the gate of my bank. Gunman was alert and standing at his usual place. I loved the bank staff as on every Sunday I used to visit my bank. Staff was always working seriously and had a no nonsense attitude... each one. My bank was open on Sunday... so I loved it more. My precious time was saved.
I stood in the que. I observed three or four people standing ahead of me. One with a check and others with cash. A beautiful lady wearing a salwar suit deposited a sum of money, took her slip book, smiled at the counter at the cashier and passed by me. Then a boy of 19 years, his shirt looked very old, his trousers looked faded. He looked as if he was working at a meager salary. There was misery on his face.. unconfident, uncertain about his future. He took out Rs 50/- from his shirt pocket and gave it to the cashier along with the slip book. I was surprised, amazed, speechless.
It made me remember the time when each was so precious to me. I thought it took 40 Rs to the cab driver and I tipped him Rs 5.
The boy deposited Rs 50/- and went. My turn came. I deposited my sum and came outside the bank. Restaurants were still buzzing. Children in expensive shoes and beautiful clothes playing. Luxurious car parked outside, but it still made me remember the value of 50/- Rs for that boy.
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